Chapter Text
Imogen wonders, not for the first time today, if this is a mistake.
She is looking up at the building across the street, a six-stories apartment complex made of dark brick and metallic railings. Some of the windows are open, letting in the late morning breeze in what it’s still a warm day in early Fessuran, the autumn chill slowly making its way to replace the suffocating hot days of the summer in the Oderan Wilds. She can see an old lady gently watering the plants in her balcony whilst making small talk with a man, not much older than Imogen and still in his pajamas, as he smokes in one of the adjacent balconies.
Imogen’s attention goes back to the small scrap of paper with the name and address of her destination written in the soft cursive calligraphy of her new roommate. Glancing back to the building, she checks again if she’s in the right place - the big neon sign above the establishment’s front door and windows that reads Spire by Fire tells her that she is. The establishment, a fairly old bar that seems to maintain its punk-rock origins if the posters and decorative motifs that Imogen can see from where she stands are anything to go by, occupies most of the street level floor.
Usually, she wouldn’t frequent a place like this. It’s not that she has something against punk-rock or grungy bars specifically, it’s more that she’s prone to migraines and getting generally overwhelmed in crowded spaces like these. Not that there were many places like this back in a small town like Gelvaan. Nor has she ever had anyone to go to this kind of place with, anyway. Imogen winces at this last thought, choosing to take a deep breath to try and undo the nervous knot slowly forming in the pit of her stomach instead of dwelling on it too much. She isn’t here to enjoy herself in a loud bar anyway, but to find a job in the aforementioned loud bar. Imogen winces a second time. She just needs this to last her a couple months, or at least enough time that she can find another job that pays her something decent and allows her to keep working the early morning shifts at the Rapid Path Stables - the other part-time job she has managed to land barely over a week ago.
She can do this. She’s done bartending before, Imogen tells herself. If it gets too loud she can always buy herself a pair of those inconspicuous noise canceling ear plugs she’s seen ads for on her social media. It’s going to work just fine.
It’s another five minutes before she crosses the street and walks in.
She gets a short tour of the place by someone named Ashton, a few years older than Imogen and with an intimidating frame and fashion choice that almost made her turn around and walk right out the door before she’d even finished walking in. But they had stopped her with a rumbling “ Hey! You need something? ” that had made Imogen too embarrassed to walk out without saying something.
“Y-Yeah. I saw that y’all needed someone to help with the bartending. Well, actually, my roommate is the one that told be that y- I’m not even sure if yall still need someon-'' Imogen had forced herself to stop stammering and rambling and just take a darn breath, to end up just letting out a somewhat weary “I just want the job if it’s still available.”
The burly employee had waited a couple seconds before putting down the wooden lidless crate they were carrying and letting out an amused chuckle, their hand momentarily caressing through the gelled up, purple mohawk they were rocking. “ Sure. Ishir ain’t here, so I guess I’ll do the interview .”
Now, after the short tour where Imogen had been able to learn that the place is surprisingly well taken cared off and clean - or as clean as it probably can get before losing its grungy charm - and that it also has a basement with more tables and a small stage for live music, she and Ashton are sitting in one of the wooden stalls of the first floor. Imogen’s résumé, which she had printed a few copies of a couple weeks ago, lays on the table between them. Although Ashton showed no interest in it past knowing she has some actual working experience, barely glancing at it when she had first handed it to them.
“You will have to work most weekends, that’s when we are most crowded and stay open the latest, but we close on Miresens so you’ll be able to recover then. Usually, you’ll have to work one shift a day, five days a week, but if you need to rearrange a shift or two and make up for it later, you can talk to Ishir about it - the Gods know how we’ve found a fucking employer that actually cares about his workers’ wellbeings in this shitty town but we have.” Ashton explains, their fists hitting the table to emphasize the last phrase. “Anyway, most nights are pretty chill, the regulars and the students from Starpoint University that don’t have morning classes - or don’t care about attending them with a hangover - usually don’t cause much of a ruckus. It’s when the weekend hits that some asshole always drinks too much or gets too invigorated by the music and tries to start something. Usually the mere sight of Ishir or Kalliyan takes care of that, though.”
Imogen has some experience with rude and overly handsy patrons, having worked in Gevaan’s one and only bar in the seasons where work was slow at Faramore’s ranch and her father and her had needed a bit of extra income to make ends meet. She hated it there. Men old enough to be her grandfather ogling her and making non-stop innuendos and, worst of all, her old classmates from school with the same funny looks and humiliating remarks that they had directed at her every school year since she was barely ten up until her highschool senior graduation.
But here there are no old classmates to poke fun of the town weirdo, Imogen reminds herself. Probably only pervy patrons that she can keep away and students that will hopefully be too busy getting stammered to the beat of punk music to form any sort of opinion of her. This last point makes her ask, trying to sound as neutral as possible and not let her aversion shine through.
“You said there’s live music, is that every day or only on weekends?”
“We do that almost everyday, some bands do regular weekly gigs here. We also have some amateur, open mic sort of nights.” Ashton responds, and as much as Imogen tries to hide the involuntary wince her face makes for a fraction of a second at the thought of loud music on top of loud patrons on a nightly basis, Ashton sees right through it. “Why? Is that a problem?”
“N-No, I-” Imogen starts the lie but stops herself not even more than a couple words in. There is something in Ashton's expression - who, at first had come off to Imogen as intimidating and a bit crude - that makes the question sound genuine, like they actually care if Imogen is uncomfortable with it, further than the fact that they probably don’t want to hire someone ill-fitting for the job. And that’s weird, Imogen thinks. It should be weird, right? That this random bartender should care about the feelings of a random girl who just walked in on a random day asking for a job. Imogen somehow gets that Ashton would rather have the truth over a complaisant lie and they’re giving her the opportunity to be honest.
“I... I just get migraines sometimes... and then things can get a bit overwhelming. But it’s been like this most of my life so I won’t let it affect my work, I promise. I have worked in bars before and I never let it be an issue,” she hopes they believe her, after all she wouldn’t have come this far if she wasn’t willing to bite the bullet. “I’m just trying to save up enough for school next semester and I kinda need this job right now.” She begs as much as her pride lets her, the shitty and for the most part fruitless search of a job that she has endured for the past couple weeks getting her closer to the verge of actual desperation - but not quite there yet.
Ashton stays silent for a moment, their expression unreadable enough that Imogen’s leg starts nervously shaking a bit under the table and she's about to make peace with the fact that they’re trying to find the words to turn her down as gently as possible. But the negative never comes.
“Listen Imogen, I’m not sure if this is your place. But I wanna believe you when you say that you’ll try your damn best. And hell if I don’t get needing to torture yourself to make ends meet.” They say, a soft sigh escaping their lips, shoulders deflating a little.
Imogen hasn’t known this person for half an hour but there’s something in the intent look in their face that tells her that they see her, that they know what they’re talking about when they relate to her. There is something deeply uncomfortable in facing the fact that she’s more transparent than she’d like, if a complete stranger has been able to guess at the weight behind her words. There is also some comfort that makes her feel a little less alone.
“Here’s what we're going to do.” Ashton’s voice turns softer, kinder. “I’ll talk to the boss today. If he agrees, I’ll send you the paperwork tomorrow and you can start the next day. We’ll do a trial period, a couple weeks at most. Make sure you can and wanna handle it. If you can, and decide to stay, then I’ll make sure you can get as many early shifts on the top floor as possible - here’s quieter than downstairs.” They explain, pierced eyebrows arching questioningly and a slight tug of a smile. “What do ya think?”
Imogen thinks that if it weren’t so unacceptable she might get up and crush their punk ass in the biggest thankful hug ever. But she controls herself and settles for trying to blink away the sting of tears that Ashton’s kindness leaves in her eyes.
She’s grateful that the Spire by Fire is close enough to her new place in the Core District that she doesn’t need to take one of those cable cars. She’s never been a fan of heights and so far the daily ones she’s been taking, mostly to go work at the Rapid Pace Stables, have left her each time with a white-knuckled grip on the holding bars and wishing she had skipped breakfast.
When she turns the key and opens the door of her apartment, she’s met with the smell of spices and something cooking and the soft hum of music playing coming from the kitchen. Here, in the luminous, plant-filled and warmly decorated hallway of her shared home, she lets herself breath and relax for a second. Rolling her shoulders back a couple times to try and release some of the tension she has been accumulating since before leaving for Jrusar. It doesn’t work and a flash of a memory - she and her father yelling at each other, the slamming of doors - crosses her brain like lightning, leaves a foul taste in her mouth and makes Imogen’s heart writhe in a painful way.
“Imogen is that you?” Orym’s voice coming from the kitchen makes the miniature black cloud of misery that Imogen is sure was starting to form above her head disperse and she wills her body to resume movement.
“Hi, yes.” She says, shaking her head as if to physically make her thoughts go away, before she unties the laces of her boots and leaves them under the bench right next to the door. She pads in lilac colored socks through the hallway and into the kitchen, where Orym is pouring the contents of a sizzling pan into a big bowl.
One thing that Imogen has learnt during her short time here is that Orym is an amazing cook. Even the simplest, two-step recipes of cutting fruit and putting it in a bowl with some yogurt somehow tastes better when Orym does it. Imogen is a handy cook herself, having been the one providing in that aspect for herself and her dad for the better part of two decades, but she still finds it comforting when the shorter man cooks for her and their other roommate, Fearne. So she’s sure that what seems like a spiced up version of a Ceasar salad must taste even better than it smells.
“Are you hungry? I wasn’t sure when you’d be back, but I made enough for you just in case, if you want some.” Orym says, glancing up at her while he does the finishing touches on the dish. After an affirmative nod and a polite thank you from Imogen, he pulls two smaller wooden bowls from one of the cabinets and starts filling them.
Imogen quickly makes herself useful by grabbing a couple of forks and filling two glasses with cold water from the fridge before setting them down on the small square table. She pulls out one of the four chairs before sitting down, keeping busy by wiping her glasses with the hem of the blouse she’s wearing until Orym sets the bowls and sits down in front of her.
“So... How was the interview?” He asks, his expression and tone making it clear that he doesn’t wanna pry - and is trying to not make it sound like too big of a deal in case it went horribly wrong.
“Um... it went well, actually,” Imogen finishes chewing on a piece of chicken - she was right, it’s delicious - and swallows it before continuing. “The people there seemed pretty nice and the guy offered a trial to see if I am a good fit and if I like it there. And you were right, the place seems alright and the pay is not too bad.”
“Oh, that’s good! I’m sure you’ll do great!” Orym says, encouragingly. Objectively, Imogen knows that there is no way he knows if she’ll do good after only knowing her for a couple of weeks, but he seems earnest in his delight at the good news and Imogen is grateful for that. This unearned support also makes her a little bit shy and she can feel the tips of her ears getting hot.
He had been the one who had recommended the job, after finding her in the kitchen frustratingly going through job searching webs in her barely functioning laptop for the third morning in a row. Although, at first, Imogen’d thought he was only trying to help in the hopes of stopping her bad vibes from ruining his yoga and green smoothie morning routine, he actually seemed to care when later he’d looked up and jotted down the address of the place for her. Apparently, he and Fearne had gone to the Spire a few times after work with some of his co-workers from the dance studio and it had made a good impression.
They go on to talk about more trivial things after that; like if Imogen needs anything from the supermarket run Orym is planning to do after he gets out of work tonight or that Fearne had told him she was planning on doing a movie night that weekend and had asked if Imogen would join them - yes, she would. A night-in with her nice roommates sounded way more pleasant than staying holed-in in her room wallowing on her actions of moving away to an unfamiliar city with little more than a short-term plan and barely enough savings for a couple months worth of rent.
The truth is that Imogen knows she had been extremely lucky when she found the ad Orym and Fearne had posted on a house-sharing website, not even an hour before they had too, which had made her one of the first people to respond to it. They had seemed nice enough and the rent wasn’t high by any means - the only catch was that the stay would be only temporary until their third roommate, Dorian, came back from touring the continent with his band. But to Imogen, who knew to never look a gift horse in the mouth and was in a rush to get as far as she could from Gelvaan as soon as possible, it had seemed like a small miracle.
Soon enough, she had hopped a bus, and then another and another, that had taken her, her backpack and her only suitcase away from the Taloned Highlands and north to Jrusar.
When she had arrived there, she had gotten lost a few times before finding the apartment. Jrusar, even without it being the biggest metropolis in Marquet, is by far the biggest city Imogen has ever been in. The sometimes vertical layout of the city and different districts had left her confused - they still do - and her phone battery had inconveniently died just after she had taken the wrong table car for the second time. Fortunately, a group of teenagers, of all people, had taken pity on her and gave her the directions she needed to find Orym and Fearne’s flat in the Core District.
Her new roommates were waiting for her, even though she was late - on account of getting lost - and had given no heads up on the fact that she was late - on account of her phone dying -. Still they were eager to welcome her and give her a little tour of the place. It was little more than a small living room, a smaller kitchen, their three individual bedrooms and a singular bathroom they all shared. There was also a fire escape, accessible from the living room window, that was just big enough for Orym to do his morning yoga exercises in.
It had been beautifully decorated too, most furniture a mix between simpler, more practical and cheaper stuff from Ikea and eclectic, way older and more intricately decorated pieces. The whole mix should clash more, but it doesn’t. She’d learnt that the old-timey pieces were mostly Fearne’s doing, who, as it turns out, works in an antique shop where she can get for herself what they don’t sell. There were also plants on top of almost every surface and all kinds of trinkets all throughout the place - most were Fearne’s, and when Imogen had curiously asked about a couple of them, Fearne had just shrugged, winked at her and said “ They’re from my travels ” in a way that can only be described as impish and that had left Imogen utterly confused but with the vague feeling that she probably shouldn’t ask more about it. In case she had to claim plausible deniability or something of the sort in the future.
Imogen's room is still pretty much bare more than two weeks later; a modern, comfy bed under the window and a desk next to it, with a tall closet next to the door and a full body mirror with an old, fancy looking frame jammed on the wall in between the closet and the foot of the bed. The only real decorations are the polaroid picture of Flora she had stuck in the right top corner of the mirror, a lavender scented candle she had bought for herself in her first week and now is the sole occupant of the shelf above her desk, and the lilac flowers Orym and Fearne had given her as a welcome gift.
“It matches your hair. We saw it in your profile pic,” Fearne explained when they had shown her her room and the small bouquet had been already waiting for her in a baby blue vase on the nightstand. “ You are not allergic to them, aren’t you? We figured you weren’t because you had seen all the pics from the apartment and still decided to move in.”
Thus far, Orym and Fearne have been great roommates, fun and welcoming and kind enough to not pry into whatever was going on in Imogen's life that made her suddenly move to Jrusar. She does her best to reciprocate by being an agreeable roommate and making sure she doesn’t turn into a reclusive, bitter human being by getting into her own head too much and wallowing about the things in her life that have gone wrong. Things that she’s been trying to keep together with rope and duct tape until the pressure building for two decades had proven to be too much and they had come crashing down on her. So far, they seem happy to try and gently and slowly coax her out of her shell and - although she’s still not fully conscious of this yet - she’s starting to let them.
Imogen isn’t fully accustomed to the whole experience of people actually caring about her - apart from Relvin, and that's a whole thing in itself - or really just people continuously being nice to her yet. So when Orym turns to her after they have finished putting the dirty dishes away as he’s about to leave for work, a duffel bag hanging from his shoulder and an intent look in his eyes, and tells her “ to text him if she needs anything from the supermarket. Or if she just needs anything, ” Imogen has to thank him through the lump that suddenly forms in her throat.
Approximately ten minutes pass before she no longer feels like she might start crying any minute.