I rolled the tumbler of firewhiskey between my hands, staring down at the reflections cast into the liquid by the chiseled glass and ice cubes. Amber, brown, yellow, orange... how did those colors get in there? If the drink's one color, how does it end up reflecting four different ones?
Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a drunk man stumbling onto the low stage with a guitar in his hand.
Oh joy, I thought. A lovely performance by a Knut-scraper.
I had never been one for live music. It bothered me how they always sounded different in person—they could never quite hit those high notes, or they always added some impromptu wailing to resemble originality, so the song would sound different than the original. But wasn't that what people paid to hear? The song they heard on the radio?
The man on the stool began to strum his guitar quietly and everyone around me, except maybe the bartender, fell silent and looked toward the stage.
"Cheers darlin', here's to you and your lover boy
Cheers darlin', I got years to wait around for you..."
Well, he certainly was drunk. Despite that, he didn't sound half bad—for a drunk, that is.
I downed the rest of the liquid fire and slammed the glass back on the bar loudly.
"Another," I called to the bartender.
The man behind the counter gave me one of those disapproving "you're the future of our country?" looks, but he apparently didn't have the balls to say anything. In fact, he didn't say anything at all. I was already on my fourth round and no one had come over and taken my precious glass away.
"There's a two-drink max for students, you know."
I swung my head around to appraise the girl that had just appeared at my right shoulder. When did she get here?
She just raised an eyebrow at me and took a sip of her own sparkling water. What a prude. She won't even drink when she's not on school grounds! I glanced back down into my own glass. Maybe I should ask her the color question. She seems to know quite a bit about that Muggle science bullshit.
"Exactly. Two drinks: first and last," I clarified. I watched as she rolled her eyes at me. She always rolled her eyes at me; in fact, I think it may be her most used expression when I'm around. Maybe it's out of habit, or maybe it's a special gesture reserved just for me.
"Okay, you've had plenty," she chided. "You can't even speak clearly."
What was she talking about? That was clear as daylight... I think.
She reached forward to take the glass from my hand and I jerked my arm back possessively. I just glared at her, unable to think of an insult that was appropriate for the situation. I didn't necessary want to offend her— I just didn't want her to take my whiskey.
"And I die when you mention his name
And I lied, I should have kissed you
When we were running in the rain..."
Merlin, she's pretty. How did I not notice it before? I mean, she looked gorgeous at that New Year's party last year, but I assumed that was because she took hours to get ready like every other girl in the school. I didn't think she was pretty on normal days.
"What am I darlin'?
A whisper in your ear?
A piece of your cake?"
"What?" she eyed me curiously.
She always gets uncomfortable when I look at her for more than a second. I wonder why?
"What am I, darlin?
The boy you can fear?
Or your biggest mistake?"
I shook my head to dismiss her question. Bad move. The lights in the tavern started to swing a little in my vision and I had to lean on the counter with my elbows to steady myself. Suddenly I felt a hand on my back and she leaned forward, bringing her head closer to mine. What the hell was she doing, checking my pupils to see if they're dilated? I can barely keep my eyes open at this point, let alone focused. Don't waste your time with that.
"You alright?"
Damn. I didn't think she'd noticed. But then again, she notices everything I don't want her to. She knows me better than I want anyone to, and to be perfectly honest, that scares the hell out of me.
"Cheers darlin', I got a ribbon of green on my guitar
Cheers darlin', I got a beauty queen to sit not very far from me..."
I had to admit it was rather... comforting, I guess, to have her hand resting on my shoulder. This comfort thing's a weird feeling, but in a good way. Actually, now I think about it I can count on one hand the number of times we've made contact in the seven years we've known each other.
Part of me— no, all of me— wished that number was higher.
"Don't treat me like a little kid. 'Course I'm fine," I snapped.
"I die when he comes around to take you home
I'm too shy, I should have kissed you when we were alone..."
And there we go. The comforting hand was gone, tucked into her coat pocket. She shook her head and sipped at her water again. She always pretends like it doesn't affect her, but for some sadistic reason, I hope deep down it does.
I can be such a prat sometimes.
"Really? 'Cause you just said that all as one word."
I glared at her again. By that point I think it was all I was able to do confidently. "Shove off, witch."
For some reason this made her laugh. She was bloody fucking laughing at me!
"And just what's so damn funny?"
"You're losing your touch," she teased. "You can come up with better insults than that."
"You try thinking of insults when you're half a bottle deep."
"What am I darlin'? A whisper in your ear? A piece of your cake?
What am I, darlin? The boy you can fear?
Or your biggest mistake?"
I loved these little competitions we had. In fact, on some days I think I lived for them. She was the only person I knew who could give me a run for my money on wordplay and snide comments. I just watched her again, waiting for her comeback. She tucked her hair behind her ear and fidgeted with her earring. That enigmatic little half-smile of hers was driving me crazy, in more ways than one. When she did that I never knew what she was thinking, and that bothered me. On the other hand, it might well have been one of the cutest damn things in the world.
Now's your chance, you idiot.
How many times have I told myself that? I've had countless chances. All those nights spent working on projects in the library, I could have easily said what I wanted to say. But no. I had to chicken out and play the 'loner asshole' card every time. Why? Cause I am a loner. Yeah, that's it. I didn't need anyone. Just because I wanted her around doesn't mean I needed her to be.
Right?
The bell above the door to the pub jingled loudly. "Hey, there you are," someone said from behind me. "You ready to go?"
"Yeah." She glanced over her shoulder and then looked back at me. She said nothing as she slid off the stool; instead, she clapped a hand on my shoulder. What the hell was that supposed to mean?
Don't leave, I wanted to say. But I wasn't that much of a sissy.
I felt that iron vice tighten in my chest again. She made her way over to him and planted a kiss on his cheek, right in front of me. To avoid the vomit reflex I averted my gaze back to my glass, which was mysteriously empty again. Behind me I heard that annoying jingle again as the door closed.
"Well, what the hell are you waiting for?" I snapped at the bartender. I slid the glass toward him with too much force; if he hadn't caught it, it would have smashed onto the floor behind the bar.
While he filled the tumbler I snuck a peek out the window behind me. He had his arm around her and she was leaning her head against his shoulder. It sickened me. As I watched she looked up at him with a smile on her face as he leaned forward and kissed her. I had the sudden urge to smash through the window and pummel his face into the ground. It'd be rather satisfying, but on the other hand it probably requires too much coordination for my current state. They walked off into the darkness back toward the school and I slouched down over the bar.
"Oh what am I? What am I darlin'?
I got years to wait..."
Despite the severe consequences it could have on my stomach (and possibly the pub floor several minutes from now), I gulped the entire glass of firewhiskey down and nodded to the bartender, sliding the tumbler toward him once again.
"You know what to do."