It wasn't supposed to happen like this, with a bar too full of people and too little class, with dim lights and cloudy glasses and the scent of smoke wafting through the rafters. Lingering passion and hazy conscience spelled the right type of lovely disaster for some, but for Roman Torchwick, it meant nothing more than a night away from Cinder and one less headache.
Or so he'd thought.
It was rare for the door to swing open and thunder shut, predated only by a strong scent of liquor; a scent even more potent than the drink currently being poured down the bar to his left. It was rarer still for the empty seat on his right to suddenly be occupied. The rarest thing of all came from the person in question, to wit Roman properly ignored such a presence.
An old flame, squandered away in sleepless nights and too much drink and just enough smoke so they wouldn't see each other's faces. Heady pain and a little pleasure and too much penitence to search each other out cursed their trysts, keeping them apart until the next time they each needed to forget every atrocity they committed under the guise of someone wiser.
It wasn't hard to predict his order. Bourbon on the rocks in a wide-rimmed glass so it wouldn't smack him in the face.
Such a pretty face. . .
Neither of them reacted to each other as the first round came for him, and the second for Roman. Neither of them spoke, even gave a glance, as the liquor vanished into the night. His gravelly voice, slurred hard with too much too soon already, ordered more. Roman merely pulled out a fresh cigar.
Roman spun on his stool, now facing the crowd in their plush red-velvet chairs and booths, gossiping and losing themselves in the heat of mistakes. So many mistakes. . .
Smoke curled into the rafters, and Roman pretended not to notice as Qrow spun around too. Mimicry was the highest form of flattery, after all.
He crossed his legs, right over left. It was only proper. Qrow followed suit. The sound of ice clinking as a glass was set down meant nothing.
Qrow let his right hand hang low in the space in between them. The other was occupied in supporting his head as his gaze swept across the room.
Everyone was drunk.
Roman let his left hand fall down, knuckles brushing against Qrow's. His red eyes snapped over to Roman, before falling off to the wayside. Roman pretended not to notice Qrow's frown. Roman kept his own bored gaze forward, posture perfectly leisurely. Only the tiniest of bitter smiles escaped Roman as the smoke and sound and sin obscured any sign of forlorn camaraderie between the pair.
And besides, it wasn't like they were in Mistral, where anyone could make a donation to the Arachne Fund at any time they damned well pleased.
Qrow intertwined their fingers first, re-crossing his legs and leaning back on the bar. Roman blew out another puff of acrid smoke, closing his eyes.
There was a squeeze. A split second passed. Roman returned it.
Neither of them spoke, but they didn't need to, anyways. Sometimes, it was just better to let it all get lost in the haze. They'd each learned that lesson a thousand times before in a thousand different ways.
Just their luck to need to learn it again.