Antonin awoke to find himself greeted by a smooth, pink anus barely inches from his nose. The bottom this anus was attached to was white and befurred, and above, held proudly aloft, was a long swishy tail like a feather duster.
It could only be Tic Tac, Rizwana's pompous white Persian. This cat was far too regal for their neighbourhood, and when Elizaveta found her, she was in a terrible state with mites and mangy patches. Elizaveta was the nice old Jewish-Russian cat lady who trimmed his hair for him sometimes, and her house was already overburdened with too many strays and Rizwana agreed to take in a couple. Back then, Rizwana operated a corner shop with her husband, Farhan, and he helped them fix the shelves and take deliveries on occasion. It was Antonin's idea to bestow upon the felines the names of Tic Tac and Kit Kat, after the confections that could be found on the shop's shelves. The corner shop had since been sold to another family and Rizwana now worked in the garment industry, like many others in the area.
Kit Kat was a bicolor street cat of indeterminate breed, bearing upon his fur large patches of black and white in a rather unattractive pattern. Of the two, Antonin loved Kit Kat more, but Rizwana evidently spoiled Tic Tac rotten.
Sitting up, Antonin hoisted Tic Tac off his face. She meowed indignantly, and tried to paw at his nose. The door to his bedroom hung open with a narrow gap, and presently Kit Kat wedged himself through. As much as he loved the cats, he didn't like the idea of them shedding fur all over his bedroom.
Still holding Tic Tac in one hand, Antonin hastily pulled on some clothes. Scooping Kit Kat from the floor, he made his way to the kitchen, from which sounded a raucous bout of laughter.
"Good morning," he greeted cheerfully, setting the cats on the floor. He went to the top shelves where he kept all his assorted crockery and utensils, for his landlords were somewhat smaller in stature and were only too happy to let him make use of the empty space.
"Morning," an unfamiliar voice greeted, and Antonin turned his head to see Fabian Prewett wedged in between Rizwana and Farhan at the kitchen table.
"I was just telling this young man a joke," Farhan began, slapping Fabian on the thigh. "I told him that my nicknames for these rascals are Bad Cat and Fat Cat. And you know what he said? He said that I was encouraging a negative self-concept in these creatures and reinforcing unwanted behaviour. I thought he was serious, but then he was joking! What a funny young lad!"
Antonin failed to grasp the humour of the situation. He was the sort of person accustomed to maintaining distinctly compartmentalised worlds, just like how he organised his sock drawer with recycled cereal boxes as dividers between each rolled-up pair. This was akin to someone taking a peek in his sock drawer and rummaging it up so that it became a tangled pile of knit tubes. He had the wizarding world, where he had duties to the Dark Lord and other associated tasks, and then he had his muggle identity to avoid detection and it was simply a violation of physical rules for these two worlds to collide.
Fabian was target, Fabian was prey. He was supposed to have killed Fabian on that first night and do the world a favour by getting rid of his irksome presence, but when that failed he thought that he should perhaps cultivate some kind of relationship to use Fabian as an unwitting informant and that was—well it could still be done, but he didn't like the idea of Fabian sticking his nose into his private affairs in his Shoreditch sanctuary. It would have been far better if Rizwana and Farhan had chased him out at first sight. They did stipulate no guests after all when he first asked to rent a room from them. And he was in blatant breach of the rules here but they seemed not to mind one jot.
"Don't look so scared, Tony," Rizwana said dismissively, waving a hand. "I know we did say you weren't allowed to bring people home but we meant mostly girls. We don't want any hanky panky, oh no, but it's OK once in a while to be kind to your friends, especially those who've missed their last train home. It must be dreadful having a two hour commute each way."
More like fifteen seconds, Antonin thought darkly.
Fabian beamed innocently at him, as if he hadn't just been a filthy liar spewing untruths.
Deciding to be antisocial, Antonin took his slices of bread from the toaster, hastily spread some jam and margarine on each and brought his novelty plate and mug out to the living room. He really didn't like eating outside of the kitchen because the mere thought of breadcrumbs on the carpet could send a shudder through his spine. But he'd be damned if he had to stick by at the table and watch Fabian watch him with unashamed goo-goo eyes while Rizwana and Farhan inexplicably fawned upon him.
As he sat on the sofa he had to fend off the advances of the two cats who were under the impression he had food for them. As the toast disappeared into his stomach, he stared at the motif on his dinner plate, a popular villain from a BBC programme called Doctor Who. He liked the Daleks because they sounded a bit like his name, and their shape was also a bit like the first letter of his surname in the Cyrillic alphabet. Perhaps, he thought darkly, he found their philosophy perfectly agreeable too. He was a misanthrope and had no particular affection for any human.
Fabian shuffled out of the kitchen after some commotion in which he was rejected in his offer to wash the dishes. Standing by the side, he thanked Antonin for his kindness in letting him stay the night, thus saving him from having to wander the streets alone in this dangerous world. He went into Antonin's room to retrieve his belongings, bade farewell to the merry bunch of kindly muggles, and left the place declaring that he would tarry around town for a bit to try out the camera he bought yesterday.
He was barely five minutes out of the door when Antonin caught up with him.
Leaning in perhaps too close, Antonin offered to teach him how to operate the camera. Fabian gladly agreed, drawing the camera from the bag to hand it over. As he did so Antonin deliberately wrapped his hands around his, fingers intertwining, taking the camera from him in a sensual motion.
Antonin was fully aware that Fabian was looking up at him through his eyelashes, completely smitten. He felt a modicum of satisfaction that this was all going to plan. Humans he knew too well, especially humans like Fabian—easily susceptible to the follies of the flesh, desperately in search of a vague delusion called love that could easily be replicated through excessive touching and sex. It was at this point Antonin recalled the words of another teacher, who told him that there was a particular path, which, if he chose, meant that his body would never be his own. Now it seemed this sacrifice would be in the service of higher goals, for the Dark Lord had promised him not just immortality but freedom from the body, a time flesh would bind them no more with its unceasing needs and weaknesses, the ultimate endpoint where they would become spirits of everlasting truth and magic.
He sought to reach out to Fabian and make perfunctory touches when the moment allowed for it, and as they ambled along the Embankment all the way to Trafalgar Square, with Nelson's Column and the glittering Norwegian Christmas tree, he knew with increasing certainty that he had Fabian in his proverbial pocket.
"I'm actually new here," Fabian confessed. "I've only just begun working in London and I've never had the time to see it like this. It's great that you're willing to show me around, even if it's the usual touristy spots"
"You're new here?" Antonin replied, putting on a tone of surprise. "Where were you before this?"
Fabian looked at him with a shy smile. "Cardiff," he said, "if you couldn't tell from the accent—I'm Welsh. I was there for uni."
"Oh," Antonin said. "What did you do in uni?"
"Mmm, the sciences," Fabian replied vaguely.
"What do you do now?"
Fabian shot him a cheeky grin. "It's shit work, I say," his voice gentle and lilting, the way it often got the filthier the words that were to tumble out of his mouth. "I'm a civil servant with the Department of the Environment—Waste and Recycling—so, yes, it's all rubbish and shite."
Antonin laughed. It was kind of a clever pun embedded within an inside joke Fabian thought he was unaware of. "You must love it."
"I do." Fabian chewed on his lip ponderously, then continued. "So what about you? You work in a camera shop, you live in the East End, but I can't quite figure out where you're from. Definitely not Cockney, and your accent's a bit posh, like you went to a proper school but that doesn't explain why you'd live in the East End, and there is also a tinge of Scotch to it..."
"Scotch?"
Fabian pulled a face. "Oh no, I'm way off the mark, aren't I? I thought I was fairly good at this."
"Well I am from somewhere cold," Antonin replied vaguely.
"You can't be Geordie!"
This conversation was heading towards dangerous territory, Antonin thought. He had to steer it away quick or risk revealing more than he wanted.
"You look adorably confused," Fabian pointed out. "I am going to make a wild guess that you're not even from around here."
"What's here?" Antonin retorted indignantly. He had gone to all this effort to get his English up to scratch and he felt like he was on the verge of being insulted.
"You speak English far too well to be from these isles," Fabian stated. "Are you continental?"
"I'm not telling you," Antonin huffed. They had definitely arrived in dangerous territory. Perhaps he should drag Fabian to a small, deserted alley and club him on the head. That'll teach him a lesson for being such a busybody.
"You're tall and willowy and pale...Nordic, perchance?"
"I did say I was from somewhere cold."
Fabian nodded gravely, the cogs in his brain whirring. He showed no sign of abating. "Norway? Iceland? Denmark? Finland? Sweden?"
Antonin shook his head.
"Is Tony even your real name?" Fabian suddenly asked.
"Yes. Yes it is."
"What does it stand for? Anthony? Antonius? Anton? Are you German?"
Antonin desperately wished this conversation would end. He wondered what it would be like if he plunged Fabian's head into the fountain they were sat on the edge of and held it under until breath escaped him.
"Antoine? Antonio? Antonios? Antonino?"
Antonin shuddered. "Aren't you just saying the same name over and over?"
"Yes, but the exact version should give me a good idea of your geographical origins."
Antonin shook his head. His name wasn't even properly Russian, not that Fabian would ever be allowed to know. It was a semi-literate goon at the registrar who misspelled his name on the birth records...
"Are you...American?" Fabian said, his eyes widening to an unnaturally large size. "You almost had me fooled in that case."
"Canadian? Canada is cold," Fabian said, unrelenting.
"Enough with that. If you must know, I am not of this earth. I am an extraterrestrial. Failure to keep that a secret will get you killed. This is the only warning you will get."
Fabian's saucer-like brown eyes nearly popped out of his head. "No," he said, "You can't mean that." His eyes darted around nervously. In a low tone, he added, "You're not serious, are you?"
"I'm deadly serious."
"You're not Russian, are you?" Fabian whispered, whipping his head around in an extremely conspicuous manner. "You're from behind the Iron Curtain. You're from the Soviet Union. You're on the run from the KGB."
It was too late before Antonin realised that the expression on his face completely betrayed that Fabian was right.
Fabian seemed to be working himself into a frenzy. "The Spy Who Loved Me. From Russia With Love," quoting the titles of famous James Bond movies.
"Stop that," Antonin ordered.
"Why?" Fabian ventured, his voice abruptly taking a seductive register. "Am I making you uncomfortable?"
"No," Antonin lied transparently.
"I say, this calls for a vodka martini, don't you think?"