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Muse appears to have some nebulous target of about once a week for these, I believe:
***
Genetics are a rum thing. They look like brothers, once one learns to see past how much lighter Jason's colouring is, but Button-Down's hair grows out into loose waves, when he lets it go like he has this month. I think that's why he prefers to shave his head. When he does he reminds me of nothing quite so much as the ex-CIA social worker in Lilo & Stitch.
I think that makes me Stitch.
They're sprawled on our settee, to the extent that Button-Down seems to know how to sprawl. He's taken off the suit-jacket, at least. The match has been cancelled on the grounds that it's snowing, so we're watching Top Gear instead, halfway to drunk enough not to mind the change of plan. It's not as if I give a rat's arse about the sport, when even I don't remember the last time the team won.
Ironically, Jason is the one who doesn't drink wine; too many questions, about whether it's as dangerous to him man or wolf as their mother has taught her pups. It's an occasional issue with his classes, waivers about allergies sprinkled through his files and some miserable marks for coq au vin. Other spirits, however, seem acceptable in moderation: "Get me a cold one," he says as I stand up to replace my own drink.
(You eat real food? Jason asked that first day over chips.
I'm not sure this qualifies, I said.)
The kitchen's all over bags of crisps and dirty cheese-knives, Jason will be muttering at himself later. I sort through the two caches of brown bottles and take a moment to round together empties into our carrier for the blue-bin downstairs.
Of course I recycle.
The alcohol has taken hold, I'm talking back to the warnings on adverts for silly drugs. "What is the bloody point? You won't have spots anymore, you'll just gamble until you die?" The brothers exchange a look: this is what warm beer does to you, man. I've only had the two, I think. Perhaps it's three. "Worse than the bloody match."
Button-Down interrupts, edge of beery courage: "Game, man, game. You're not much of a spy, you can't even get that straight."
They've constructed between them several fanciful explanations of how I came to be in their city, each less plausible than the one before but more than the simple, banal truth. "It's why the double-O programme revoked my credentials and sent me here," I say.
My flatmate's a bit too mellow himself. "Always thought you were following a girl. Or a guy. Or a sheep."
"Fuck off."
"Dude, you got him to swear," Button-Down observes with incredulous eyebrows. "Didn't know he knew how."
Jason snorts. "You didn't see him in the liquor store."
At least when they ask for proof of his age Jason has something to show them. The weres are sniggering together, growling Give me a keg of beer. Button-Down's eyes catch golden sparks in the light from the kitchen, Jason's a red too luminous for even a photographic flash to account. It's true that I could have compelled the clerk, but I'd rather not compromise, my ethics or myself, over something as trivial as a night in with some microbrews. "Would rather have shagged a sheep."
They're both looking at me. "Yeah, you said that out loud," Button-Down says. "Think we need to cut Snack-Size off."
"Think we need to get him laid," Jason answers, back to the old argument.
We'd spent the interval as officials dithered about the weather on the field going back and forth about what Jason sees as my prospects. "Yeah, man, with you on that. I'd offer to help a brother out, but..." Button-Down shrugs. It's not as if the pool any of us are drawing from is very large as it is, even in this city, and his most recent cordially-parted ex is a nice bloke but even less my type than a wendigo.
Now the dominance-punching has begun: no, you're a freak. Soon enough they're wrestling, Jason nipping at his brother's throat with blunt human teeth until Button-Down laughs and concedes. It's not correct, the notion of alpha wolves, but as eldest of multiples Jason tries to play it up against them.
It's getting late. Button-Down excuses himself. He has to get home to feed Sid.
As were eccentricities go, Button-Down's is original: he abducts kittens. His record so far is five. If he's lucky, they'll be someone's pets, with tags on to tell him where home is in the morning, but Sid appears to know a good thing when he sees it. After Button-Down had brought him home for a third month running he decided to just give up and keep the cat.
I'd almost rather have the sleepwalking one.
***
Genetics are a rum thing. They look like brothers, once one learns to see past how much lighter Jason's colouring is, but Button-Down's hair grows out into loose waves, when he lets it go like he has this month. I think that's why he prefers to shave his head. When he does he reminds me of nothing quite so much as the ex-CIA social worker in Lilo & Stitch.
I think that makes me Stitch.
They're sprawled on our settee, to the extent that Button-Down seems to know how to sprawl. He's taken off the suit-jacket, at least. The match has been cancelled on the grounds that it's snowing, so we're watching Top Gear instead, halfway to drunk enough not to mind the change of plan. It's not as if I give a rat's arse about the sport, when even I don't remember the last time the team won.
Ironically, Jason is the one who doesn't drink wine; too many questions, about whether it's as dangerous to him man or wolf as their mother has taught her pups. It's an occasional issue with his classes, waivers about allergies sprinkled through his files and some miserable marks for coq au vin. Other spirits, however, seem acceptable in moderation: "Get me a cold one," he says as I stand up to replace my own drink.
(You eat real food? Jason asked that first day over chips.
I'm not sure this qualifies, I said.)
The kitchen's all over bags of crisps and dirty cheese-knives, Jason will be muttering at himself later. I sort through the two caches of brown bottles and take a moment to round together empties into our carrier for the blue-bin downstairs.
Of course I recycle.
The alcohol has taken hold, I'm talking back to the warnings on adverts for silly drugs. "What is the bloody point? You won't have spots anymore, you'll just gamble until you die?" The brothers exchange a look: this is what warm beer does to you, man. I've only had the two, I think. Perhaps it's three. "Worse than the bloody match."
Button-Down interrupts, edge of beery courage: "Game, man, game. You're not much of a spy, you can't even get that straight."
They've constructed between them several fanciful explanations of how I came to be in their city, each less plausible than the one before but more than the simple, banal truth. "It's why the double-O programme revoked my credentials and sent me here," I say.
My flatmate's a bit too mellow himself. "Always thought you were following a girl. Or a guy. Or a sheep."
"Fuck off."
"Dude, you got him to swear," Button-Down observes with incredulous eyebrows. "Didn't know he knew how."
Jason snorts. "You didn't see him in the liquor store."
At least when they ask for proof of his age Jason has something to show them. The weres are sniggering together, growling Give me a keg of beer. Button-Down's eyes catch golden sparks in the light from the kitchen, Jason's a red too luminous for even a photographic flash to account. It's true that I could have compelled the clerk, but I'd rather not compromise, my ethics or myself, over something as trivial as a night in with some microbrews. "Would rather have shagged a sheep."
They're both looking at me. "Yeah, you said that out loud," Button-Down says. "Think we need to cut Snack-Size off."
"Think we need to get him laid," Jason answers, back to the old argument.
We'd spent the interval as officials dithered about the weather on the field going back and forth about what Jason sees as my prospects. "Yeah, man, with you on that. I'd offer to help a brother out, but..." Button-Down shrugs. It's not as if the pool any of us are drawing from is very large as it is, even in this city, and his most recent cordially-parted ex is a nice bloke but even less my type than a wendigo.
Now the dominance-punching has begun: no, you're a freak. Soon enough they're wrestling, Jason nipping at his brother's throat with blunt human teeth until Button-Down laughs and concedes. It's not correct, the notion of alpha wolves, but as eldest of multiples Jason tries to play it up against them.
It's getting late. Button-Down excuses himself. He has to get home to feed Sid.
As were eccentricities go, Button-Down's is original: he abducts kittens. His record so far is five. If he's lucky, they'll be someone's pets, with tags on to tell him where home is in the morning, but Sid appears to know a good thing when he sees it. After Button-Down had brought him home for a third month running he decided to just give up and keep the cat.
I'd almost rather have the sleepwalking one.
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