Chapter One
Ergastulum wasn't hell, exactly.
For one, hell had heat and effective locks on the doors, probably didn't charge rent, and guaranteed a home for eternity.
The tiny apartment in Ergastulum, where our story begins, did none of those things.
And yet, despite all their struggles, Nicolas and Worick had made their own private heaven in a pile of blankets on the floor next to the oven-turned-impromptu-heater. Nicolas, a freelance writer and aspiring novelist, was scribbling furiously against a cheap spiral bound notebook, grimacing between every tenth word or so. Worick, a painter by night and male escort by day, (in that order, he always specified), turned up the temperature of their gas stove and hoped the house wouldn't catch on fire. For once, they were glad their oven was extremely old and still had a pilot to light. The reason being that the electricity had been turned off for two days, and the electric company didn't care about the pleas and threats made by two low-income men sharing an apartment in the poorest part of town.
Worick had settled back into the blanket nest, and grinned mischievously, shimmying his feet under the covers towards Nic's thigh.
"Don't even think about it," Nic signed, without even turning to look back, and returning to his writing.
Worick's face scrunched into a pout, blue eyes gazing at his partner who was not paying the slightest bit of attention to him. Nic's pencil was still scratching and erasing, scratching and erasing, and he was still glaring at the paper like it just told him something incredibly rude. Worick watched on, unnoticed, transfixed by the rhythm of this blossoming literary symphony. The words Nic wrote were much more valuable than the notebook, Worick mused, before promptly sticking his cold feet on Nic's thigh.
Nic grunted, snapping his notebook down on his thigh in perturbation.
"I was in a zone," Nic signed, his glare shifted from the offensive notebook to his offensive partner.
"Yeah, well I'm bored," Worick retorted, plucking the notebook off of Nic's thighs and skimming the first few paragraphs.
"Nic, your story is just a modern day La Boheme," Worick laughed and tossed the notebook carelessly aside, just out of Nic's reach. Nic wished he were taller so he could reach over and grab the notebook without leaving his warm spot in the nest. He was, however, just tall enough to reach out and strangle the person next to him.
"Your main...character's...name...is...Musetta...for Christ's...sake," Worick managed, choking more from laughter than the hands around his neck. As menacing as Nic's perpetually bored eyes, furrowed brows, and down-turned mouth were, he would never hurt someone he cared about. A stranger? Probably. The guy he had been in love with for about ten years? Well... As your narrator, I will tell you that despite his current actions, he would never.
"I 'on' 'ave any ot'er idea," Nic admitted, crossing his arms. A well-used script of La Bohème lying open on the kitchen table stared accusingly at him. Nic glared at it, too. Worick, now free from his prison, rested his head on Nic's shoulder, as if to say, "don't worry, you'll figure it out soon".
"OH!", he exclaimed, shooting back up. "That's right! I'm almost done with my last series. Wanna see?"
There was a brief nod.
"Ok! I'll be right back!"
Worick bounded out of the kitchen-dining-living room and into their bedroom, his long hair pulled into a French braid and flashing a fierce gold as he turned sharply into the doorway. Nic, by contrast, had short black hair, messy and unkempt, which always smelled like dollar store Jasmine and cigarette smoke. He was every bit the brooding writer to Worick's eccentric artist, and as far as clichéd tropes go, they got along very well. They had known each other since Worick was 13 and Nic was 12. Even as preteens, they were yellow and brown M polar opposites on the outside, similar on the inside.
Nic was the son of the Arcangelo Estates chief lawn maintenance worker, expected to learn the trade and join his father in keeping the grounds clean and manicured. According to Mr. Arcangelo, it was, "the best job he'd get, considering his...you know...disability." Worick was Mr. Arcangelo's son, expected to learn the trade and join his father in insider trading. Of course, it was officially called investment banking, but it was an unspoken secret about how Mr. Arcangelo and his clients always fared well through the spikes and recessions of the stock market.
Presently, neither Nic nor Worick were doing well according to their fathers' standards, but there was something incredibly freeing about having a bad life because of their own choices, rather than a comfortable life being controlled by their parents.
In the meantime, Worick came bounding out of the room, precariously balancing 5 small canvases.
"What was the theme, throwing up on canvas?"
"RUDE!" Worick said, delicately laying the paintings on the ground.
Despite the harsh words, Worick could tell by the way Nic's fingers lightly touched the paint and eyes scanned every detail that he was impressed.
"I hope it's okay that I painted her."
"I'm happy to see Veronica like this. She looks happy... Beautiful."
"I only paint the truth, partner," Worick deliberately caught his boyfriend's gaze and smiled. Nic blinked slowly, his own version of a smile.
He'd take it- it was progress, after all.
The goal was to portray Veronica as she ought to be remembered: lively and caring, colorful and vibrant. To remember her the way she was before the drugs left her numb and desperate; before Nic found her emaciated body strewn across the couch, blood pooling under her arms, and a desperate, halfway incoherent letter sitting on the table next to the couch.
They don't have living room furniture anymore.
"Izz nye."
"I'm glad you think it's nice, it's dedicated to you!"
"Don't dedicate it to me, dedicate it to her."
"Well, it's in memoriam of her, but you deserve something nice, too. You loved her so much, so-"
"I'm gunna ta'e a wal'," Nic said abruptly, quickly standing and briskly wrapping his scarf around his neck, and putting on a jacket.
"Don't get my jacket dirty," Worick signed.
"You ruined my last jacket with the snowballs, so I'll do what I want."
Worick smiled fondly, happy that his partner wasn't so far gone that he couldn't respond to a joke.
"Be safe."
"Yeah."