Chapter Text
It was raining in Primaterra again.
The neon lights bleeding down the wet street didn’t bother Cassian. The elf liked how the water blurred everything. Elves had always been drawn to places between things, and this bar, half hidden in an alley, half alive at all hours felt exactly that. In-between. Afterall, his kin were known for being mysterious and alluring.
Zealous is a perfect place for that.
Hidden into a narrow, unmarked alley in older part of the city, Zealous doesn’t advertise its existence. You don’t find it unless you’re meant to. By day, it looks closed; windows darkened, sign half-rusted, the word Z and S gave up their flicker a long time ago. But at night, the place comes alive; music pulses through the walls, and warm golden light spills through the cracks in the wood-paneled door, inviting and strange.
"He’s here again,"
Kaelix muttered, arms crossed, standing near the brick wall under the awning. The bouncer's sharp eyes followed every passerby, but he nodded to Cassian like an old friend. Cassian lowered his gaze noticing the lower part of Kaelix's pants was soaked clinging to his skin a very much opposite of the upper part of his body.
"You really do show up only when it rains."
Cassian hummed, closing his umbrella. He ran his hand through his fringe–white as winter ash.
"That’s because people are less honest when it’s dry."
Kaelix scoffed. "That’s the elf in you talking."
Cassian shrugged.
"That’s the only part left worth listening to."
Kaelix let him through without another word, and Cassian ducked inside the bar, letting the warmth and low music wrap around him. The rain noise came into a halt as soon as the door closed behind him, replaced with a low hum of jazz wrapped with the crowd's laughter and chatters. The scent; a mixture of smoke, whiskey, and cologne in the air. One would complain on how suffocating the smell was but Cassian didn't mind-it gave him a sense of familiarity.
"Cass," Zeal greeted, calm and amused, the bartender already sliding a glass toward him before he even asked. "The usual?"
"Something stronger," Cassian murmured, pulling his gloves off as he settled himself on the chair.
"Tonight’s... heavier."
Inside, the bar stretches long and low, carved from black stone veined with glowore. The ceiling glows soft amber, like candlelight caught in a jar, and shifting crystal fixtures hover above tables, illuminating patrons in flattering shadows. The bar was lively, like it always had. Seible was working the floor, weaving through booths like he belonged in all of them, all charm and smile while Freodore sat behind the small elevated stage sketching lighting changes for a weekend show. The rain hadn’t let up all night. It thudded against the windows like impatient fingers. Cassian sat at the far end of the bar, elbow propped against the dark wood, nursing his second glass of Zeal’s 'nothing too strong, but just enough.'
He didn’t know why he kept coming back here.
Maybe it was the music. Maybe it was how Zealous smelled like memory–a tavern he used to go to centuries ago. Or maybe it was that damned dream again. The dance. The voice. The name he never said out loud. Cassian stared into his drink, stirring it with his finger. Suddenly, the empty stool beside him was dragged against the floor, screeching as someone sat on it. Cassian felt a lump in his throat. The air felt heavier than when he first came in.
Close.
Too close.
Cassian swore if he moved even just a little, their shoulders would brush against each other. He could feel the stranger's gaze fell upon him–the elf didn't look right away. Not looking was a safer option.
"You look like you’re about to fight the glass."
The words flew into his ears, an intrusion he wasn't ready for. The voice was smooth, a little hoarse, but mocking in a casual, uninterested kind of way. Like someone trying to spark a reaction just to feel something back. He kept speaking, fingers drumming lightly on the counter. Cassian didn’t turn his head. He wasn’t in the mood.
"Seriously," the stranger went on, "what’d it do to you?"
Cassian's jaw ticked, curling the edge of his mouth–a smile that didn't reach his eyes. A string of curses played in his head which he didn't dare to slip aloud. Cassian exhaled slowly, dragging his hand over his face.
"Look, I’m not in the mood for-"
He turned.
The words died in his throat.
His heart stopped.
Why is he here?
He was right there.
The man's hair was just as Cassian remembered–midnight black hair with white streaks, falling in soft layered bangs which framed his face. Same crimson eyes. He looked untouched even after all these years. A little older maybe.. Or colder. Wearing a dark jacket, rings on his fingers, posture relaxed like he owned his shadows. He looked back at Cassian with casual detachment, raising one of his eyebrows flashing a polite smile like he was just some stranger at the bar. Suddenly his clothes felt too tight, the sweat in his palms doubled, as his feet vigorously shake taping against the floor.
Cassian swallowed hard.
Lucien.
He wanted to call out, but instead, "do you… always talk to strangers like this?"
Lucien gave a faint shrug.
"Only the ones who look like they’re trying not to cry."
That stung.
Cassian looked away, fingers curling tight around the base of his glass. The room blurred at the edges. He didn’t know if it was the alcohol, the lighting, or the sudden pressure behind his eyes.
He had imagined this moment a hundred ways.
None of them like this.