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Shylock was simply enchanting. Sitting across the bar, he watched delicate fingers tuck in loose strands of hair, dark eyelashes fallen on soft cheeks as he cleaned a glass. As much as Murr hated to admit it, Shylock was his favorite subject - after his dear Calamity, of course -, and he observed closely, following the lines of his jaw and the dusty pink on his lips. That night, rather than debate personal philosophies, the two of them remained in silence for hours, giving Murr ample time to watch every furrow of his thin eyebrows, every twitch of his almond eyes when the philospher's gaze strayed toward the window, and every shrug of his shoulders when his pale hands grew tired from their work. He could've easily handled the task with magic, Murr noted, and yet he preferred to wash and rub each glass individually, uncaring of if the labor left the soft pads of his fingers rough and dry.
He was suddenly overcome with the urge to pull the glass away, and press his lips against each manicured nail, relieving Shylock of an admittedly simple task with an utterly embarrassing show of affection. He shook away the thought and left for the couch, stretching over the plush cushions like a cat. The other wizard barely spared him a glance, though after he had finished another glass, he stepped towards the window and pulled the velvet curtains closed. The candles dimmed, and as Murr dozed off, a pair of soft lips pressed a kiss against his forehead.
A month later, Murr returned to Bennett Bar at exactly five in the morning, expecting an empty establishment and a single bartender methodically cleaning wine glasses behind the counter. His latest work had him bent over a desk and recording properties of unknown Eastern gems for days on end, so the relaxation felt deserved. Rather, when he entered, it was completely dark, with Shylock nowhere in sight. Perhaps he was on vacation today, or maybe he had gone home early. Instead of leaving, Murr hauled himself onto a plush red barstool, focused on a wine glass hanging on a rack. It was the sixth to the right, glimmering and freshly cleaned. Shylock received it years ago from a sickly craftsman, Murr remembered. When he cleaned it, how long had his trained hands rubbed over the glass, sharp eyes watching for the slightest scratch, the last remaining stain of wine? Pale moonlight beamed through the room, revealing dancing flecks of dust left on the cup. Murr watched each one, entranced, as though they were the stars he watched from his telescope for hours on end, as though they held some deeper secret that he had somehow not yet discovered.
He turned to the window. The Calamity was at its most beautiful in this hour, hanging full and unobstructed in the starry sky. The warm sea kept Western Country temperate in the winter, in perfect condition for flowers to already begin blooming with spring a month away. Murr should begin collecting samples to compare with the years before; despite what the public thought, research was a frightening tedious task. Studying the effects of his fair Catastrophe involved weeks of graphing the slightest changes in fruit blossom sizes before and after her flare ups. Alas, it was the mundane he appreciated most. The silent nights basking in her presence were the most memorable, a small joy in mapping every crater and ridge three times over from his place by the telescope. Tonight was ideal for such a task, and yet he could not explain why he spent these precious hours in a deserted bar, miles from his nearest observatory.
Shylock would not arrive tonight. From the state of the building, he would likely not arrive for several days, when Murr would already be knee-deep in his research. He had a feeling of what the man was up to on his trip, based on the letters he'd seen strewn over his bedside table last week. Anyway, he was set for his own trip in a few weeks time, some visit to study a deadly Northern forest he'd had his eyes on for a while. He hadn't been able to get close while Oz and Figaro raged through the place, but their recent falling out provided ample opportunity for research. He wasn't particularly intimidated by either, but their ridiculous campaign had made his work so much more frustrating, and who'd want to run into Shylock's fling while mapping the auroras?
Murr pushed his built up annoyance aside and yawned. If he inhaled deep enough, he could smell traces of smoke mixed with the faintest perfume. If he let himself imagine, he could see Shylock spraying it on before a shift, and maybe he could pretend it was the one Murr purchased from an elderly woman in South and gave to the bartender as a gift four years ago. It was utterly humiliating how the emptiness could have him picturing things that were not there, yet he spent the rest of the night tethered to the untended bar, as if expecting someone to enter.
A year later, Murr returned again. This time, Shylock was there. He entered just before closing, as the last few drunk wizards dragged themselves past him. A bottle of smooth Western wine was already placed at the third stool to the left, a welcome treat after being away from home for so long.
“How was your expedition up North, lunatic philosopher?” Soft and clear, Murr could almost find comfort in the bartender's voice as he took the bottle and nestled into the couch, “Did you amaze the locals with your dreadful science?”
“Insulting your patron’s work is awful customer service. I should replace your outdated candles with proper bulbs.”
Shylock took a towel and an empty glass from the fifth stool to the right, “A customer should not expect drinks after hours. Be grateful I allow you to treat this establishment like your personal parlor.”
Murr ignored him. “I’m looking to patent your lunatic philosopher's new automatic washers for commercial use. It's impressive how you allow this lovely place to become a relic of the past.”
“A relic you may never see again, if you are banned for bad behavior,” Shylock mused, leaving the bar to collect an empty bottle at one of the tables.
Murr observed in silence, languidly sipping his drink. His heart danced between appreciation for the nostalgic taste after months of Northern whiskey and frustration at the bartender's insistence on manual labor, using the most minimal of magic being to clean the room. He could respect the comfort of tradition to an extent (after all, he insisted on writing every note by hand, regardless of how much faster it would be to control multiple quills at once), and yet the sight of Shylock lifting dishes and cups from table to table bothered him in a way he didn't feel like exploring further. Murr was the scientist here; it was his job to dissect and record, and while he wasn't opposed to testing new theories on himself, an external muse was much preferred. Shylock was a lovely personal project, one he gladly took on when his beloved was hidden behind thick clouds and sunlight. In the bartender's conflicting emotions, he could also find traces of his Calamity's terror, the red-hot fury hidden behind pale loveliness, directed to his prying self.
This scientist was also much more of a lightweight than he'd like to admit. As the candles along the walls danced across his vision, a pressing, frankly embarrassing question came to mind once again.
“At this time last year, where were you?”
Shylock paused his motions. Murr watched him turn, watched the dark hair that now hung freely (when did he let it down?) over his shoulders shift with the movement.
“My, what did I do to earn the concern of the great Murr Hart?”
“A barkeep should be there to watch his establishment.”
“And an astronomer should be at his observatory during the weeks when the sky is clear and the Calamity is at her closest.”
A beat. Tonight, the last word didn't seem to carry its usual allure. Shylock hung his clean glasses to dry, and reached for a towel to dry his hands before responding.
“Winter nights are unbearable when spent alone. I was visiting a lonely acquaintance.”
Something burned. “One that I know?”
Shylock sighed.
“You're not privy to everything, Murr.”
“That's a terrible thing to say to an academic.”
Shylock busied himself with straightening the poles on the pool table. He always looked much better with his hair down, when the long locks draped his collarbones and slipped over his eyes. Murr watched him lift a hand and push the dark bangs out of his eyes as though it were the most interesting thing the world had to offer. A small part of him wondered if Shylock's acquaintance liked his hair the same way, if he agreed with Murr that it looked especially appealing in the dark, unfurled over plush pillows and warm skin. A pang, and he decided the thought was better brushed aside. By now, the bartender had picked up on his narrow eyes and slightly slurred speech, and Murr heard a soft voice mutter something that didn't properly register. The alcohol combined with the long journey left him dazed and warm, only intensifying as he breathed in the thick smoke of Shylock's pipe through the air. A slow melody hummed from somewhere, and he wondered if the acquaintance was lulled to sleep in a similar fashion.
In the morning, a hungover Murr was treated to the remnants of whatever flavor was smoked last night, harsh sunlight, and the noticeable absence of his beloved.