HE HAD MEANT to stay in the quiet, two stools away - a courteous boundary to suggest civility, but not familiarity; a space where one might pretend not to know the curve of another's spine under the strain of a tense posture, or the exact cadence of their breath when they misstep, or even the quiet sound they release when thrown down on the training ground. but the bar is not their usual meeting ground, and it would be unkind to pretend otherwise.
simon lifts his gaze (honest and sturdy) from the rim of his glass, and there it is, that voice: musical yet wry, implying continuity and the promise of another moment, and then another, until suddenly there's a path forward to a conversation. the question hangs in the air between them like a thrown glove, followed, of course, by a provocation dressed as mischief. simon braces himself and turns toward verso, finding him already twisted toward him, eyes like a wintry lake trained on him.
simon answers, eventually, with the smallest flicker at the corner of his mouth, and more warmth than he had intended in the light chuckle that follows; (he recognises it only after the fact.) "--vermouth. not that interesting, I'm afraid." the dry, herbal, and bitter clarity type - a drink that doesn't comfort, nor deceives; he lifts it demonstratively with a gentle shrug, pale amber catching the stained light. the unspoken stretches out beneath the table like a second shadow, and the distance between them starts to feel more like a suggestion now, than a rule; and for once, simon does not run from it.
there is always a before; even now, simon feels it like phantom pain in the enclosure of his ribcage. a city's heart caved in, and left only galleries of silence, walled with grief and memory. he had once been a respectable builder of things meant to last. now? his calloused hands have forgotten anything other than shifting rubble. his back and arms are viciously carved with the aching, chromatic penance of experimental pictos. his face - cheekbones sharpened and brow lined by worry, jaw tensed with apprehension - has grown hollow with exhaustion, the kind that does not fade with rest. his hair is worn loose tonight, a grim curtain of charcoal falling past his collar, damp with the ghost of rain.
and still, somehow, haloed in absinthe and bohémien rebellion, verso stands out like the main subject in a composition. (I've thought of you like this before, draped in lamplight and shadows, and perilously near. ) but it is the eyes that simon finds himself returning to: not just for their magnetic colour, but for the haunting quality of them; in them he sees the cost of being born into beauty, in a world now shattered by loss and despair.
"your secret is safe with me." his voice is low and even, touched by a mild trace of dry humour. "--it might surprise you, but I was never really inclined towards lecturing others." (let alone telling on them) the words are light, but the promise beneath them is real: any secret shared would find a fortress in him, and he refrains firmly from meddling in family dynamics. he lets his gaze drop briefly to verso's glass, then discreetly back to his face (absinthe is ambitious - it suits him, oddly. the contradiction of delicacy turned opiate). if there is one thing he's learnt, is that things with verso are rarely as they seem.
he leans back a fraction, shoulders easing despite himself; the tension does not vanish, but it morphs: less a bowstring drawn taut, more a shared awareness of standing somewhere unfamiliar. "... and if you plan on staying" simon adds conspiratorially, extending a metaphorical hand; "I will get the next round."
and though his lips do not move again, the intensity of his chestnut-brown eyes speaks the rest: (go on, then. tell me your secret. I'll keep it.)