to feel that we exist, even though in pain
♠︎ ♕ ♠︎
By now, the liquor has expanded beyond the pleasant burn in his belly and throat to his mind. He had done a fair bit of drinking on the ship, but all of it was seawater swill compared to this. August’s inner commentary has gone happily silent, and he grins widely when his companion proclaims fuck it and downs the tequila. He can’t help but sneak a glance to the bartender who’d said it was for sipping, and she just shakes her head, resigned.
“Thanks,” he tells her as she hands over their next (and hopefully final; August is already unsure he could keep this up much longer, or afford the tab), but she’s already turned away. The palomino squints at the stallions down the bar, clearly nobility, both in dress and the way they studiously ignore him while still making their judgement clear. With a snort he turns back to the unicorn just in time to catch his sigh.
Listening intently (perhaps a little too intently; it’s getting tricky to tell what his face is doing with his mind a soft buzz) August nods in support. It is difficult to imagine this rough-hewn man ill-suited for anything, except maybe ballet, but August could commiserate. He’s curious about the unicorn’s accent; it’s not one he’s heard before, not from the Solterran nobility he’s met here or who used to come to the Scarab, and not from the commoner’s in the streets. If he were sober he’s sure he could puzzle it out -
But never mind that; when the chestnut drains his last tequila August follows suit, gasping at the burn.
“Come now,” he says as he sets down the glass with a thud, “I’m sure you’re not that bad at holding your liquor. No man is ill-suited for drinking.” His tone was clearly in jest, but he isn’t sure how amenable his companion is to joking and moves on quickly.
“Truly, though,” he continues, bending his head in close enough to focus with drunken intensity on the deep amethyst of the stranger’s eyes, “I’ve found taking on such things is the only way to grow, even if it is a mistake in the end.” His brow furrows, thinking of his miserable time on the merchant ship. Surely even that had taught him something (other than how ill-suited he is for manual labor, or maybe just being treated as such), but discovering what would have to wait until he’s sober.
“Besides,” he says, doing his best to speak softly given the men at the other end of the bar, “if by here you mean this insufferable city, not belonging is a credit to you, friend.” August burps, inelegant punctuation to his words. “In fact I’d drink to that if - if - if my glass wasn’t empty.” It feels good to laugh, even if he isn't aware how loudly he's doing it.
@jahin |
