#harla

There was always a problem with bars.

The drinks were too expensive, people lingered too close, too much noise too much stink in the air. There was also the matter of hiding her face, the black marks, pointed ears, and silver-white hair that marked her as not of this world. The things a hood only concealed on the typical dark smog filled night of Nova City, but never in the flashing light of some techno night club where humans looked to get lucky and got too close too fast before she could duck away to keep them from crying out in panic or anger.

That’s why Stalia did all her drinking at home. Tucked into the corner of the room, her back against the meeting place of two walls and her hand wrapped around the neck of a heavy bottle of something brown that tasted like burning.

She was angry, and for a lot of reasons. Only half of those reasons would make sense in the morning when she sobered up and it was a bit easier to filter out all the noises, smells, sensations that plagued her day to day. She’d still be a royal when she sobered up, but at least she’d have the wits to take a deep breath and find a distraction when the stimuli got to be too much.

Right now she had earbuds in. She’d taken Harla’s walkman from his room and turned the volume way up on whatever disc he’d been listening to lately. While some human played guitar and bellowed in her ear she drank and clenched her teeth.

“I’ve been calling you. I know you can hear me.”

Stalia sighed, taking another drink and trying to ignore the near seven feet of human standing in front of her with a sour look on his face.

“If you keep pretending I’m not here, I’ll take my music back,” Harla said, folding his arms over his chest and smirking like he knew the threat would work. It didn’t of course.

Harla sighed and knelt down so he was eye level with the alien he shared a downtown apartment with. “I’m going to take it. I said I would. I’m about to do it,” he warned her.

Stalia just rolled her eyes, before closing them. She tapped the beat of the song against her thigh with one hand.

Harla took the earbuds from her ears, and immediately Stalia was assaulted with the sounds of the world around her.

There was a baby crying downstairs, a couple having a fight a room over, Harla had left the tea kettle on and it was screeching, she could hear her own breathing she could hear rats rustling around in the walls she could hear way too much way too soon and suddenly she was bent over with her hands over her ears groaning like she was going to be sick.

“I told you I was going to take it,” Harla said, sounding a little guilty.

“You did,” Stalia said, an admission and an accusation.