A Pair of Regular Gentlemen

Aleks Disraeli sat in the ringmaster's tent, legs crossed. He glanced up from his book every few pages; the ringmaster's large manservant never seemed to stop staring at him. For that matter, he never seemed to blink.

Inhaling silently, he tried harder to immerse himself in A Tale of Two Cities. Dickens was one of his favorites, but his foreign surroundings put him on edge. he couldn't shake the feeling that at any moment, a familiar face would emerge through that tent flap.

And indeed, moments later, one did. Luckily, it was only the ringmaster, whom he had been conversing with less than an hour earlier. The short young man--or boy, rather, though the funny chap refused to admit it--adjusted his top hat and jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

"I've found a place for you. Hurry up and get on your feet--Dragomir and I will take you there, but time is money and I don't have enough of either. Move it!"

Aleks nodded and got to his feet, closing his book and dusting off his pinstriped slacks. They reminded him of clothes he had worn once in his past life; of course, that was all behind him now. He picked up his suitcase, barely making a sound as he did so.

The short ringmaster groaned, rolling his eyes. "Do you ever fucking say anything?" he asked.

Aleks shook his head. He had spoken once, but now he was a mime. Mimes didn't speak, and people didn't recognize their voices.

Shaking his head and muttering something about freaks and his circus and magnets, the little man blazed a trail through the camp, easily avoiding both his employees and their shoddy home structures. Finally he stopped in front of a caravan with the sides painted with flames. His manservant picked him up in his arms; after struggling and swearing for a few moments, the ringmaster looked at Aleks.

"Listen, Mime-guy. This is Cecil's caravan, or at least it was--it's yours now, too. He had a vacant spot--there's another bed in there for you and everything. You two should get along great. Come to my tent if you need me later, okay? And do me a favor." He leaned closer, glaring. "Don't need me."

The manservant carried the profanity-spouting ringmaster away, and Aleks was left standing alone in front of the caravan door. Taking a deep breath, he rapped his white-gloved knuckles against the door; he was already here, after all. No going back now.

Inside the caravan, a scruffy, dirty man was reading a book. Unlike what you might expect it to be, the book wasn't some dirty romance novel, it was a book on political theory. He'd bought it, though it was expensive and had cost him all the money he'd saved up thus far. It was worth it, too. It made him reminisce about his past, and in a good way. Not in the bad way. Not in the ways that caused him to smash mirrors and set people on fire.

When he heard Tobias talking outside his door, he rose an eyebrow. This couldn't mean anything good for him. It never did. It was probably another roommate, and before he finished thinking that thought, there was a knock.

Yes, he had assumed as much. It didn't matter, though. His new roommate would probably be dead or gone within a matter of days. They usually were. Heaven knows what happened to the last one, when he wouldn't stop asking about Cecil's past. There wasn't even enough left of him for Jack to preserve.

Begrudgingly, he opened the door after setting down his prized book. The spare bed, too, was full of books. In fact, the entire room was full of books. Though it was probably a bad idea for someone who, when they got angry, burst into flames to be around books, they were the only thing that kept Cecil sane.

"What the bloody fuck do you want?" he asked, as the door opened. He purposely blocked the doorway with his body.

Aleks's eyebrows raised; he hadn't expected to find a British accent here after hearing the ringmaster and his manservant. He waved exaggeratedly before pulling a pad of paper out of his jacket pocket and scribbling on it. He held it out so his new roommate could see.

Salutations, the paper read. I am your new flatmate. Please allow me entrance--I was informed that there is a spare bed waiting for me. I am a mime, and do not speak.

He bowed deeply and grabbed his suitcase, nodding at the caravan. He just wanted to get inside so he could go back to reading his novel.

"What sort of mimey bollocks is this?" he asked incinerating the piece of paper in his hand. "I don't need a flatmate, just books. It looks like I have enough books, so shove off."

He leaned against the doorway, staring the mime up and down.

"Do you have a name or something? Otherwise, I think I'll just call you Mimey," he snickered. What a horrible nickname.

Mimey gripped the handle of his suitcase more tightly. Bowing again, he tried to force his way past Cecil, keeping his arms as close to his sides as possible. He didn't want trouble, only a place to stay.

Even as he tried to slip past the man, he was affronted by his odor; it was almost enough to make him stop still in his tracks. What kind of books did this man read, exactly--wilderness survival manuals? They certainly weren't etiquette guides.

Cecil shrugged, shoving Mimey into the room as he turned to walk in himself. He pointed to the pile of books on the spare bed.

"Those are mine, and they aren't moving. You can sleep on the floor, or something," he shrugged. "I don't give a fuck, honestly. But you aren't getting that bed."

Cecil sat back down onto his bed, leaning against the wall and opening his book back up. Yes, he had missed political readings.

Mimey carefully and quietly picked up each book, wiped the dust off the cover with a white handkerchief, and set it on the floor beside the bed. He did this for every single book, not skipping over one.

Rude flatmates be damned, he intended to have some comforts during his stay. And that meant a bed where he could sit and be sent back home by Dickens' words.

When Cecil looked up, he frowned angrily. "Excuse me?" He stood up, grabbing Mimey by the collar and shoving him against the wall.

"What the bloody fuckin' hell did I tell you was the only thing you couldn't do?" he snapped, clenching his fists.

It wasn't about his books, not really; it was the fact that someone else was encroaching on his territory and they had the gall to do so in such a ballsy manner, too.

Mimey held his hands up in a gesture of peace. He nodded toward the bed, and then attempted some sign language.

"All I want," he signed clumsily. He repeated the gesture, unsure if this rather rude man would even understand.

Surely he hadn't done anything wrong; if anything, now those books were cleaner.

Cecil rose an eyebrow.

"You're a bloody mime who doesn't even know proper goddamned sign language?" he asked incredulously. "I think what you mean, is this, dumbfuck," he quickly signed a few things, which more accurately translated to, "I'm sorry I'm such a cock for moving your books".

He shoved Mimey away from him, skulking back to his bed. "I swear to God if you do anything else to fuck with me, I'll end you."

Mimey rolled his eyes and gave Cecil the British finger before remembering he might recognize it. He quickly grabbed his book and sat down on the bed, not wanting to draw attention to himself.

Sure, he had been threatened, but that was nothing new; at least now he had a bed.

-x-

It had been a stressful few days for Cecil, and that was incredibly noticeable. Wherever he walked, little scorch marks followed. He'd taken more than his fair share of cold showers, but no matter what, he never felt cooled down.

While reading an older book, he had gotten so frustrated about his new living situation that he'd set the thing on fire and thrown the charred remains against the caravan wall, then gone for a nice, long walk.

That was yesterday. Today, he laid in his bed, reading a book, and silently pondering whether or not to kill Tobias for putting him into this situation.

Mimey silently stepped into the caravan, nudging the door closed with his elbow. In his oven-mitted hands he carried a kettle filled with boiling water, fetched from the cooking tent.

He placed a mitt on a small table and put the kettle on top of it, so it wouldn't scorch the wood. Then he dug through his things and produced a cookie tin painted with scenes of winter merriment in London, then a small jar of tea leaves and a worn teapot. Producing two tiny cups from inside the pot, he deftly added three pinches of leaves and poured in the hot water from the kettle, leaving the mixture to steep.

The aroma soon filled the tent: a crisp Earl Grey, the smell of a proper British afternoon teatime. Mimey sat down and read as the tea steeped, tapping the cookie tin with his fingers every few minutes.

Cecil ignored him for quite some time. He flipped through his book, not really reading it. He kept glancing over, however, at the tea. It smelled so good. He hadn't had tea in who knows how long. They hadn't been to Britain in ages, and his stash had run out some time ago.

Finally, unable to take it anymore, Cecil marched over to where the mime was sitting, arms folded. He stared right sown at him.

"...can I have some tea?" he asked, in a rather small voice compared to his usual one.

Mimey jumped, almost flinging his book at Cecil's head. It slipped from his hands and landed on the floor with a soft thump. He looked up at Cecil in surprise, unsure of what to do next.

Then, slowly, he nodded. Picking up his book and lovingly setting it back on the bed, he poured tea into both of the cups and handed one to Cecil. His hand didn't so much as shake the entire time, alarmed by the request as he was.

He sat down and sipped from his cup, though the water was still scalding hot. He nodded at the cookie tin, then looked at Cecil. Tea wasn't tea without an accompanying snack, after all.

"You know, for a mime, you don't seem to be all that good at making gestures," Cecil replied, as he took the cookie tin in hand. He opened it and a small smile reached his face. Yes, he liked the smell of his caravan a lot, now. It reminded him of home, in a pleasant way.

Cecil picked up his tea, which he had set down, and returned to his side of the room. Though the tea was incredibly hot, Cecil didn't mind drinking it like this at all. It wasn't as if he wasn't used to being hot.

"Oh, by the way," he hesitated slightly. "...uh, thanks. Okay. It's just because I like tea, and not because I like you. Just so we're clear."

Mimey rolled his eyes and bit into a butter cookie. He somehow managed to eat without getting a crumb on his suit.

He reached for his book again, then stopped. Instead, he pulled out his scorched notebook again and scribbled something down.

He ripped out the page and handed it to Cecil: You're welcome. Please excuse my sign language, I learned only recently. Best regards, your Mimey flatmate.

Cecil burned up the piece of paper, after he'd read it. It was actually just a habit, now.

"You need me to teach you? I know sign language," he replied, before he realized what he was saying. Why the fuck should he go out of his way to teach the stupid mime something he should already know?? "I mean, you know, 'cause you're gonna make me tea in exchange."

Yes, good save, Cecil.

Mimey shrugged, then nodded. Why not? Sign language was a useful tool in his new life.

He set the notebook down and attempted to sign, I know a little.

"You don't know shit," replied Cecil, sipping his tea. "Do you at least know the alphabet?"

He signed out A, B and C quickly.

"Do you know that much?" he asked, leaning back against his wall.

Mimey nodded, repeating the gesture.

It is basic, he signed back, his expression unchanging. But I wish to learn more.

Unfortunately, he messed up on the latter part so that it looked cruder than intended.

He smiled slightly. Yeah, he had a lot to learn.

"I've never taught sign language, but I used it to speak with disabled kids, so teaching you shouldn't be too hard, unless you're retarded," he noted. "So, we'll start with simple phrases, and I'll break apart the sentences for you, and you just gotta repeat me, even a lummox like you should understand..."

After quite some time of Cecil instructing Mimey on how to sign simple phrases like "yes" "no" "my name is..." and "what's your name", he called it a day.

"You've learned enough." He replied, looking quite bored. "I'm gonna go shower. You coming?"

Mimey gave him a blank stare for a minute before grabbing his notepad again.

Coming with you where? he scrawled in his loopy, scratchy script. He handed the note to Cecil, still staring at him oddly.

It would be quite an odd turn of events if this man were some sort of homosexual.

"The showers," he replied, raising an eyebrow. "Didn't that midget jackass tell you? Everyone has to shower together to 'save water'. So, if you want a shower this week, you better come with me."

That said, he grabbed a towel and headed to the bath caravan. He knocked, and luckily, no one was inside. It was still wet and humid inside, meaning someone had been using it recently.

Once inside, he stripped off his clothes and hung them up on the hooks.

Mimey followed him in, looking awkward.

"I have no towel, he signed, looking around awkwardly. I did not bring one from home.