The Lounge

I see the pattern in you, because it is the same pattern in me.

           Vardlyn sits down at the booth in front of Mevyr reluctantly. It’s been ages since they’ve met at the Lounge, the void realms have become more turbulent as of late. The place is almost as old as the Underwell itself; low velvet booths that smell faintly of brimstone and ancient books, a bar that serves drinks that only pair well with regret and disdain. Mevyr had already started on his drink, with one prepared for Vardlyn. She says nothing, so he finally breaks the silence.

           “Lavendar vanilla rooibos. I remembered.”

           “Yeah, I guess you did.” She traces a finger along the rim of her glass and looks around like she just noticed the lights were dimmer than usual.

           “So? Why’d you call me here? I predict it’s to rant.”

           “I just don’t get the point anymore. It’s senseless.”

           “It’s not like you to be emotionally staked.” She glares at him when he says it, he doesn’t flinch and smirks his way through the rest of his thought, “it’s existential for them, not intellectual.”

           “I suppose. We know even their gods change,” her voice gets lazy while she slumps into her own palm; her thoughts neither here nor there. Mevyr lets her breathe for a while, takes a sip, and then places an open palm out on the table.

           “Why’d you actually call me here?”

           “I thought about baiting you,” she says while tracing circles in his open palm. “Still thinking about it. It’s all …become a lot. You were the only one who always knew how to measure what was carried.”

           He watches her play with his hand but doesn’t close it. A flicker of worry crosses into his brow as he starts to realize what might be happening with her. She sits up a bit, but he cuts her off before she can say anything, leaning across as if not letting her leave.

           “You’re consuming perspectives. Tasting what others see. Aren’t you? Show me your true eyes, Var.”

           “No.” She pulls her hand back and settles both into her lap, prostrating herself against the velvet cushions.

           “Var, please. You’ll lose yourself to the mimic if you’re not careful.”

           “I’ve been careful. I just. Mev, it’s… what’s the use of any of this? They’re gone. The entire verse won’t seem to accept it. We have no idea if they persisted to the other side. We have no idea if they can even hear us! I miss… I miss not being afraid to feel joy. I miss being able to eat without mourning through every swallow. I miss not having to force kindness. I miss hearing their songs without knowing it’s just a phantom tune on replay. We can’t keep doing this. The realms won’t survive. And I can’t tell if we’re all like this because we lost them, or if we were ever capable of feeling alive without them.”

           “Var…”

           “No! It hurts too much,” she’s barely breathing through her tears as the words escape. The ambient noises of the lounge start to quiet. Even Mevyr, on such rare occasions, fails to find words for a different truth.

           “Everyone had lost so much already. We needed them to stay! And they just left us here. As if we’d know what to do without them. We should be thankful they sealed the Breach. But this feels…” she gasps for air, “this feels worse.” A stillness settles across the whole room. His face flickers as he clenches his hands, but he doesn’t interrupt her; someone needed to say it.

           “This feels so much worse,” she continues. “I’d rather be a mimic than feel this.”

            The ache wraps like a wire around his throat as he tries to stabilize himself, “I’m here.” She tips her head forward, face tinted pink, eyes welling again. He extends his palm out once more, fingers trembling.

            “I’ve always been here, …Var.”

            “I won’t survive it.”

            He doesn’t know what to say at first and contemplates between his desires and her comfort. The attention in the room diffuses.

            “You’re the only air I know how to breathe,” he musters just enough for her to hear, ache seeping into his fingertips, “and I have colors only you can see.”

            As he begins to retract his hand, she cups the bottom with hers and continues to draw shapes in his palm. Wordless moments pass, but something inside him finally lets go.

            Because this time, she stayed.