#halla northwind

a snippet from something i’m writing about halla and yuuja’s relationship over the course of 7-ish years

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The sign pinned to the front door advertised all-night access to the laundrette’s facilities and complimentary cups of kaphe, but within the neon-washed walls stained with dirt and fumes from the generator shoved under the counter sat Yuuja, alone as they were most nights like these, staring blankly at the solitary machine at work. They swilled the almost-untouched cup around in their hands. Another good reason why the little corner building was frequently desolate.

Juno didn’t know about this. No-one did – but then again, they’d never asked why Yuuja frequently appeared with shadows under their eyes at work the next morning. Some things were better left unsaid. So it wasn’t lying, not really, when they told Juno they couldn’t sleep. But Yuuja still felt a twinge of guilt every time she went out of her way to put up the blackout blinds.

It wasn’t anyone’s fault in particular. An archaeologist who kept too many secrets for his own good, his son (no, that didn’t feel quite right – they were neither son nor daughter to anyone now) who should have left when they had the chance, the stray bullet let loose from a weapon cradled in the arms of a flighty footsoldier, the gaping hole in Yuuja’s memories that they could never quite fill, the woman whose name scrawled on a piece of paper stuffed into their coat pocket who never spoke a word of Akkethi and startled at the slightest mention of their father. Too many thoughts swirling around their head as they stared at the roof of their cramped room, illuminated by the city glow that the curtains couldn’t block out and some faded glow stars stuck to the plaster.

The deserted laundrette wasn’t a great fix, but it was somewhat better than wandering the lonely streets of The City.  

It was getting late, even for their night-owl tendencies. The glowing red numbers of the wall clock had started to blur, a surefire sign that they would either have to stumble home without waking anyone up, or that they’d find themselves curled up on the bench with a fair few curious eyes upon them come morning. The kaphe sufficiently cold enough to justify tipping it down one of the industrial-sized sinks, they did so, pushing the plastoid seats back underneath the cluster of cheap café tables crowded in the centre of the room. Despite the increasing difficulty in keeping their eyes open, Yuuja felt hesitant to leave. Their jacket wouldn’t be completely dry, and they’d have to make the walk home in damp clothes and worse spirits.

“Don’t mind if I join you? It’s awfully cold out there.”

The voice had a Tarikol rhythm, slightly smoother than Standard Iroyan and a good deal more lilting. Yuuja turned around to face the front of the shop, vaguely aware that the wind had left their hair severely dishevelled. He couldn’t have been much older, with soft features and a surprisingly persistent array of freckles scattered across his face.

“Sure.” They were suddenly acutely aware of their own accent, patched and sewn with threads of Akkethi that rose to prominence in their exhaustion. Juno would be disappointed. Juno wasn’t here. And besides, it was nice to use their voice, the one that didn’t require effort behind every word and practiced, nonchalant dexterity to sound acceptably assimilated.

“Is it any good?” He pointed at the kaphe machine sitting quietly on the counter with hands conspicuously devoid of laundry. “Forgive me, but it’s fucking freezing and I could do with something warm to drink.”

“You can try it if you want. I thought it was rather… weak.”

Almost every café littered across the neatly-organised grids of The City that Yuuja had visited had appalling kaphe. For one, it was overpriced. And the lack of spices and raw sugar didn’t make any of it worth remembering.

He stopped, abandoning the paper cup and sitting at one of the other tables close by. “Another nightmare averted, for which I owe you gratitude.” He stared up at them from the resting place he’d made on the glass-topped surface, wearing an expression so endearingly serious that they couldn’t help but smile.

“Your kind words are thanks enough,” they laughed. And in a moment of reckless abandon, suddenly wanting more with him than a freezing night in a run-down laundrette, they added, “Yuuja Lehtonen.” And a hand, stretched out across the table. He reached across, tracing their fingerless gloves before shaking it.