He was drinking a whiskey that Ishmael had paid for; he was in the Jinxed Jackrabbit; he was restless.

"There has to be something I can do for you," Kieran said, after a sip of the whiskey. He had something in mind, but - well, they would see.

---

Ishmael sometimes thought he was too good. He was not even trying, tonight, had not been trawling for particular favours, had not been trying to entice anyone to anything.

Maybe he just had an eye for that specific air of desperation. Sometimes it was bred by misery, sometimes by loneliness, or sheer recklessness - whatever it was, it was always clear enough what they needed. He’d feel bad about it, if he didn’t expend a great deal of energy convincing himself he was the often the only person lending them a hand, looking out for them.

He knew what Kieran was looking for.

He should say no. Quash this right here.

“Are you telling me you can’t think of anything?” Ishmael heard himself say instead, the smirk appearing almost out of habit, unbidden.

---

There was something guilty in the back of Kieran's mind, a Jude-shaped guilt that tugged at his chest. He shoved it down. Jude did not love him (at least - not in the way that Kieran loved him) and just because Kieran had feelings for him did not mean that Kieran should suppress everything, forever.

Ishmael did not love him; Kieran was not delusional. But Ishmael would at least touch him, and Jude would not do either.

Kieran downed the whiskey and reached to grasp Ishmael's wrist with his fingers, loose and gentle. "Come with me," he said.

---