#but as an aside I am rereading and quietly editing all the previous chapters rn

[civilization-illstayrighthere]

thank you @henbased for tagging me in a wip wednesday meme *checks watch* four weeks and a day ago. it’s twip thursday!!! and i am finally back working on fill holes with more cement, my charon/m!lw modern college au, where trying to get into shithole college bars gives way to Adam and Charon getting tangled up in the seedy underbelly of DC. (Oh wait edit I realized I should also tag people for twip thursday as well. uhhhhhhh. @ficfucker @the-localwildlife… can I tag you back @henbased uhh. @everyone )

By the time they’ve made it through the hallway into the Ninth Circle, Ahzrukhal is nowhere to be seen, and the only person there seems to be a teenager struggling with the soda gun over the wrong edge of the bar, precariously balanced on a stool just to be able to reach. Even Adam can see the obvious kink in the hose.

“This bar is a piece of shit.” The teen loudly complains.

“Myron.” Charon bristles. “You’re doing it wrong.”

“Whatever.” Nuka sloshes over the edge of his highball glass; it takes Myron more than a moment to notice, and when he does, he scowls and flings the gun away. It hits the bar top with a crack that makes Adam wince. Charon grumbles out a few swears under his breath.

It’s not subtle, but it’s so fluid that Adam would have missed it otherwise: Myron raising a palm to his mouth, his throat working, followed by a quick chug of his drink. He nods at Adam without acknowledgement. “Just bring him to our office.”

“Ahzrukhal’s office.” Charon corrects.

Myron only sneers in return.

Adam watches Myron’s back disappear down the hallway, the door at the end swinging closed behind him. He sucks in a deep breath, shoving his hands into the pockets of his windbreaker before stepping forward—

Charon’s hand wraps around his forearm.

His grip is firm, solid enough to anchor him in place. “Don’t drink anything he hands you.”

Adam’s so caught off-guard it takes him a moment to register his words, blinking up at him. “What?”

Looking at Charon right now feels like— like he’s not supposed to see this expression on his face. Charon’s face is not open; he is raw, a quiet grief crinkling in the corners of his eyes. His voice scratches out in a pleading hush: “Be cautious. Don’t drink anything Myron hands you. Either of them.”

Adam swallows around something thick in his throat.

He squeezes his forearm fleetingly, and his face snaps back to neutral as he pulls away and settles into position. Behind him, Ahzrukhal’s long casted shadow spooks Adam just as much as the pointed, phlegmy clearing of his throat.

Adam whirls around.

Ahzrukhal smiles his salesman best. “Is he bothering you?”

Adam’s mouth snaps shut. He shakes his head, and Ahzrukhal’s smile widens, stretching across his cheeks. His ghoulified skin creases in ways human skin does not. “Good. Now, it’s best not to keep people waiting, hm? Not polite, is it?”

His eyes have not left Charon once.