Was he dying?
“Perfect,” Andras says, probably not dying.
As stupid as it sounds, Mateo had forgotten it was morning. It didn’t feel like a time of fresh beginnings, even with new titles slung unseen across their shoulders. It felt too much like dusk, as the two stallions stood there in painful charade of conversation. Dusk that wanted to be midnight-- black moon, black feathers. Words would surely come easier in that velvet darkness.
But the day grows brighter around them, not darker, and to Mateo's surprise Andras accepts the offer to get a drink, which seems so wholly unconscionable at this hour that the black pegasus-- the one without glasses-- just sort of stares for a moment in untrusting disbelief.
“Okay.” He says finally, with a shrug like he’s made up his mind about something, or maybe changed it. “I know a place that should be open soon.” He leads them down the stone street. A somewhat awkward silence sits between them, interrupted only by the clatter of hoofsteps. After a few turns they descend a narrow staircase under a sign that reads “The Pen and Chain,” into a basement.
A dark basement. It takes a few minutes for his eyes to adjust to the windowless room, but it doesn’t matter- he could navigate this place with his eyes closed. The floor is mostly open space, interrupted occasionally by mounds of cushions-- some of them worn and ragged, others bright and new, all soft, plush, and clean-- and clusters of fat yellow candles.
A fireplace weakly putters away on the far wall. The air smells of cedar, beeswax, and… old paper. For along each wall are recessed bookshelves crammed to overflowing. Hundreds and hundreds of books and scrolls, completely unorganized, clearly well loved. A large sign above the fireplace reads
“TAKE A BOOK,
LEAVE A BOOK.
(OR TWO)”
Scribbled below it in small angry red letters- “AND A DAMN TIP WHILE YOU’RE AT IT”
Mateo goes to his favorite corner, nudges a massive green cushion against the wall, and delicately folds himself into its soft, worn curves. He catches the barkeep’s eye (no easy task, she had her nose buried in a novel) and gestures her over with a charming smile. "Will you bring us two Hemmingways, love?" She sighs heavily, clearly uncharmed. His attention turns back to Andras, whose reaction to the place he carefully observes. Nothing bothered Mateo more than taking someone someplace they did not like.
(Of course, this is not true: there were a lot of things that bothered him more, he just wasn’t thinking of them at the moment. “Wherever you go, there you are--” applied not just to the man but his troubles, too. At least it did for this man.)
“So.” He clears his throat. Candlelight flickers hypnotically in those glasses, like some kind of sleight of hand. The blue-grey eyes behind them are solid, and pained, and Mateo smiles like none of it matters. Like he isn’t witheringly envious and covetous and I-don’t-know about the new Warden. It was a lot to be feeling about someone he had only just met, but luckily the barkeep buys him just a few more minutes before the awkward conversation must continue. Her name is Bronte-- a perfect name for an employee of a literary-themed bar-- and he had hit on her so many times she approaches warily and leaves quickly. She leaves two fragrant, steaming mugs at the feet of the two stallions. “To… new responsibilities.” He floats the mug lazily in the air in a toast. The word responsibilities sits flatly between them. He flushes, embarrassed and strangely self conscious, and drinks deeply.
- - -
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