Re: B&B: Janus, Steve, Atticus
He didn't own much. There were a few boxes of photographs (black and white, Kodachrome, Polaroids—the history of the 21st century), stray belongings—books, records, maps—, but for a ninety-eight-year-old, Steve was fairly tech savvy. He had to be, in a sense. While he enjoyed the tactile experience of paper and print more, it was easier for someone who moved as often as he did to carry a library in a Kindle, rather than in half a dozen boxes. He'd made a large donation to the Capital's public library system a few years back, and ever since then, he'd tried to keep himself hemmed in. There were still, perhaps, three or four sizable boxes filled with literature, but he was a sentimentalist, and there were some things that couldn't be pared away or replaced. He had a large rolling bag of clothing, nothing pressed, and a number of files in manila folders collected in a soft-bodied briefcase. Moving everything on one pair of broad shoulders and one well-handled Harley was precarious, but possible with the help of a few bungee cords placed with care.
It was the doorways that posed a problem. Narrow in old houses, not meant for men built the way Steve had been crafted, and, definitely not made for a host of boxes to move through at once. He settled with three stacked on top of each other. Though they were full of books, they felt like nothing in the man's arms, and he was allowing his mind to roam optimistically on the aesthetics of the bed and breakfast he was to call home, when he entered the kitchen, hands full.—It was a hot day, and when he wasn't working, Steve preferred jeans and a t-shirt to the suspenders he was normally seen in. Though there wasn't a drop of sweat on his fair brow, his browned-out aviators had managed to slip down to the very tip of his nose. He was distracted as he entered the belly of the room.
Though he was intuitively aware that he wasn't alone, he didn't look up until he'd managed to shed the sunglasses onto the top of the box braced under his chin.—It wasn't as if he hadn't thought about Allen or Atticus being present, but for some reason, he was surprised to walk in on them. (He wasn't certain the man who smelled strongly of blood and barn, and looked like a horse had kicked him, was Atticus, but he'd tried to do a little research without pinging anything online, and he was fairly certain.) Allen appeared unhappy, his scowl a familiar edifice carved on the quarry of a familiar fave, and Steve smiled. He took in the moment—the scene—quickly, gathering details like wool in steel—bruises, swelling—another glance told him this was the evidence of a physical altercation with another human. Atticus was coming in from somewhere without sleep behind him, and Allen was upset with him for reasons Steve imagined were myriad. He had tasted the limn of jealousy in his own conversation with Allen, but this seemed to have a wider net.
Settling the boxes on the floor by his foot without any exertion, the man held his hand out to Allen for a warm shake, before he did the same to Atticus. It was their first time meeting face-to-face. His expression was youthful earnestness, blue-eyed as hell. "Sorry if I'm walking in on something," he said, genuine, but too pleased to sound overly serious. "You should let the man get coffee before you finish insulting him, Allen." And he looked at Atticus, at the yellowing expansion of blood under skin. "Vinegar helps," he said with muscle-born empathy.