#fb.

there's  a  softness  ,  a  sweetness  even  ,  in  those  hard  dark  brown  eyes  .  —  i'll  stay  ,  then  .  he  whispered  gently  and  ,  even  quieter  he  muttered  —  i'm  sorry  .   for  what  ?  he  doesn't  say  ,  but  it  is  implied  in  those  shoulders  that  seem  to  carry  the  bourden  of  the  whole  world  ;  i'm  sorry  that  i  don't  know  when  i'm  wanted  ,  it's  not  my  fault  that  no  one  ever  did  want  me  .

What is it they say? Degaré Lambert never forgets a thing. Still, he’d be hard pressed to recall his first meeting with every lost soul who, through some misfortune or other, comes to pass through his establishment. He’s good, but he’s not that good. He does, however, remember Savatier. Remembers what night of the week it was when they first met, recalls the way the rain struck hard against the glass-pane, violent as a blacksmith’s hammer. Their first meeting had been... odd. Degaré supposes that, in the Mane, they often are: what man finds himself entering its belly in search of a drink, in search of something else entirely, because his life has turned out for the better? It’s been two, three years, perhaps, since Savatier had first wandered into the Mane, looking haggard as old bones that have just been exhumed from the earth. He’d held nothing but his own sentence in his hands, and you don’t bother asking questions of a man like that. 

Of course, Degaré had tried anyway.

Savatier doesn’t quite fit, but Degaré has come to know him better than he knows most men. Has come to like him better than he likes most men. Hardly a difficult feat, he’ll admit, but it’s true. At times he’s almost fond. In the time since their first meeting, Degaré has managed well enough to loot away slices of Savatier, the same way a carver shaves gristle from the bone. Incrementally. What remains is only a half-image, a simulacrum. Blurred, indistinct, not quite real. Indeed, Degaré is far better at reading the man than knowing him, finds more fortune in anticipating his movements than seizing anything definite. Come to think of it, he knows decidedly little about the man who sits opposite him now, swinging back ales like he’ll never see another. He saved his life once. Perhaps that’s all a man needs to know. 

He’s grown rather attached to his curious turns of phrase, his strange idioms, furnished with antecedents he fails to place. He’s heard them so many times over by now, he sometimes even knows what the fellow is talking about. But then—ah, sometimes not. Savatier sticks out to him, all conspicuous, like an anachronism which betrays itself. Beneath every skin, there is another skin. He’s an eye for such things.

Tonight, the Mane feels much the same as it had nearly three years ago. It’s cold, and the rain refuses to relent against the window. None of his employees have lit the fire—the heat of bodies and ale is warmth enough. The two of them have been at it for a few hours by now, throwing back glass measures, washing down liquor with more liquor. Degaré is off the clock tonight, relatively speaking. As he sits opposite Savatier, he feels his blood run hot from the ale. He feels his breath thicken with warm intoxication. But still, he watches. He listens. 

“Steady on, old man,” he interrupts, reaching his hand out to steady Savatier’s wrist. “If you’ve plans to drink yourself to the grave,” Degaré chuckles, viscous with booze, “Best to dig one first.” He releases the man’s wrist, leans slackly back in his seat. A beat passes before he abruptly leans in, pushing his own flagon away. “That one, there,” he whispers in a whisper that isn’t quite a whisper, canting his head toward a patron by the bar. “Drunk himself to death—” he tuts, as if in admonishment. As if in thought. “Ah, must be a hundred times over by now.” 

Degaré crosses his arms behind his head, leans back against the wall. His voice is noticeably louder when he speaks again. “Rowdy. Night never ends well for him.” A beat passes. Degaré smiles, crooked, its sincerity aslant. “Ends with a polite invitation outside, more often than not, while somebody else offers to hold the other man’s coat.” If the wounds he wears when he faithfully wanders back into the tavern the following night are anything to go by, the man takes quite a beating. 

“No fights, all right?”

Melisandre estava empolgada para aquele dia, tinha acordado mais cedo que o costume e estava com seu uniforme impecável. Tinha comprado um presente para Peter, talvez ele fosse uma das melhores coisas que tinha acontecido na sua vida naquele momento. Tinham o namoro perfeito, como todos diziam, mas aquilo estava longe de ser uma realidade. Estava com o carro de seu pai e buzinou assim que chegou na casa dele para buscá-lo e irem juntos para o colégio. Soriru ao vê-lo de longe, ela realmente gostava dele, porém não sentia tanta reciprocidade asism. - good morning my love. - falou sorrindo e dando um beijo nele. - comprei uma coisa para você, está no porta luvas, é pela vitória no jogo de ontem.