Ophion had assumed that he would be able to ignore the cheer, the trickling in of partygoers, the familiar faces of mutual friends.
He was wrong.
Genevieve’s business was popular amongst his friends. He knew now that he ought to have opted for another tavern, one frequented by strangers, as he had hoped for solitude this evening. (Or at the very least, that he ought to have left hours before.) The other patrons’ laughter grated at his ears, even moving to the farthest corner did nothing to soothe the introvert.
An evening drink at the Snuggly Duckling sputtered back into his glass as he averted his eyes away from the bulky figure of Kiernan Manley stuffed into a dress. Coughing, choking, the mage slipped out from a side exit.
He closed the door behind him, muting the din inside. There was no glamour here in the dark.
By a dumpster.
But this was an improvement from skirting the genial greetings from drunkards he barely knew. With a gruff exhale, he reached into his robes in search of a smoke.
That sidedoor swung open, and from within emerged the familiar figure of Lavitz fon Amell, wrapped up in coat and scarf as if he’d been meaning to leave in the first place. But he casually beelined for the mage, fists stuffed into his pockets. He’d spotted Ophion earlier, but in the interest of entertaining his crossdressing best mate — dear Faram — had found himself sucked into the festivities until at last, the sight of Kiernan was too much to bear without enough hard liquor in his system.
“Scarred for life?” he asked aloud, breath condensing in the cold.
Ophion’s gaze moved from his fingers, thumb and forefinger pressed together to snap a Fire at the end of his cigarette, to Lavitz. “Shut it.” Not his usual bitter snap, his words bore only frustration when speaking to the dragoon.
“Still trying to repress the memory.”
The other man directed a smile down at the asphalt. “This is partially my fault. He lost a bet, and this is the result. Not my suggestion,” he assured. “There are some things that aren’t meant to be seen, and that’s one of them. I’m drinking myself blind if I don’t actually go blind first.”
He would support Kiernan in most things, just not dressing in women’s clothes, even for a bet.
“Hm. If I go blind, I’m blaming you.” Ophion chuckled, though it sounded as if he was stifling the laugh by clearing his throat.
Lavitz, in his place, laughed under his breath. He did deserve that. If he hadn’t spotted Kiernan at the game, this might have never happened, and their eyesight might’ve been saved. But nothing, not even booze, would erase the mental scars. There was too much to be horrified about to think otherwise.
He adjusted his hands, shifting in place. “I recommend a lot of alcohol.” There was a smile to follow. “Whether or not you go blind, I could owe you a drink. But not here or tonight, unless you feel like going back in.” And he did doubt Ophion would risk such damage to his soul.