vxsilicv:
“Heaven forbid that you’re a workaholic and have a non-existant love life.” Yev smirks and downs the rest of his glass before looking over at Nathaniel again. “I’ll let you catch up. I should probably have a few glasses of water so that I don’t kill my liver. Then again, it’s probably already fucked…” He shrugs his shoulders but lifts his hand to catch the attention of the bartender. He’s given two glasses of water, which he takes one and does his best not to chug it like it’s the one thing he’s missing in his life. Yev turns and leans against the bar, fully facing Nathaniel now. “I don’t have a lover. I’ve always been a bachelor. Fleeting romances and such, nothing stable because I care more about my businesses than people whom I share a bed with.” He lets out a sigh and closes his eyes. “Frankly, I’ve just never met a person who’s ok with what I do. Until then, I’ll be single. I fear that I may never really find someone to love before the end of my time.” A bit morbid but the truth.
“Are you reducing yourself to these two words? A workaholic without a love life?” Nathaniel was certainly not even close to Yevgeni’s level of intoxication but he sure was influenced by his presence: the tenseness that he previously felt dissolved completely, and he gladly accepted the shared alcohol. “Your liver is made of steel, but if not, what’s it worth being Russian then, if not for the endurance of your collective livers?”
Yevgeni’s answer seemed more to Nathaniel as a rather intimate confession – alcohol does wonderful things, doesn’t it? “Perhaps, my friend, it is for the best.” he slowly said as his mind began to wander already, the fingers of his left hand tracing the circle where his wedding ring used to be – it seemed to have left a dent in his finger, a reminder, even. A sigh escaped his lips, he was frustrated with the pattern of his thoughts that, one way or the other lead to Ilse, as if there was a maze inside of his hand without an actual exit, and all paths took him to Rome – to her – even if he tried his best to erase her from his existence. He felt exhausted from his never-healing wounds, of her image constantly spurring in front of his eyes. “I was married,” he blurted, a beginning of what seemed to be an honest conversation, “I may still be, for the matter,” ironic, wasn’t it, after all? Their divorce was intended to be a bullet to his heart, fired from her gun, “But that is merely a technicality.” Well, he was ready for another bottle.










