“I’d like to speak with my captain.”
The parlor looks just the same as it did years ago. Dark red curtains, gold-accented tassels. Auburn carpet, white gold, curls (“art deco”, he tells you) woven under your feet. It’s all some kind of human touch -- you don’t know what about this place appeals to him, but the accommodations are generous, so you go anyway. The privacy is enticing too, you’ll give it that much; the windows are tinted dark so that one can see the stars for miles, but nobody could peer in on your business if they tried.
You can smell the patchouli burning on the coffee table before it’s lit.
“You’re not really here.”
Once he’s done with the incense, he folds his hands in his lap, leaning back in that off-white chaise lounge. He always beat you to that seat, damn him -- it’s the coziest spot. Both adults, and you still race for the better couch like children with horns still budding in your heads. Silly...
“No,” he smiles politely, “but you know that.”
You sigh, pouring yourself a glass of white wine. “I was almost hoping you’d humor me. You’re terrible.” Before you set the bottle down, you tilt it towards him and raise your brow slightly, offering.
“Mm.” You take a sip, then watch the contents of the glass sparkling under the dim lights. Your favorite. “I can’t believe you still prefer red, even when you’re a hallucination.”
“I don’t mind white, it’s just sparkling. That’s the part I can’t stomach... cheer up, though. More for you.”
“More for me.” You laugh dryly. “That’s not much. Drinking alone really isn’t fun.”
“Don’t tell me you came here to mope, Xaphan.”
You look down into the glass again, tracing your thumb against its cool surface. Bubbles glisten as they pop. You purse your lips.
“I dislike,” you sigh, “being without an objective. Prison was bearable with the loopholes I found, the instructions you gave me. I could manage that.” Your gaze flits to him, back to your drink. “This is just dull.”
“You want me to tell you what to do?” He scoffs. “And here I thought you preferred being in control, Xaphan. What good will that do?”
“Oh, make no mistake,” you give him a cautionary smile, “I’m the one asking. I demand direction. You’re just a trick of my imagination. We’re in my head, after all.”
“... should I tell you what you want to hear, then?”
“This is all a temporary distraction from what you and I are supposed to be doing. This city is fake -- they told you right away themselves, that it’s a simulation. You will find a way out, and we will carry on as always.”
You take a longer swig, exhale.
He stands up, sits beside you. His hand brushes your hair away from your ear, and he leans in to whisper something. You smile, closing a hand around his cravat and pulling him closer.
The patchouli burns out, and you are sitting on the edge of your bed in a quiet apartment. You stare forward, laughing slightly. You cough. The bubbles in your wine linger at the back of your throat.
Smoke still floats in the air.
