of grief and second chances

he slides onto the stool next to henry, the motion more collapse than choice, a body letting gravity pull it down. the world tilts, uneven, and edwin feels the weight of the day pressing into his shoulders, settling in the hollows behind his eyes.

"damn," he rumbles, elbows braced against the countertop like it might hold him upright, like the wood could anchor him to something steady. "what a day." he says it aloud, tasting the exhaustion in the words, but even as he speaks, he knows—he knows—that whatever wreckage marked henry's day, it's probably worse. maybe infinitely worse.

it was the reality of the job, no matter where in the country henry resided. death would always be present, looming over them all.

he exhaled, one long breath, as an old therapist had once advised him to do when thoughts like this were intruding on his mind. clearly, a change of ideas was necessary, and though usually he’d seek silence, maybe tonight he didn’t want to. maybe tonight he wanted to see people happy, laughing and milling about with their lives. just alive, and happy to be.

the pub had become one of his favoured places, the atmosphere a bit more crowded than the siren. he could still see outside while sitting at the bar, could still appreciate the softness in the last threads of the day. the bartender smiled at him, offering him his choice of usuals. he’d just ordered his preferred ipa when edwin sat down next to him, looking weary.

henry pushed down any desire to ask how he was feeling — edwin was an adult, not a child, and didn’t need an old man like him acting like a mother hen after a long shift. so to his first words, henry simply hummed as he raised the drink slightly. “there are days like these.” such platitudes, but henry had no energy left to offer more than that tonight.

Where: The Siren

When: Late night

Noelle had long ago forgotten all about the luxuries her family could afford her. Truthfully, she rarely thought anymore about the last time her mom had called, late at night, to tell her she was getting too old to keep running wild, and that this time she was getting financially cut off for real. She rarely thought about how much she just wanted to go back home sometimes, about all the personnel that would have to work hard to keep her happy. No, she didn't think about it anymore, unless she was working late over shitty whisky.

Unfortunately, it was one of those nights for her.

She typed away at her computer, too entrenched to realize there were even people around her. What does envolvimento translate to, again? Her brain was too tired to even process. "If only drinking could jog one's memory...", she said, to no one in particular.

"water would help," he offered, not that she asked and not that he cared. people clearly did not drink enough water, and sure, who drank water at a bar.

but also who worked at a bar? that was the true question. "maybe sleep too...?" he offered, tilting his head. "but what do i know..." shrugging, henry took a sip of his own glass, wondering if sleep would find him tonight. maybe he should take a page of his own book and stop lecturing strangers in bars.