An Introductory Note from the Author: After careful consideration and in response to reader comments, for the sake of clarity I have reverted all characters' names to their cannon versions/spellings regardless of whether that name was historically/geographically common at the time. (For those interested, the originally-conceived tweakings are on my Tumblr account.) The gents tend to refer to one another by surname. Hope this helps!
'Flowers' revealed so far: Iris - Ymir; Peony - Mikasa; Lily - Historia; Poppy - Sasha.
Chapter 7: Thirst & Hunger
(Armin Arlert, Sasha)
Arlert watched with increasing alarm as Yaeger grew further away – his friend's attempts to halt the Asian serving-girl were proving futile but he didn't seem deterred in the slightest. Arlert cast his eyes about the area, watching as his friends were drawn in different directions by the women: Hoover and Braun with the Iris and Lily, Springer with the Poppy. He felt exposed; other, nameless women were starting to glance curiously at him while the men they browsed by or accompanied turned their backs or took on defensive, possessive expressions.
Lacking any other ideas, Arlert hurried to the bar. It was comparatively vacant and even more dimly-lit, and in that regard seemed like a safe harbor in this storm of impropriety. He was sweating like a laborer but didn't want to rid himself of his jacket or loosen his vest or necktie – he felt he needed to be ready to go at a moment's notice, hat be damned.
The female bartender he'd seen when they first arrived sidled over to meet him, her expression unchanging. Arlert took the fringed, green velvet stool on the end by the wall, and breathed a sigh of relief at not having to watch his back.
"Just water, please, with ice," he said when the blonde looked at him skeptically from beneath her thin eyebrows. When she turned away he saw that her hair was indeed cropped short rather than simply tucked and pinned, and from this position he could now see that she wore wide-legged trousers to match her waistcoat and tie.
"Nothing to your fancy?" she asked when she returned with his water. Oddly, her voice didn't carry the teasing, playful lilt he'd expected, nor was it scathing – simply curious. She laid down a pristine square of a serviette in front of him and placed the glass on top.
"I'm just here with friends. It's…not what I expected," he answered, trying to be noncommittal. Before the glass even had time to create a watermark, he picked it up again and took a long, grateful sip.
"I don't think it's what anyone expects," she said.
Arlert supposed that was true. If you'd told him yesterday there was a cabaret beneath a park in one of the suburbs, complete with a fully-stocked bar, opium, and revolving rooms, he would have laughed.
"You know…" the bartender began, "if you would rather, we do have men as well as women, albeit not as many…"
Arlert actually choked on his water, of all things. He spluttered it all over himself and the bar, coughing profusely to the point that he had to thump his fist on his chest. "No," he tried, coughing again, "no, I –"
"I suppose not," she said. For the first time, her icy blue eyes sparkled with the faintest hint of amusement. She grabbed a rag and began to clean up his mess.
"I'm sorry," he said once he was able to speak properly. "I didn't mean to spill everywhere."
"It's just water," she shrugged. She folded the rag over and began again with the fresh side. "Quite new at all this, aren't you?"
Arlert hesitated, and looked warily at the woman over the rim of his glass. Although not a frequenter of such places, he was aware from his friends' tales that bartenders often had the additional specialty of weaseling out information from their customers, often without having any emotional investment in what they heard. Although logic told him to take heed of this, intuition encouraged otherwise. She didn't seem like a normal bartender – outside the fact that she was a woman.
"I am, I must confess," he said at length. What little ego he had rallied to his side and compelled him to add, "But it's not the environment that bothers me most."
"Oh?"
Arlert set down his water and looked to his right, searching for the booth he'd left. He located Smith – and Kirstein, oddly – being led with Mercedes by Master Cyrus toward the edge of the room, presumably to a suite. "Rather, that I expected more from my friend."
"Lord Stohess, you mean."
Arlert returned his gaze to her and nodded sadly.
She procured her own water glass from a shelf beneath the bar and sipped; he noticed the half-moon imprint of her coral lipstick on the rim as it disappeared once, twice, back into the thin curve of her mouth. Her voice sounded refreshed when she continued, "Do you know why he came here to begin with?"
Arlert frowned. Perhaps the information exchange went both ways? "No?" he queried.
She set down her glass and used some of the condensation on her fingers to tame a stray hair that'd broken free from her finger-waves. "When he returned from the War he came here for respite, as many do. I hadn't been here long. He happened upon Sasha, who was also new at the time – I'd hazard a guess to say they found solace in one another, in that sense. He's come here regularly ever since." She paused and nodded at a waitgirl who'd approached with a tray of empty glasses, and then looked back at him, "Be careful when you judge a man's pleasures. Would you rather your friend receive no comfort at all from the horrors he's seen?"
Arlert felt himself jump to the defensive like a hot coal had landed in his mouth. "There are plenty of other, nobler comforts to be found! And we've all seen our share of the horrors you speak of, and haven't needed to seek out places such as these."
Surprisingly, she didn't seem at all ruffled by his response. She looked at him cooly down her Roman nose, "Only because there hadn't been a 'first time' yet. Do you honestly think that all of your friends will never visit such a place ever again?" She stared at him, unblinking, for a moment longer, before moving away down the bar to take the new order.
Arlert considered her response, and with a sour feeling in his stomach that another sip of water couldn't assuage, knew she was right. One only had to glance around at the other men that were here to know that visits of this nature were a sort of inevitability for men in today's society, and that it was presumptuous to think that his companions would somehow be exempt. He only wished he could be proven wrong.
Sasha tottered backwards, tugging the young man with her over the threshold of stable inner room to the revolving outer ring that contained the suites. They were both giggling and spluttering with laughter, which she considered a good sign. She hardly ever got the chance to be with someone who wasn't stuffy or creepy or timid. Although the temptation to be with Lord Stohess on his apparent final visit had been strong, she couldn't pass this up; besides, he never would have been likely to pick her. Their days were past.
"You are quite the eager one, aren't you?" he teased, stumbling after her through the bead curtains into the terracotta- and red-painted room.
"Quite!" she grinned, letting him come closer until she could hold his face between her gloved hands. No, not in the way you think. Eager to be done, eager to stop thinking about it all, eager to give you want you want so I'm that much closer to another night being over, she thought.
The Cairo Suite was decked out in rich, warm hues designed to transport the occupants to the exotic bazaars of the Egyptian city, with low, backless seating and plenty of embroidered pillows on top of the carpets. Silks and strings of brass bells hung from the ceiling, and the smell of the patchouli incense was an additional delicate veil along with the music that leaked in from outside. It was Sasha's favorite suite due to the near-constant presence of the opium pipes, and she had a monopoly on the room as a result.
"Why don't you sit, my Lord?" she invited, pushing him slowly down to one of the upholstered benches.
He waved a hand, "No need for that – I've no title. My name's Connie Springer."
They rarely shared names willingly, much less full ones. Sasha felt the haste they'd experienced earlier begin to calm, and she tried to revive the frivolity. "You won't take what I offer? Very well then." She lowered herself to sit next to him, tucking her legs beneath her.
Springer's eyes – a bright shade of hazel that looked greener in the amber light of the room – were fixed on hers with an almost childlike quality. "And yours?"
"Pardon?"
"Your name."
Sasha was taken aback. With the exception of Lord Stohess so long ago, they never asked her name. She tried to play off her surprise by hooding her eyes and teasing, "Oh come now, you can't have forgotten already!" She shifted closer to him on her hands and knees and brought her face close to his, nearly touching his nose with her own, and tilted her head, "I'm the Poppy," she purred.
"No – no I mean your real name," he insisted with a laugh in his voice and a smile. He held her chin and pushed her face back an inch or two to see her better.
Sasha's expression fell. She felt genuinely confused about what to do, but also couldn't help but feel somewhat touched. It was the latter that made her apprehensive, fun and good-hearted as the young man appeared to be. Remember the last time you cared, she thought. She sat back on her heels and looked away.
"What's wrong?" Springer asked. "Did I offend –"
"I don't think we need to worry about my name," she said at length. Sasha tried to retrieve something resembling seduction, "I'm more interested in helping you unwind, or…" she leaned over and behind her and procured the pipe of the hookah, "maybe do something else with our lips instead, huh?"
Springer eyed her and it warily. "Well, err, that's fine for now, but…I'm not forgetting about this! I will have your name by the end of the night!"
Maybe you will, maybe you won't, she mused sadly to herself. For both our sakes I hope not.
Sasha brought the silver-tipped pipe to her lips and inhaled deeply, gratefully. Even as the initial wave of oblivion's taste began, she held her breath, crawling forward and reaching out until Springer's face was once again in her hand. She kissed him and all too easily opened his mouth with hers, exhaling ever so gently. Catching on quickly, Springer inhaled as she drew back, their lips parting. Smoke curled from hers and she finished the rest by puffing out a quick 'O' in the air that dissipated between them, like a dropped veil. They smiled.
It didn't take much for her to pull him with her when she leant back, reclining on the pillows and the suddenly loud scratching and crunching sounds of her skirts. She held the pipe to him, let him drag its contents into his airways for a moment, and then sampled it again for herself. Come quickly, oblivion, before he asks me anything else. Tie my tongue. Sate my hunger.