Hello, all! As I said in last week’s Write at the Merge post, from here on out we’re alternating stories. Sometimes it’ll be Gideon, sometimes it’ll be Alesander. Right now it’s Alesander, and the word is CLUB. The definition:
Word limit: 333
“Happy buggering Christmas,” Gideon’s companion muttered, lip lifting in distaste as he shoved open the door of a London pub. “Tcha!”
Gideon glanced over but made no comment. The other man had grown up Catholic in Derry’s worst neighbourhood; that gave him as much right to hate the English as Gideon did—more experience crammed into less time.
“It’s food.” Both men moved unobtrusively, but their entrance drew notice: at the far end of the bar, two heads turned slightly. A glimpse of eyes—one pair blue, the other the colour of sherry, both too pretty for men. “You needn’t stay,” Gideon added mildly to the annoyed sound beside him.
Dark, disdainful eyes darted sideways. “I won’t hunt Englishmen,” was the reply, loud enough to muffle the man lecturing his drinking fellows on the “Sínn Féin Rebellion.” “That stiff upper lip’s rather bland.” Gideon snorted; his companion smirked.
“I imagine this isn’t the sort of club you’re used to.”
“You might be surprised.”
The other man’s lip twitched, but he made no answer; his jaw was tight, eyes fixed ahead as though he could look back through his skull at the lecturer behind them.
“Very sad, really,” the man blared. “They don’t know what we did for them, those Irish, and they rebelled. So we had to remind them, of course.”
“Did you now?” Gideon asked softly. On the bar his fist was taut, ready to swing.
“I wouldn’t,” said a mild voice.
Gideon looked up into patient blue eyes he knew from Frongoch. Opposite, his companion stared into golden ones. “Why the sodding hell not?” the latter demanded.
The golden-eyed man flicked his eyes up and down. “Another prison stint would kill you, I reckon.”
His companion swore. “I won’t eat here.”
“Fine by me,” said the blue-eyed man as they all moved to the door. “I’m Cillian MacNamara.”
“Aedhán O’Riordan,” added the gold-eyed man expectantly.
“Ryan McLaughlin,” the dark-haired man snarled. “Bloody pleasure.”