He was leaning forward slightly, tipping the mug before him around on its edges in a slow circle, watching the liquid move within it. Shoulders slouched dejectedly, eyes heavily lidded.
The bar around him hummed quietly with the remnants of the afternoons after dinner rush and the barkeep washed glasses a few feet away. The gentle clinking of glasses and warm laughter of those around him were welcomed white noise. It made it harder to hear his berating inner monologue.
Another day gone, another night alone.
His lip twitched and eyebrows furrowed; angry at himself.
Why can't you just say something? How hard can it be?
He set the beer flat on the counter, his eyes hardening into resolute determination.
Yes, how hard could it be? Words are easy, especially for you. The language barrier is minimal at this point. Just come up with something simple and charming and nonthreatening and… convincing and…
His eyes softened again he let out a breath he hadn't known he had been holding. Perhaps words were harder than expected. He sat back slowly, lifting the mug to his lips and tipping his head back to finish off the rest of the drink. Slumping forward again, he rested his head against his large palm, his elbow supporting him.
It shouldn't have been this hard. They had been teammates for years. Spent ten hours a day, six days a week with each other. They ate meals together, read books to each other, listened to stories, rants, explanations, complaints, played chess, sang, worked together, protected each other.
Since the day they signed their contracts with RED, they had been there for each other, in some way or another. As they were introduced to the other seven men that would be in their company for the next unspecified amount of years and it became clear that it wouldn't be sunshine and daisies for some time; the formation of an unspoken bond. As the Communist and Nazi that they weren't, they had to be there for each other. Only they could understand that feeling; that alienation derived from the uncertainty and fear of the time period.
The barkeep silently took his glass and refilled it, placing it before him once more.
How many times had Medic brought up his wife? His listless and loveless relationship with her. How they slept separately. How she hated birds, chess, his accent. Her unhappiness with his job. Her distaste with his graying hair. Medic had explained their deteriorating relationship many times, as well as his uncertainty of where to go with it. It seemed to Heavy that he was more worried about the hassle of a divorce than he was with leaving the woman.
So why leave when he has nowhere to go?
And here we are again, back at the start, the dilemma, the blockade.
How hard could words be?
The bar had quieted as more people departed, and the barkeep had finished cleaning dishes a while ago. The music still played, filling the silence efficiently.
"We only said goodbye with words
I died a hundred times
You go back to her
And I go back to black"