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Hiiiii... (A soft hiccup.) Fiiiiiveee.... Heeey... It’s... mee... (Sedate pause.) Vanya. You know. Sistur... Person... Thing... Umm. (Laughs, or giggles moreso.) Okay! I misshyou. I dunno why I’m like, here... at Rodeo Tap... and drinkin all this shtupid beer, like, it doesn’t taste good. It tastes like someone mixtin bread crust and... and toothpaste... (Long pause.) I miss you so much. I think you’re the only (Second hiccup.) one that would make this feel, like... normal. Oh, shi— (Rustling, clattering, static and movement, and then her giggles again as she yells “SORRY FIVE” and fumbles, presumably, to hang up.)
Five stares at his phone with an unreadable expression, then the fabric of reality bends and he is gone.
—
She wasn’t kidding. He has no idea why she’s at Rodeo Tap, either, and the whole place does in fact smell like old yeast amidst the tantalizing fragrance of tobacco, hay, and general decay of humanity.
Five is frowning as he carefully sidesteps a bale with a couple sucking face on it.
He tries, and only fails slightly, not to look like a semi-crazy person scouring the bar for his pseudo-sibling. But it only takes a few moments.
Vanya Hargreeves is sitting at a bar, looking not actually that out of place, spare the somewhat meek, unsure aura that seems to radiate from her awkward bones. Aside from that — she’s in flannel, and jeans, and... her hair is in a high ponytail?
But nobody is bothering her.
Five strolls up to the counter, unfazed by the constituents of the country pub as he leans on the lacquered, almost-sticky wood. The bartender, obviously an old-hand at the place, gives him a nod in return to his own, and he’s handed a cold beer a moment later.
With one smooth motion, he leans the head of it against the edge, and cracks his palm against it. The bottle cap sings away — a broken neck; a ricocheting bullet.
He doesn’t spill a drop. Only one long swig is taken before he breathes in, steels himself, and walks up to his sort-of-sister.
“Hey,” he says, just beside where her baby hairs cusp her ear. She’s hazy from her drinking endeavors and apparent lamentations, and maybe she didn’t think he’d actually come — but he’s here, and her small gasp is so sharp and soft under the blanket of background noise, cutting straight to his soul. He restrains a smile. “Come here often?”
“Five!”
She swats at him once, misses by a mile, but her smile is big enough for both of them, so big he almost feels guilty for repressing his own. Instead, he catches her by the wrist, gently places it back on the countertop.
“Vanya,” he answers simply. “Is this a new personal challenge? Trying to pull off a square dance in his hellhole while you’re en route to a hangover?”
Her eyes narrow at him, though not that unkindly. Normally dealing with anyone drinking while he’s sober is one of his worst nightmares, but it really, really shouldn’t come as a surprise anymore that watching the gears turn a little sluggishly in her head, her cheeks flushed pink and skin just a touch dewy from the heat of the room, the delay in her trying to figure out words, all just screams endearing and he wants to punch himself in the throat.
“You askin’ t’dance with me?” She counters instead. Leave it to Vanya to accidentally flirt with him while intoxicated.
“That can be arranged,” he says evenly, “but I’ll tell you right now, I don’t know how to square dance, and I love you, but nothing you say or do will convince me to learn.”
Vanya blinks. Again, it takes extra time for her to process, but he can’t quite make sense of her expression; there’s something open and vulnerable about it, her glazed eyes big and wide and suffocating on his own. How does she do that? How the fuck does she do anything she does to him?
Shut up, he tells himself. Not right now. Now is not the time to have an existential crisis over his feelings towards his—
Slender, tight arms wrap around his waist like corset laces. Against his button-up is a warm, warm face, pressed into the curve of his sternum, nose just over his heart, and Vanya looks like she’s about to fall off the stool. Quickly, Five steps in closer, automatic — his own hands slip around her, bracing her to ensure she doesn’t topple.
“I love you too.” He barely makes out her muffled voice, barely survives the pang of adrenaline that explodes down his spine in a long domino chain of chills, effusive heat. He has to act normal. He just stays very still, hands unmoving against her shoulder blades, grateful in every way neither of them can see the look on his face.
Her chin shifts up, and she peeks at him, just under her eyelashes. He’ll never know if that look is intentional.
“Would you learn it if — hic — the world was’ending ‘nd I asked you to?”
The question is a metaphorical avalanche of ice through his soul. If she feels him go ramrod in her embrace, she doesn’t say anything, and Five recovers just enough to quell the panicked, frantic emergency systems that had just gone off in his head. He’s rational; she can’t know. It was just a joke. He’s overreacting.
Carefully, he allows one hand to come to rest on her head; he pets across the soft, messy strands, smoothing them down and down, over and over. “Yes.”
“But you jussaid you would never! Li-ar.”
“I said I’d learn if the world was ending. The world is not ending, and will not end. So, my statement is still true.”
“Mm.”
“Don’t believe me?”
“No.” Pause. Nimble, tenable fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt behind his back, clutching handfuls into her fists. “I believe you. M’just drunk.”
The sound of his own abrupt laughter surprises himself, taken off-guard by her blunt confession. Unthinking, he pulls her a little tighter against him, one corner of his mouth pulled up stubbornly with mirth. “Okay. Good. I’m glad we’ve reached an understanding.”
“Mmm,” she hums again into his ribs. “So do I get other sh— suspe— special priv’leges if the world is ending? Hyperthetically.”
A heavy sigh heaves from his chest. Stubborn girl. Stubborn, intoxicated, precious girl. “Sure. Whatever you want. But,” Five hesitates, choosing his words meticulously, even for his own peace of paranoid, throttled mind. Sometimes arguably what was left of it. “I have a better offer for you.”
From the corner of his eye, he sees the bartender again on their side of the bar — smoothly and silently, he mouths for water with Vanya none the wiser. Content, Five continues before she decides to interrupt him. “So. Instead of waiting for... the apocalypse, how about we live nice, long lives, and that way you’ll have all the time in the world to convince me to wrongfully broaden my horizons.”
Funny how he can just feel her smile, even like this.
“Promise?”
There’s an odd, dozy instant where Five is dropped into what seems like an episode of déjà vu, a flashback, a memory, all of it triggered by the way her question had come out. For that one moment, she had sounded like she was so much younger, so much smaller — like they were both ten again and she was making him promise to come see her after he finished his private lessons. It winds him.
“Promise,” he says, his voice more strained and reverent than he’d intended or expected; a rare flush of warmth crawls up his throat. Thoughtlessly, he transitions from stroking her hair to gently tugging away the hair tie, combing through the strands to neaten them and redo her disheveled ponytail. He liked it higher up. He thought her neck was pretty.
“Much better,” he murmurs, mostly for himself. The timing is perfect; a glass of cold water is placed by his beer with a nod, and Five quickly pulls out his wallet to toss him a bill that is far too big to close their tabs for the night. He ignores the grateful look on the man’s face; he’s gone through enough of the human gamut of emotions today.
Vanya lingers around him for another minute. Maybe if he knew anyone here he’d pry her off sooner — but he doesn’t mind, and sometimes she needed to be spoiled after all the things she has, and has not, gone through. To have Vanya hugging him in a bar, drunk and happy, was more of a privilege than anyone could fathom.
But she’s drunk. And undoubtedly going to be feeling it in the morning.
“Alright, alright, sit up,” he sighs, dragging her up and taking care not to be rough about it. “Drink some water. At least half the glass. I’m gonna finish my beer and then we’re getting out of here.”
Of course she whines, and pouts, and it’s all half-hearted and coy and cute and ridiculous, but obediently, she drinks from the glass as Five gives her a dry look and takes a long swig from his own.
It’s absolutely fucking impossible to take his eyes off her. It’s only maybe twenty minutes before he finishes off his bottle, foam sitting at the bottom as he clinks it back on the counter, but she works on her water, and slowly sobers up just a little bit around the edges — and they talk about if the countryside or the city is better, and the physics of liquids, and a little about their day, and a little about everything and anything she pleases. Every second of it he spends captivated by the the contours of her neck and throat, newly exposed by that godforsaken ponytail. She’s so animated when she talks, unburdened by her own perceived faults and doubts, the pressure of their siblings and the rest of the world. And the world is terrible, to be sure — there is so much bad in it sometimes he thinks he really did make a mistake — but Vanya’s hands are swishing through the air between them, and her eyes are the colour of whiskey, and her smiles makes him feel inwardly giddy and nauseous in a way that can never be replicated.
It's worth it.