to feel that we exist, even though in pain
♠︎ ♕ ♠︎
August does his best to refrain from turning when the sound of footsteps signals another’s entrance, but he can’t help it when the man speaks.
He considers himself a bit of a connoisseur of dramatic entrances, given his life at the Scarab, but this declaration rates among the best. Its speaker is no less interesting; August marks the scars at once and with admiration, as well as his tumble of wild hair and vivid lilac eyes.
It only takes long enough for the stranger to tip back his shot for August to decide that here is a man he’d like to know more about. Already half-smiling, he nods when the unicorn glances his way, and when he orders another round August tips his own glass in salute. Maybe he’d have to recalibrate his assumptions of Solterran generosity.
“And a lucky friend I am,” the palomino says with a grin. “Though I’m told you’re supposed to sip it.” As soon as he says it, he drains the tequila, earning a head shake from the bartender, who soon turns back to wiping down glasses.
There is already a pleasant warmth in his belly, a burn in his throat and a buzz in his head. Third drink at hand, August moves down the bar toward the unicorn, near enough their shadows lean together conspiratorially. This time, when he lifts the glass to his lips the drink he takes is only a sip, and his silver eyes are considering.
“My thanks,” he says, “and the next round’s on me. If you don't mind my asking, just what is it you’ve sown today?”
Any other problem or sorrow, he thinks, will be better than thinking on his own unbecoming melancholy, and this fellow looks more reaper than reaped.
@jahin | this was supposed to be way shorter, just pretend it is
