to feel that we exist, even though in pain
♠︎ ♕ ♠︎
It’s early afternoon and the bar is mostly empty, dark in the corners, warm gold coloring the rest of the room where the light falls through the entryway. There is no door, which August noted with interest; he wonders whether it burned to ashes one too many times, or if it just never got cold enough, even in winter, to warrant one.
Today, at any rate, feels like spring to him. There are flowers blooming in containers along the streets. The city is more colorful that he had always pictured it, and he’s been trying and failing not to resent it for this. He may as well learn to appreciate Solterra - he may be here for a while.
Which is why he’s starting out at this particular establishment. August always feels more amicable after a drink; he hopes it doesn’t fail today. Gods know he needs the encouragement.
He pauses for a moment before crossing to the bar, his shadow leading the way. The palomino doesn’t care for having the open doorway at his back, where he can’t see who enters. It’s a far cry from the dark, lush interior of the Scarab, where he can keep an eye on everything, where he knows most of the patrons anyway. His world is full of strangers now.
But he looks at ease, and smiles when the bartender meets his eye. She smiles back, casting a seasoned glance over him before ambling over with the glass she’s been cleaning.
“Bright days,” she says, in common Solterran greeting. “Bit early, isn’t it? But what can I get you?” All the while her smile lingers, and he follows it up to her green eyes, the long scar that marks one cheek. He wonders which court’s citizens bear more scars, and knows the question is unfair.
“Always a good time for business,” he remarks, and scans the row of bottles behind her. A few are familiar, but he nods toward a dark, squat bottle whose contents are golden where the sunlight hits them. “Ah,” she says, “that’s an anejo tequila. Aged three years, harvested from agave in the Mors.” He raises a brow as she recites its lineage, and is already nodding. “I’ll take it.” August watches as she pours, releasing a woody, spicy scent that almost reminds him of whiskey.
He lifts it, tilts it, takes a whiff - and then tips it back before her small gasp of protest can catch him. August almost coughs, and hisses through his teeth at the burn flaring down his throat all the way to his belly. When he looks up at the bartender, his eyes are watering.
“You’re supposed to sip it,” she says reproachfully. August blinks, and laughs. ”Of course. Then I’ll have another.” And one more after that, he thinks, and maybe he can face the court beyond the bright doorway behind him.
@jahin | this was supposed to be way shorter, just pretend it is
