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Even before cutting herself off from most of life’s pleasures, Lara had only visited the Broken Heart on rare occasions. She preferred to live without engaging with aggressive amoralists such as Andrey Stamatin, and besides, she almost never found herself craving any type of inebriation. The last time she’d been there it had been to extract a very drunk Grief from the scene at the behest of one of his men. When asked, the goon who had pounded on her door shrugged helplessly: “he asked for you, s’all I know.” She’d retrieved Grief, picked up his tab for him, and taken her leave promptly after noticing the Herb Bride dancing for the patrons.
So exploitative, she thought as Grief stumbled up the stairs beside her, music pulsing below them. Cub would be horrified.
Grief had slept over at the Shelter, promising to explain why he’d asked for her in the morning. Of course, he’d been gone before she’d awoken — she’d expected nothing different.
That had been before her father died. Since the execution, when the pain became too much, she’d occasionally pondered entering the pub for a bottle of twyrine and a night of numbness; however, she always found herself turning away at the door, guilt at even considering the prospect eating away at her gut.
But now, in the aftermath of the Sand Pest, Lara didn’t care anymore. She found herself walking briskly towards the Factory after wishing Artemy a good night at the gate to the Burakh family home (bittersweet — how many times did I do that before he left?). The last twelve days had contained enough agonizing lucidity for a lifetime. Maybe she’d indulge in self-medication for once.
The brunette wrapped her cardigan tighter around her shoulders as she slipped into the pub, closing the heavy metal door behind her. The air was heavy with presence and smelled of twyrine, but there was a notable lack of noise coming from the lower levels of the building. Teetering between relief at the silence and numb grief at the knowledge of why the typically-swarming pub was so quiet, Lara descended the stairs.
She paused at the bottom, scouring the bar for familiar faces. She saw Andrey sitting with Peter on the couch closest to the bar, heads bowed together and speaking in whispers. The Bachelor’s coat was hung over the back of the same couch, but Dankovsky himself was nowhere in sight. On the table in front of them lay a concerning amount of twyrine bottles, along with an ashtray close to spilling over. Other than the twins, the pub was empty save for the usual bartender, solemnly polishing a glass — even the dancing Bride was nowhere to be found.
Both Stamatins noticed her in the same moment, looking at her with identical bewildered expressions. She considered attempting a smile, but quickly backtracked when she thought about how pathetic it would look.
“Are you open for business? I’d hate to be intrusive,” she settled on asking. Andrey simply jerked his head towards the bartender without a word, too exhausted to spare her any of his typical antics.
Just as Lara approached the bartender, she heard a mild voice from the top of the stairs that made her freeze.
“Andrey, I got Dankovsky and Angel home. Mind if I hang around for a bit before calling it a night?”
Lara cursed inwardly, turning around to see Yulia Lyuricheva leaning over the railing, unlit cigarette idle between long fingers and attention focused towards the twins. She looked tired, but Yulia always looked tired. Other than the dark circles under her eyes, she looked no worse for wear than the last time they had spoken, months ago in the parlor of the Shelter.
(Well, perhaps “spoken” wasn’t quite right. It was more akin to Lara yelling at Yulia as she stood there, quiet and unrepentant, before slipping away when Lara turned away to retrieve her handkerchief, and Lara crying for days and days upon the realization that the two of them had been balancing on the precipice of something great but that she ruined it, as always, just like I knew I would.)
Realizing that she couldn’t leave without walking past the other woman, Lara resigned herself to an awkward confrontation and turned back to the bartender. She politely requested a glass of wine, deciding against twyrine — if Lyuricheva was going to be around, she didn’t want to risk any humiliation at the hands of herbal hallucinogens. He gave her a tired and professional smile as he poured her glass, before ducking into the back room.
The smell of cigarette smoke was getting closer. Lara nervously twirled the dark red alcohol around in her glass, taking a delicate sip and forcing herself to continue looking across the bar. Maybe if she didn’t engage or acknowledge her, Yulia would simply let her drink in peace.
“Fancy seeing you here.”
Dammit.
Lara hesitantly turned to meet Yulia’s slightly amused gaze, and then immediately looked down, willing her heart to leave her throat. She’d nearly forgotten just how pretty the blonde’s eyes were, gray and green with the faintest hint of blue in the right lighting.
At this time last year, she had been unable to go a day without daydreaming about them twinkling with mirth, darkened with thought, wide with attention. Now, they just made the pit in her stomach yawn and expand.
Yulia gestured at the seat next to Lara. “Would I be intruding if I sat with you for a moment?”
“No, not at all,” Lara said without thinking, surprising herself. She cursed her courtesy as Yulia took a step closer.
The other woman hummed mildly and lowered herself into the seat, resting one hand on her knee and using the other to bring her cigarette (now lit) to her lips, inhaling gently. She looked at Lara, expectant but gentle.
Lara felt her heart thudding in her chest. The combined smell of cigarette smoke and Yulia’s cologne — made for men in the Capital, she had explained once — was driving her insane, reminding her of the afternoons the two of them had spent discussing literature and philosophy over tea. Though Yulia had the courtesy to not smoke in the Shelter, the smell of tobacco had always hung to her like a flame’s companionable moth. She would lean over the table to point something out in the transcription of Descartes’ Meditations and her musky scent would cause Lara’s cheeks to flush until she could barely respond coherently to whatever point the mathematician was making.
Speaking of looking like a fool, Lara realized she’d been staring for a few moments too long. She turned away, mumbling an apology.
“For what?” Yulia prodded, neutral in her tone as ever.
Lara shrugged helplessly, moody and unsure.
“You don’t need to apologize for looking at me. I hope I don’t look too much of a mess,” Yulia continued, trying to sound lighthearted.
“You don’t,” Lara said flatly, staring into the distorted reflection of her wine glass.
“Good to hear it.”
The two women sat in silence for a moment. Lara couldn’t tell if it was tense or companionable or some fucked up combination of the two. She shifted uncomfortably, trying to think of something to say.
“I’m—“ she started, before swallowing and taking a larger swing of her wine. “I’m not entirely sure what happened to you in the last two weeks, but I’m glad you made it through.”
Yulia nodded, a small smile gracing her lips. “You as well.”
Lara bit back a nervous laugh. I wouldn’t exactly say I made it through.
Fiddling with her loose strands of hair, she looked around the room again. The Stamatin twins were still sitting together in the corner, completely absorbed in their own world of grief. The bartender had re-emerged from the back room and was now sweeping the floor, likely anticipating that the pub had seen its last guests for the night.
“How is the Trammel?” Lara asked before cringing. What an idiotic question.
Yulia didn’t seem to notice. “It’s fine. The Kains would say that it is fulfilling its purpose perfectly. It gets a bit drafty at night, though, so I’m not inclined to enthusiastically agree.”
Lara found herself stifling a genuine chuckle for the first time in months. Yulia had attempted to explain the Kains’ frankly nonsensical philosophies about buildings before, during their get-togethers. She had tried to remain respectful of her former employers and their ideals, but could be easily coerced into making fun of their more idiosyncratic beliefs given just a bit of pushing, which Lara loved to do. The two of them would end up giggling like schoolgirls as Yulia recounted the absolutely insane business meetings she’d had while planning the Town’s new roads.
Yulia smiled at Lara’s contained laughter before taking another drag from her cigarette. The silence between them was companionable this time, Lara found herself deciding. It made her a bit more bold.
“I’ve missed you,” she began nervously, playing with her hair again.
Yulia turned to her, tilting her head. Lara held her breath.
“The feeling is mutual,” Yulia replied, slow and wary.
Lara exhaled, deciding to just continue. Fuck it, right?
“I know the last time we spoke wasn’t ideal, and I still resent the way you presented my grief, but, um, in retrospect, you were more correct than I gave you credit for.” Lara cursed herself for stuttering.
“You were as well,” Yulia said, quiet and somewhat sheepish.
“I definitely do approach helping people selfishly, and tend to prescribe meaning to pain in a way that has only become more apparent over this past week. And I think it was unfair of me to be so upset with you for pointing out that my actions aren’t always congruent with my ethics,” Lara continued in a rush, desperate to be done with it.
Yulia hummed, thoughtful and anxious in a way that Lara hadn’t seen since their bickering over Hegel last spring. “I was an utter asshole about it, though. And you have a right to hold that against me.”
Lara shook her head, more vehement than she’d intended. Shit. Maybe the wine is getting to me.
Yulia held up a finger, seeming to expect an interruption. When Lara remained quiet, she continued: “Besides, you were right about my philosophy being limited. My calculations can do a lot, but—“ she swallowed— “they cannot predict everything, and I think that the Pest is the most potent example of that exception.”
Nodding yet again, the brunette looked to her now-empty glass. Before thinking about it too much, she reached over and patted Yulia’s knee, awkwardly. Yulia paused before tapping out her cigarette and resting her hand on top of Lara’s. Her face burst into flames.
“Um. How have you been? How are you coping with everything?” Lara mumbled, horribly embarrassed and looking away.
The blonde woman sighed. “I attempt to keep things in perspective. I’m alive, which is more than what many could say for themselves.”
Lara laughed bitterly before she could stop herself. “I’m not even sure I’m happy I survived.”
Cringing immediately at her vulnerability, Lara fell silent. Yulia turned back to her but stayed quiet, raising her eyebrow and waiting for Lara to continue, idly playing with the shorter woman’s fingers beneath her own.
She wants to hear what I have to say, Lara realized. I don’t think she’ll be judgmental.
And so, with the help of a buzz of liquid courage, she launched herself forward.
“Sometimes I just feel as though I don’t deserve to be alive when so many capable, courageous people have died. I used to have so much to live for, and I feel as though everything with meaning has left, which is part of why I wanted so badly for my suffering to mean something.” Lara blinked, feeling unexpected tears well up in her eyes. “I… I see everybody as this dead end, and it’s not even because of any sort of hatred. It’s just an intense feeling that my life is over and that nothing I do will ever have any consequence, and I cannot help but project that onto others so I can pity somebody other than myself.”
The bravery wore off. Yulia seemed concerned and shocked. Lara was surprised herself — she hadn’t even vocalized these feelings mentally, let alone to anybody else. She laughed nervously, using her hand not being cradled in Yulia’s to wipe away tears from her eyes.
“That was part of why I was so hurt by what you said. I, um, was kind of beginning to feel as though you might not be a lost cause, for a number of reasons—“ her face heated up— “and when you told me off for my entire mentality I just sort of shut down. And I’m sorry for that. And I’m sorry, just, in general. For being this way and for spilling all of this on you the instant you give me a modicum of attention, but, um, you make me feel very comfortable, and I felt like the two of us were connecting in a special way back then, and I haven’t felt that way ever before, and I’m just cowardly and—“
Lara was cut off by a hand on the curve of her jaw tilting her head towards the blonde woman. She blinked away more tears. Yulia looked soft and gentle, and pained in a way that spoke volumes. In that moment, they were two sides of the same mirror, reaching out from behind glass in a desperate effort to feel something again. Lara couldn’t imagine being torn from her ever again.
As though reading her mind, Yulia leaned in and pressed a warm kiss to her lips. It was simple, quick, and perfect.
“Let’s be cowards together, then.”