Present Day
The halfway point, between her apartment and his, seemed miles away today. After reassuring Silver and returning to joking around to settle him down, she started walking him home. Adrianna had a questioning look, as usual, as they left the apartment. The walk was silent and stretched long. Lyra had her pinky finger linked around his; a silent, almost deadly tension stretched in the air between them.
He was distant. He felt so distant. Lyra felt herself panicking; what was she supposed to say to him to make him look at her, to meet her gaze? Look at me, she begged him silently.
In front of the bookstore, they stopped. Wordlessly, Silver pulled his pinky away. He pushed her hair off her forehead and pressed a kiss there. As he pulled away, she stretched up on tiptoes, cupped his face, and kissed him gently. He hunched further for her convenience, but other than his lips against her he wasn't touching her.
Lyra rocked back onto her flat feet again and smiled at him, even though her stomach twisted with foreboding. "Don't worry," was all she said to him.
He gave a nod. There was something wrong in his eyes, a look that Lyra didn't like. As he began to walk away, Silver simply said, "I'll text you."
"Right," she said, but as he walked away, something told her that there was a chance he wouldn't for a while.
She drifted home and to her room. Lyra settled onto her bed, feeling somehow hollowed out. There was a sting in her eyes again, but the tears wouldn't quite come. Something was wrong, and she wasn't sure how to fix it. Never mind his past—why did she get the feeling that he was suddenly thousands of miles away again, separated by oceans and continents?
Was that too soon? Did I push him into it? Lyra fretted, burying her face in her pillow. I did it all wrong, didn't I?
She feared that she wouldn't see him in upcoming days, and she feared it was her own fault.
Present Day
Monday rolled around, and Silver knew that his listless drifting about at work was hardly due to that. From the time he came in the early evening until just before midnight, he felt like a ship, floating along without a crew and torn sails. For the first time since his early days at the café, he managed to drop an order he was carrying out to customers. He'd blustered through apologies to the kind, if somewhat rowdy, table and gave them a discount on their bill, but it had been the most embarrassing thing he had done at work.
It must have been apparent to others that he wasn't quite himself, dropping orders aside. His coworkers kept commenting that he "looked tired" or insinuated that his weekend "perhaps wasn't so good?" The cook went so far as to ask him point-blank, "Are you a zombie today?"
"Fuck no," he'd responded, earning a chuckle from the older man, but Silver wondered how true that was.
Yesterday, after he'd left Lyra's and returned home, he'd laid awake, sleepless, for hours. How long had it been since he'd cried? How long had it been since he'd cried in another person's presence? Even worse, he couldn't remember the last time someone had comforted him while he cried? Something about the process made him feel raw, exposed, vulnerable—it felt like a mistake. He had wanted to tell her about it in small bits and pieces. The deluge of words felt like he'd thrown a rock in Lyra's face; the hurt and worry in her eyes had been enough to cut through him.
Lyra had assured him, over and over again in that gentle way of hers, that it was fine. That it was okay to be sad. That it didn't affect their friendship—or whatever it was they were. But was it really? Was it really fine? It had kept him awake until the sun rose, and he only managed to crawl out of bed an hour before work started. He texted Lyra before he fell asleep, informing her that he was "busy," but the truth was he felt nothing short of frazzled.
His heart was a mess.
At midnight, Proton swung into the building. Silver had nearly forgotten about Saturday's antics until Proton plopped onto the stool across the counter from him, jaw propped in his jaw. "Gianni! Fall off any more piers? Get anyone else wet?" he greeted him, a crocodilian grin splitting his face. When Silver didn't answer, busy drying off a freshly-washed mug, Proton banged his fist hard on the counter. "Ehi, coglione!"
Silver nearly dropped the mug. He set it on the counter, hard, and propped his fist on his hip. "Jesus, what?" he demanded.
Proton scoffed, almost half-laughing at his response. "Kid, wow." When Silver didn't respond, he studied Silver's face. "Hmm. Was the rest of your weekend perhaps not as much of a cakewalk?"
"What do you care? How often do you tell me you 'feel nothing?'" Silver growled, putting the phrase in air quotes.
Proton whistled. "Jilted? Perhaps she was into me instead of you, but she was playing hard to get with me as to not hurt your feelings."
"Proton." There was a lethal edge to Silver's voice that wiped the smile right off Proton's face. "Is everything just a joke to you?" he asked, lowering his voice.
Proton shrugged. "You know what kind of person I am, Silver. Not sure why you still get so ruffled by it all. It's like you have no sense of humor."
Silver picked up a knife, still damp from the dishwasher, and wiped it down. He pointed it at Proton. "Also, you need to not talk to her like that. Ever again."
"Ballsy," Proton said, his tone oddly appreciative. He leaned over the counter; the café was dead at this time of night, usually picking up again once bars began to close closer to 3 in the morning. "I have no interest in her. I was hoping to goad you into making your move, but I'm getting the feeling you didn't play your cards right."
Silver sighed. "I…played them too right. She knows things she shouldn't now."
Proton's eyebrows raised. He slid off the stool and dusted off his pants, a calculative look sweeping over his face. A moment later, he loudly announced, "Come on, kid, time for a smoke break."
Scoffing, Silver retorted, "Smoke break? I don't—"
Proton shot him a reproachful look. In a lower voice, he said, "Just get out of here for two seconds. The place isn't going to burn to the ground if you step out with me for a minute."
Now they were in the back alley, bathed in the orange of the industrial light at the back of the café. Across the way, a black and white cat sat on the crate, watching balefully as Proton lit a cigarette. "Sure you don't want one?" he asked Silver, before taking the first puff.
"I don't," he said, but the smell made his skin crawl. He had mostly quit, but there was a box sitting in his nightstand at home for dire situations. Silver told himself he wouldn't buy another after it was gone. "Tell me why you're out here smoking in my damned face."
Proton side-eyed him. "I'm going to give you life advice right now."
Silver groaned. Receiving and listening to advice from Proton was like attempting to put out a housefire with jet fuel. "I'm gonna go dry dishes. We're almost out of mugs up front."
Proton shifted his body in front of the door. "No, that can wait. It's dead. I want to tell you something."
They eyed each other; Proton's cold, greenish gaze was enough to make Silver back down. The older man sighed and sat himself on a crate outside the door. "We both know how I am. I don't really love. I don't really feel much for other people. Women are entertainment and diversions. Men are people get drunk with and talk about women with. You're one of the only people I actively give a shit about, you know? You're like my kid brother. My very soft, sensitive, kid brother that I took in because his father did wrong by both of us," Proton said, his teeth flashing in the low light.
"Where are you going with this?" Silver said, pinching the bridge of his nose. Proton regularly pointed out how "sensitive" he was.
"Oh, I'm going places." Proton took another drag of his cigarette before continuing, the haze of smoke around him giving him a strangely mythical look in the night. "You value people as people, but you're also a coward about how you interact with others. You're emotional, but you don't share emotions often. You're thoughtful, but you don't share thoughts beyond a surface level. You're this ticking time bomb and I don't think you even realize it. It's no wonder the moment someone made you feel safe you just went and motormouthed through the whole damned thing."
Silver sighed. "Thanks for the psychoanalysis."
"Be sarcastic all you want, but you know it's true. So fucking what that you shared things? Isn't that something you should want, anyway?" Proton said. Silver looked away, his cheeks burning with the suggestion.
He felt Proton reach out and pat his shoulder, the affection awkward. "That's why you're freaking out right now, isn't it? It's because she knows too much?"
"Y-yeah," Silver responded, shifting away from Proton's touch.
"Alright. Then tomorrow night, after you're done, we go to the bars," Proton declared. "We're gonna drink. And you won't refuse because I'm paying. Then the morning after, you're going to get your shit together and talk to her like a person. You've actually been a delight at work lately. You smile at least once per shift now."
Silver crossed his arms and scoffed. Stop coming for me like this, he thought but didn't have the guts to say. "I didn't say I wasn't talking to her."
Proton laughed. He tapped the ash off the end of his cigarette and responded, "Whenever you freak out you withdraw. Let me guess. You just told her you were busy this morning and didn't even go see her before work?"
Silver's expression must have betrayed him. Proton clapped a hand on his shoulder and took one last drag of the cigarette before dropping it, mostly spent, on the ground and grinding it out. He picked up the butt and tossed it in the metal, unlined trashcan left outside for that purpose. Before he went back in, Proton asked, "How much did you even say?"
"I told her about my time in Florence. On…a surface level," he admitted.
Proton's eyebrows raised as he stepped through the door. "Your criminal ways are hardly the tip of the iceberg. Have you even told her what happened to your father? Or your mother and—"
Silver pulled the door shut behind Proton and sat in the quiet back alley for a while. The cat that had been watching his interaction with Proton slowly blinked at him, and as she wandered over Silver crouched to pet her. His heart was still a mess. His talk with Proton was anything but reassuring; he was no more motivated to talk to Lyra than before. On top of that, there was the insinuation that he hadn't said enough? The thought of facing her again terrified him.
Plus, Proton's ideas were, well, terrible. Getting drunk after work on a worknight sounds like a bad idea, but I probably shouldn't blow him off again. Especially if he's paying, he thought with a sigh. He scratched the cat under her chin and then stood, wiping cat hair from his shirt and pants.
His heart was still a mess, and something told him drinking wasn't about to help him with it.
Present Day
Monday and Tuesday slid by with the velocity of molasses in midwinter for Lyra. Silver texted her once on Monday morning, telling her he was busy and wishing her a good day. That first day, she decided to not let it bother her during the day and distracted herself with work, though she had spent the night prior uneasy. Her sleep was riddled with worried dreams. She took the day to work on jazz exercises and her Liszt repertoire. Everything she played, regardless of its quality, was marked with an air of melancholy, drifting through the shop like specters of old. She limited herself to checking her phone once an hour; it seemed as though everyone but Silver was contacting her—her mother, her friends, future classmates, and even her former piano teacher. She answered them in bursts at the top of every hour and returned to playing. Drowned in etudes, in Mixolydian and blues scales, she focused on what she intended to be her livelihood.
As the day wore on, Adrianna noticed Lyra's businesslike manner and blue-edged playing. No matter how much she prodded and pried, Lyra kept the conversation between Silver and her private. "Are you sure you don't walk to talk about it?" Adrianna had asked, more than once.
"Not right now, but thank you," she had responded several times, her patience increasingly being tried.
That night, she checked her phone to find messages from Ethan and Kris, as well as her mother. There were a few social media notifications as well. She swiped those aside until there was nothing. She opened an empty text, addressed it to Silver….and then closed it, deleting the draft. No need to push, she told herself. After she'd thanked him and wished him a good day, he hadn't responded. Double-texting was a sin, after all.
However, come the next morning, with no word from Silver, she grew deeply uneasy and melancholic. She was tempted to text him the minute she woke up with no notifications from him, but she decided to give him space. Lyra didn't know what to do.
She showered, a long affair under what was likely the apartment's entire supply of hot water. When she finished, she felt properly scalded, her hair hanging in damp curtains around her face. Lyra checked her phone again to no notifications. "What the fuck, Silver?" she muttered to herself. She dressed in capris and her yellow peasant blouse, tying it off at the waist to keep it from getting damp on the sink basin as she toweled and combed her hair.
Lyra made coffee and ate bread. She bluffed her way through a conversation with her aunt and uncle and retreated to the living room. Lyra had little interest in dragging the keyboard down into the shop this morning; the thought of navigating the narrow stairs with it, when her mood was growing increasingly foul. She played a chaotic, technique-riddled Brahms etude to warm up, its triplet patterns sounding disorderly and brusque instead of flexible and airy as she preferred it. Lyra checked her phone for a third time; Kris asked if she would video chat with her and Ethan later, and a former bandmate from high school wanted to know if she was selling her trumpet. She responded yes to the former and a hard and confused "No. I have zero interest in selling it and am not sure why you'd ask?" to the latter, her resentment growing at the conversations she was having versus the one she wanted to have.
Is he blaming me again? For saying too much? Lyra thought. The bandmate responded with a "Oh, sorry, wrong person." Kris responded with a string of heart emojis and asked Lyra if she would be up late. It took her a moment to realize Kris likely hadn't even gone to bed yet; it was only nine-thirty in Venice, meaning it was close to three-thirty in the morning back home.
Lyra opened a text message draft to Silver and typed, "Did you forget about me?" She read over it, shook her head, and deleted it. She groaned and jammed her fingers on the keys of the keyboard in a melancholy G# minor chord.
Until lunch time, Lyra alternated between playing some of her broodier repertoire and tooling around with melodies in G# minor and its major cousin, B. She let her fingers dance around the modes. I should write a piece in these keys, she thought to herself, falling into a pattern of dotted quarter notes. It'd be something else to focus on.
Around noon, she made lunch and brought some down to her aunt and to Serena, who had just come into the shop to relieve her aunt, before doing some of the laundry piling up beside the washer. As she was finishing throwing towels, she checked her phone again, finding nothing from Silver but a notification from her newly set-up college email. Frustration peaking, she slammed the washer's door shut.
The rest of the afternoon was spent trying to stave off frustration and keeping from sending a passive aggressive message. She didn't want to harass him, but his silence was increasingly oppressive, saying far more than his "have a good day" yesterday did. Lyra took a long walk, winding through the sestieri. She avoided his building, steering clear of the turn and following the Grand Canal. However, she did not avoid wandering by other performers and buskers where Silver liked to play, but there was no sight of him. To her amusement, there was a juggler in garish clothing where Silver liked to play. That must be Irwin, she thought. As she passed, she couldn't help but toss a few euros in his jar–perhaps to spite Silver, perhaps because his performance was shameless.
After her walk, she checked her phone. No notifications at all. This time, she opened a draft so Silver, and simply typed, "Hi! I hope you're okay!" to him. Feeling it wasn't too aggressive or out of place to say, she hit send and tucked the phone back in her pocket.
Evening came. Dinner passed. Lyra felt her poker face was much stronger; neither Adrianna nor her uncle pressed her with any questions or looks as they ate. There was no word from Silver, and Lyra was ready to give up. She practiced for a while longer before returning to her room, her annoyance having faded into acceptance that whatever progress she'd made with him had likely been undone.
Around midnight, with the windows open and listening to a bittersweet pop album, her phone buzzed. She snatched it up to find Kris messaging her. Sorry, are you still up? She'd sent. It's like midnight there or whatever, but I got off work and Ethan's here. Wanna video-chat right now?
Lyra texted back, Sure. She leaned over to her speaker and turned the song down, the bass and acoustic guitar becoming background noise. Moments later, Kris dialed her and Lyra accepted.
Her melancholy disappeared as Kris and Ethan appeared, crammed into the view together. They were at Kris's house; the bright green tiles of the kitchen wall were a dead giveaway. Kris looked freshly showered, her dark hair hanging in a heavy curtain around her face, and Ethan was in his usual clothing, his hair held back by a backwards ballcap. "Hi!" they shouted almost simultaneously.
Lyra sat up and grinned, waving back at them. "Hey, you two. How are you?" she said.
"I worked for eight hours in the sun. Look at this! I sweated all of my sunscreen off!" Kris rolled her sleeve up to show her pale shoulder in comparison to her very pink bicep. "It's bullshit! It was supposed to be sports sunscreen."
"I don't think she reapplied enough," Ethan interjected, rolling his eyes. "Also, her bad for working in landscaping. She's gonna be all wrinkly when she's like 25 now."
"Shut up!" Kris interjected, shoving him. The view on the screen jiggled, and Lyra couldn't help but laugh.
They chatted about home; Ethan's parents had adopted a new puppy. The street Kris lived on was torn up for construction and wasn't well-cleared; several people had punctured their tires on nails and sharp debris in the road. There was a curfew for anyone under 18 that was temporarily in place because of teenagers that had robbed the corner store Lyra often bought ice cream from growing up. "Thank God you're not here. We wouldn't be able to go do anything after like 9 pm with you," Kris remarked.
"I'm sorry I'm a fetus," Lyra apologized with a lopsided grin.
She shook her head melodramatically. "Damn you for being born in August."
Lyra shrugged. "Say what you will, but I'll be able to drink here legally in like five weeks so…guess who's gonna do that before they come home?"
"Your aunt, after she gives birth?" Ethan suggested helpfully.
She scowled. "You two don't get to drink legally in the States. I win this round."
They argued back and forth for a bit before Ethan cleared his throat. "So, Lyra, is Silver going to get in on this call? You promised us a video chat. I wanna see what he looks like now."
She felt as though someone had kicked her in the stomach with the suggestion. In spite of the feeling, she shrugged, the motion casual. "As far as I know, he's straight," Lyra pointed out.
"Hey, I mean it as like a friendly thing. He was…an interesting looking kid," Ethan hedged. "Rather androgynous. The one picture you sent with him in it? He had quite the hat on."
Kris elbowed him. "You're digging yourself a hole, thirsty. And that was Lyra's hat." She propped her jaw in her hand. Her blue eyes were piercing, even through video chat, as she asked Lyra, "I feel like I haven't asked but…is he okay? He seemed super sad when we were kids."
Lyra shrugged again. As diplomatically as she could, she responded, "Um, he went through a lot after he left the states."
Kris sensed something in Lyra's tone; she could tell by the slight lift of her eyebrows, the taut line of her mouth, but Kris brushed it aside, sensing Lyra's discomfort with the topic. She changed the subject, asking, "So, since you can legally get drunk and are doing so without us, are you going to get super drunk on your birthday?"
They chatted well into the night. Before her aunt and uncle went to bed, Lyra took Ethan and Kris on a "tour" of the apartment. Adrianna insisted on saying hello and talking to them about their summer in English; while it was better than her uncle's, there were more than a few sentences and phrases lost in translation. It was around half-past one in the morning that Lyra realized the time. "Guys, it's super late here," she said, groaning. "I really should try to sleep. I'm watching the shop from noon to four tomorrow."
As they said their goodbyes, Kris said, "See if you can get Silver on here. I'd love to at least say hi to him."
Don't bring him up, she warned silently. Lyra shrugged. "We'll see." She blew them both kisses before hanging up, leaving her in silence again. She restarted the album she was playing earlier to cover it up, as she laid back in bed. As much as she wanted to sleep, her brain was twisting itself in tumultuous circles.
For the first time since Sunday night, she allowed herself to think deeply upon what they had talked about. Before being avoided by Silver, she hadn't let herself delve too far into it, knowing that ultimately, as long as he was kind and reasonable now, his days of petty crime and hedonism were almost a moot point. It didn't make her think of him as a worse person. What would she have done in his situation, raised by a totalitarian, cold-edged father that had done nothing but lie to her? Her life, in comparison, had been comfortable and easy. She had no room to judge him, no place to.
It certainly made her sad for him. To have felt that empty, that desolate—no wonder he'd felt so alone. His past haunted him; he hadn't come to terms with the decisions he'd made and why. How long would it take him to forgive himself, to disentangle himself from decisions made as a raw, runaway teenager? What did he need to help him forgive himself?
But now, as his silence wore on, her patience grew thin. She'd established that she cared about him, established that she wouldn't hurt him, and established that she was available, and he was going to leave her hanging?
"Don't leave me," he'd said to her, but what of him leaving her?
She groaned and buried herself under the covers. Her eyes flicked to see her clothes from the day left in a heap on the floor; she'd simply taken them off and slid into bed after hanging up on Kris and Ethan. "You really ought to put those in the hamper, you know," she muttered to herself, while remaining curled up on her side in bed.
She turned out the light, turned up the album, and turned onto her back to sleep.
Two-thirds of the way through the album, drowsiness finally began to wash over her when her phone loudly buzzed on the nightstand. Opening her eyes, she became surprised when it buzzed again. A phone call? Lyra thought, bleary. She felt for her phone on the nightstand, grabbed it, and checked the caller ID. When she saw the name, her drowsiness disappeared in an instant.
She answered the phone and said, "Silver?"
"Hi," said his voice, a strange note to it Lyra couldn't place. "I'm really close to your place right now. And I want to talk. Can I please come over?"
She felt her eyebrows lift. "Dude, it's like…" she glanced at her clock. "It's 2:45. What the hell are you doing?" I'm not even dressed, she thought.
"Please just let me come over," he said, the tone of his voice still unreadable to Lyra. It was most definitely him talking—the cadence and soft baritone of his voice more than familiar to her—but something seemed as though it wasn't right.
She groaned. "You could just answer me when I text you. And not ignore me for two days."
"Lyra," he said. There was an edge of desperation and sadness to his voice. "please. I'm sorry."
Sighing, she slid out of bed and grabbed the first things she found in her t-shirts and shorts drawer and sloppily pulled them on. "Fine. I'll come down. I'll let you in. We can talk, but you better be quiet."
"You better be quiet," he said, and then hung up. Lyra's eyebrows raised. Part of her wondered if he was drunk, but that seemed out of character for him, something that would remind him too much of his poor choices as a teenager. She sighed and grabbed a hoodie from her bed post, moving through the dark apartment to confront whatever Silver had brought to her door.
Present Day
Silver wasn't sure what his error in judgment had been while drinking, but it was roughly one in the morning and he felt as though he were floating.
After work, he had changed into his usual street clothes and had gone out to the bars with Proton. At work, his mood had been foul; he'd been unable to even respond to Lyra, and her simple text had been enough. Hi! I hope you're okay. Silver had no inclination to lie to her, and he left it sitting in his inbox, read and acknowledged in a way that made his gut twist.
Now, at the bars, the first few drinks had eliminated the dread. A German beer brought him off the edge and had him more inclined to listen to one of Proton's story, some tale in which he brought home a girl and woke up to screen-less open windows with a half-dozen pigeons in his apartment. Some local cocktail, a spiced, mango-flavored thing, had him laughing and telling his own tales of misfortune. His head felt pleasantly fuzzed; the turmoil of the past two days was disappearing. He talked of dropping orders, of embarrassing himself performing, of teaching himself to shave with poor results, of falling asleep on the job.
Silver found himself laughing, joking, easily drawn into converstions beside
However, it was the two shots of vodka, taken at the second bar they went, that were slowly doing him in. It also had him far too honest. As he drank a cola, a sort of chaser to the shot he'd just taken, he glanced at Proton to see him talking to a woman that reminded him of Lyra. Her red dress and dark, soft eyes made him pang with longing for her. I want to see her, he thought, saddened. Trying to recover the buoyant feelings, he waited until Proton turned away from her to nudge his arm. "Hey, I…I gotta admit something to you," he said, gripping the counter to keep himself from swaying. He was never unsteady when drunk, but his body sure felt the need to move.
Proton raised his eyebrows. "Aaaand what would that be?" Proton responded. He had the same number of drinks as Silver, perhaps even more, but he seemed as sober as when they'd started.
"I dragged you off the pier on purpose on Saturday," he said. "Don't fire me."
Proton scoffed. "You think I didn't know that? It wasn't exactly slippery sitting on Arciere's pier."
Silver raised his eyebrows. "You just…let me get away with that? You just climbed out of the water and walked away? Woooooow."
He threw an arm around Silver's neck and noogied him with his free hand. Silver sputtered and pushed Proton away. Laughing, he returned to his drink; from the smell of it Silver assumed it was the world's driest martini. He said, "I wasn't going to embarrass you further in front of a girl. I just think you should keep an eye out for more thumbtacks. I smelled like seawater for hours after, and I can't get the stink out of my shoes."
"Ha, loser," Silver said.
Proton scoffed. "I'm docking you a week's pay."
"Aw," Silver said, knowing full well it was an empty threat.
At this bar, Silver watched Proton talk to more women. He argued with an older man about Pink Floyd's discography. A girl, with short black hair and dark eyes, tried to talk to him, but Silver brushed her off. Not here to flirt, he thought, watching her drift to another table, leaning into a short man with a cloud of strawberry blonde curls. Not with you, anyway.
Another cocktail, at the third bar, too expensive to anything but standing room only, had Silver's mind drifting even closer to Lyra, and admitting he was drunk. This bar was more traditional; he felt too inebriated there, too sloppy. Everyone was quite sober, even for the late hour. No one seemed to notice that he was reeling, that his heart was aching and leaking, but it seemed too nice of a place for someone as drunk as him. He wanted to see her, badly. Yet, he'd embarrassed himself, hadn't he? He'd been weak and cried and spewed truth until it physically hurt him to speak. You should hate me, he'd said to her, and he wondered still if he meant it.
He didn't want her to hate him. Whenever she touched him or smiled at him, it felt as though he began to glow. But if Lyra wasn't stupid, she'd hate him. He was such a bumbling clusterfuck of a human being. He stirred the drink and flicked an ice cube out of it. It fell onto the ground, where Silver crushed it under foot, entertained by its texture. The bad mood passed with the satisfying crunch.
Proton nudged him. Across the bar was a voluptuous blonde, winking to Proton. "You think I should talk to her? She keeps making eyes at me," he said to Silver.
"She makes eyes? Are you an ocularist?" Silver asked.
Proton gave him a withering look. "How drunk are you?"
"Very. Very, very, very." He said.
"If she makes eyes, wouldn't she be the…wait, what is an ocularist?" Proton asked.
Silver patted his arm. Oh God, he was drunk. Stop touching him. He's a bitch. Don't touch him, he told himself. "Makes eyes. Fake eyes. Like when you're sick of wearing a fucking eyepatch because you lost it to a bitch with thumbtacks. So I guess that makes her the ocularist. I misspoke. Fuck me, I guess."
"Jesus, kid. Two weeks' pay," Proton said, but Silver noticed the glint of humor in his eyes.
Proton patted his shoulder and walked toward the blonde, leaving Silver alone with his thoughts. He flicked another ice cube out of his glass and crushed it under his foot. An older woman shot him a look that said to knock it off, but he didn't care. He downed the rest of the drink and shoved through the crowd to set it on the counter. He saw Proton talking with the blonde; she seemed to be buying the bullshit he was selling. She kept lowering her gaze and flicking it back up to Proton, looking up at him through her eyelashes. He said something that made her laugh. What would he say that was intentionally funny? Or did she just find his terrible, flamboyant style to be somehow attractive? Her taste was terrible.
Your taste is terrible, he always said to laughed to himself softly and thought of her. She seemed to like what he was selling. Him, always in black, his hair too long. His tongue too sharp, always so slow to smile. Yet, she liked him. I miss her so much. I should text her, he thought. He pulled out his phone and saw the text he had ignored earlier. Guilt slapped him gruffly across the face. "Wait, ah no, I…I didn't text you? Am I fucking stupid?" he said. He pocked his phone and glanced across the bar at Proton. An idea was formulating in his mind, fueled by his longing. It couldn't be that late, she couldn't be that asleep, and his presence couldn't be that unwelcome.
Silver was going to go see her. He had to be near her. Even a bumbling clusterfuck deserved someone to flirt with and smile at, right? If Proton could be loved, so could he.
Without a second more of thought, he exited the bar. It was far cooler outside, and in his mind, he knew the path he had to take along the Grand Canal to get to her place. There, he could be with her. Gotta call her before I get there, or else I'll wake up her family and no one will care about me there anymore, he told himself. Regardless, he set off at a jaunty pace, swaying along as he went, ready for time with Lyra.
Present Day
Lyra stood waiting outside for Silver. Her shorts felt too short for the cold, and she wrapped her hoodie more tightly about herself. In the lamplight she saw that she was poorly matched; her shorts were hot pink, the hoodie red and blue plaid print, the oversized t-shirt underneath bright orange. Is this really how you want to be dressed for this? Lyra thought, shifting from foot to foot.
What was he doing, anyway? He hadn't sounded nearly as depressive as she would've expected or as apologetic as she would have hoped. She shuffled her feet, despising the feeling of plastic between her toes this late, and wrapped her arms more tightly around herself.
She almost missed the approach of footsteps. Her eyes flicked up to see a person approaching. As he passed under a streetlight, she caught the red hair. Silver. She adjusted herself to face that direction, ready to call him out, to say anything. But instead of hello, he walked directly to her and embraced her, hard. She resisted the urge to squeak, catching his smell in his clothes and his neck as he crouched. "Lyra," he said, and his grip on her was warm and gentle.
"Silver," she murmured. Her anger abated somewhat at this unbridled display of affection. She turned her face to the side and kissed the hinge of his jaw. "Where have you been?" she asked him softly.
"At work working. At home sleeping," he said. He stepped forward, and her back was against the wall of the shop now. "Being a fool."
"I was worried. Scared you weren't going to talk to me," she said to him. He was pressed hard against her, her back firm to the wall. She cleared her throat. "Are you trying to crush me?"
"What?" It took him a moment, but Silver released her and stepped back. Lyra noticed he was not quite standing still. He shifted his weight from foot to foot or visibly…swayed. Before she could ask if he was perhaps drunk, his gaze swept her from head to foot. "You're so lovely it hurts."
Lyra's face grew red. "You stop that," she said.
He shook his head. A soft smile touched his features and he scratched at his hairline. "I'm sorry," he said, his expression turning almost comically solemn. "Not for that. You are pretty, so sorry not sorry I'm not going to not call you that," he said, folding his arms across his chest.
Lyra blinked. "Were you murdered by words there?"
"Shut up, I'm working on it. I'm getting there. I don't need critics," Silver said, and Lyra almost had to laugh. "I'm sorry because I'm always so unsure of everything. And you're so sure. You care about me. Like I'd be a fucking idiot to not see that, but I'm always trying to sabotage that in my head. I care about you, but thinking someone like you would like me? Unthinkable. Weird. Bizarre."
Lyra kneaded her brow, sensing that it was beginning to rumple. If he was drunk, she didn't feel responsible sending him away into the night, even if she knew this was a conversation they couldn't have while he was drunk. "Um, come upstairs. But be quiet. Like very, very quiet. If you can. I get the feeling you were drinking."
Silver grabbed her hands and tugged her toward him. "I was drinking, like...forty minutes ago. Stay outside with me. The night's pretty. I'm happy for the next two hours."
I'm happy for the next two hours crippled her with a pang of sadness. Airing on the side of lighthearted, she glanced down at herself. "Have you seen what I'm wearing?" she said.
"You're a mess," he said, "and I love that."
She pulled her hands away from him and shoved him lightly. It was then that she realized just how drunk he was. Silver stumbled backward, and she caught him again by the hands, keeping him stable as he got back onto his feet. "I can't believe you've done this," he said to her. "Shoving a drunk in public."
"So you admit you're drunk," she said, smirking.
He let go of her hands and started walking away, but backwards. "You conned me! I am not drunk! I just said I was a drunk. I think. Could a drunk person do this?" Before Lyra could tell him to turn around and walk normally, he stumbled again, over a raised stone in the path, and fell onto his butt.
No, a drunk person cannot do that, Lyra thought, but she didn't say it. She groaned and walked over to him. Lyra helped him to his feet and pulled him snug to her side. His hands felt cold. "C'mon. Let's get you inside. You can sleep it off in my room."
"I wanna lay by you," he said. "Do I get to lay by you?"
"Sure, but you really should sleep," she told him. "Also, that's a twin bed up there."
"I can lay really close to you. Hell yeah. Suck it, Proton. A girl likes me," he mumbled as Lyra opened the door and guided him through. She held her finger to her lips, not sure whether to be annoyed by Silver's gung-ho attitude while drunk or find it endearing.
In her bedroom, she slipped out of her hoodie as Silver laid himself as gently as he could on the bed, on top of the covers. "Get under them," she breathed to him. "I think drunk people have lower body temperatures. Your hands felt really cold."
"It's because I wasn't with you," he said back, his voice equally quiet. He slid under her blankets and took one of her pillows. He shoved it under his head as Lyra crawled in beside him. "I'm…I'm not brave. I wanna tell you this stuff when I'm not drunk," he mumbled to her.
As she settled in, he dragged her into the crook of his body and held her close. She had to stifle the squeak as he buried his face in her hair, his breath trailing over her neck. "Okay. But we're not going to talk about how you disappeared on me for two days while you're drunk. That's a sober talk." she said, resisting the urge to shiver.
"Okay," he said, and his voice was so close she shivered this time. He laughed quietly at that and buried his face in the crook of her neck, making the feeling worse. Her face burned. "If I don't say I'm sorry sober, I'm stupid."
"Is alcohol a truth serum for you?" she asked, her voice ragged. When he talked, she felt his lips brush her neck through her hair, and it was making her feel…strange.
He was silent for a moment. "Maybe," he whispered to her.
The shiver must have been noticeable. She heard him laugh, quietly, and she felt him lift his hand, brushing hair from her neck, and pressed a kiss below her ear. Lyra gasped; it felt as though fire was travelling down her neck and into her veins, coiling lower. He tightened his hold on her, pressing soft kisses to her neck and shoulder and hair. "Silver," she panted.
He paused and said, "Yes?" into her neck.
"Go the fuck to sleep," she said to him.
"Only if you do," he said.
She groaned as he continued kissing her. His thumb had lifted the hem of her shirt, rubbing a semicircle over her hip. In the face of his affection ministrations, her resolve was fading. "Silver," she repeated, with more force.
He paused. "That's me," he said, but his tone was almost uncertain. "Is something wrong?" he added, when he craned far enough to notice Lyra's expression.
"No just…that's better to do sober, too, I think," she said.
"Sober me is a bitch," Silver grumbled. He released her and turned over onto his back. "Existence is a bitch."
Lyra giggled and rolled over. She arranged herself against him, huddling close. "I'll just make it clear I love physical affection. Especially from you. I love any affection from you."
"You do?" he glanced down at her. His eyelids seemed heavier and heavier. He grinned and flopped his head back. "Oh, nice. Nice, nice, nice. I like when you as much as look at me. I feel important. Like I can do things, like…I don't know, build a rocket."
"Rocket science?" she implored.
"I'm also an ocularist. Or I think that woman Proton hitting up was. I don't know anymore. Time's a sham. The only real thing is this room and you," he said, his eyes closing. He began to roll onto his side, and Lyra found herself gazing at the wall of his back; his shoulders seemed broader from this perspective. Lyra pressed herself to his back and hooked her arms around him, sneaking her arm under his neck. Her hand rested against his belly, just under his ribcage. He always felt so slender to her; it made her worry about him. "What's this?" Silver asked her.
"I'm cuddling you," she murmured. She hooked her thigh over his and sighed softly. "Go to sleep, Silver."
"Will you sleep?" he asked, his voice thin and soft.
"I can always sleep. You know that," she murmured."
"I don't want to sleep. I've only seen you like fifteen minutes in two days. We have shit to talk about. Like I have this idea. I want to play Clair de Lune with you, because you make Debussy sound like spun gold, and I have a cello, and I think those two together would be awesome," he murmured, but he was beginning to drift off. Lyra could hear it in his voice.
She pressed herself closer to him and closed her eyes. "I'd love to play some Debussy with you. We still have Libertango to work on, too."
"I'm off Thursday," he mumbled. "Good. But also bad. Proton will hide more thumbtacks."
"Tetanus booster," she reminded him.
Conversation trailed off there, and Lyra nestled her head into his back. Even if he was drunk, she felt safer with him there. Her skin and heart were still abuzz, her mind flooded with the thought of his kisses and his roaming hands. She was nearly asleep when Silver mumbled, "I just…want to kiss you. Lyra, can I kiss you more tomorrow? Or did I ruin everything? Can I even ask that right now?"
"I promise you didn't ruin everything," she said to him. "So just stop doing stupid things. Then you can kiss me. I'll even kiss you back"
"Stop doing stupid things? Inconceivable," he said, but he rested his hand over hers, where it rested against his stomach.
"Silver," she warned. "No stupid."
"Yes stupid." Lyra poked his stomach. "Fine, no stupid."
She rested her face against him and sighed, contented. "We'll talk more when you're better. Promise me that."
"I promise. Hold sober me to that. He's a flighty little fucker," Silver mumbled.
She smiled and rubbed her face into his back. Lyra yawned and found herself drifting again. She felt his hand grip over hers, keeping her pulled close, as though nothing else was tethering him to this world. No more words were said between them, and sleep crashed over her.
Present Day
Silver woke up slowly. He was sleeping somewhere that smelled like her, and he was warm. There was a body nestled into his back, the sound of light snoring.
Panic settled. Had he done something with her last night? Silver looked over his shoulder, fearful, but saw that Lyra was clothed, her back pressed hard against his. He was clothed; in fact, he was wearing the same clothes as he had last night. Other than pulsing in his head and the Impressionist quality of some of his memories, he barely felt like he had been drinking.
Lyra was still asleep, but he slowly turned over to face her. We have to talk today, he thought. Yet, he curled himself around her, his head resting by hers. I think it might be a hard talk. But I deserve it for disappearing on her again.
She stirred slightly, her back pressing to his chest. His heart grew full as she sighed softly in her sleep; she felt safe enough to sleep soundly next to him. However, even with the movement and sweet little sounds, Lyra did not wake. He stopped watching her and stretched out beside her, feeling like some kind of protective barrier against the world for her. The thought gave him some comfort. He felt his eyes closing again. Before they shut fully, he glanced at her alarm clock, to see it was only seven in the morning. His shift didn't start until 6 that night; he could sleep for longer, crammed close to her in her tiny bed.
He was drifting away, comfortable, unafraid of whatever conversation they had to have, and fell back asleep. Yet, it seemed almost an instant later when a loud knock on the door startled him awake. He glanced to Lyra, seeing that she hadn't even stirred, her sides still rising and falling peacefully. "Lyra?" said Adrianna's voice. "It's almost ten-thirty. Are you alive in there?"
She waited a few seconds. Silver froze as the doorknob turned. In a moment of sheer panic, he flopped back onto his side and cuddled into her, pretending to still be asleep. If he was going to be caught in her room after a night of drunkenness, it was better to seem soft and unassuming, right?
He heard the door open. Silence stretched. "Lyra," said Adrianna's voice, flatly. Now she stirred. He watched with one eye open as she sat up to see Adrianna standing there. "I see why you slept in. Sneak in a little fun last night?"
Lyra nudged his arm. "Um…yeah," she settled for. "I'm sorry. I was lonely." Silver's brow's lifted in surprise. She isn't going to tell Adrianna I stumbled here drunk?
"Don't be," Adrianna said, "but I sense you brought him in late. In the future, just tell me if you're going to have the boy over."
Silver sat up and opened his eyes. His face was burning. "Hi," he said, facing her stern gaze.
In spite of herself, she flashed him a smile. "Hello, Silver." Her eyes flitted back to Lyra, where they became cooler. "Remember you work at noon, Lyra." She walked away, leaving the door wide open.
Lyra groaned and smashed her head into Silver's bicep. "Yeah, good morning. My ass is grass," she mumbled. She pulled her forehead away and patted his arm. "I…think you should leave soon. But can I get you anything before you go?"
"Water," he said. He bent down and kissed her cheek quickly. "I'm sorry for coming here last night."
"Not your fault. I let you in," she said, her tone bordering on curt. As she got up and pulled on her hoodie, she added, "Let's postpone our talk. I think Adrianna and I may have a bit of a chat."
She cut him a slice of bread as he drank his fill of water. Adrianna was in the kitchen, her tone cordial but her face sharp. It's my fault, he thought. I shouldn't have come here last night.
Lyra walked him out as he was still eating a slice of ciabatta. She unlocked the door and held it open for him, her face smiling in spite of whatever situation was waiting for her upstairs. "You're quite funny drunk," she whispered to him, winking. "But don't come here again drunk, please."
"We'll get drunk together at my apartment when you're legal. Blind leading the blind or whatever. No compromising situations at home," he said, after swallowing his bite of bread.
She patted his arm and went back into the shop. "Don't forget to text me," she said, eyes flicking up to him with warning. "Whatever else we do, we gotta talk about not ghosting me."
"I'll text you." He gave her a nod, and she waved lightly to him before closing the door. Sober and feeling as though he still smelled of cocktails and the bar, he headed for home. His heart didn't feel lighter, but he was less worried about the situation now. Whatever she knew, she wasn't going to turn on him. Even though he had been drunk and vulnerable, she hadn't told Adrianna of it. Silver knew she wouldn't later. Why do you worry so much about how she'll act? She trusts you. You need to trust her, he ordered himself as he shoved the rest of the bread in his mouth. Whatever you tell her, she will respect your privacy.
With alarm, he realized, She'll watch out for you. So don't put her in shitty situations.
Out loud, he huffed a sigh. Silver owed her yet another apology.
A/N: Hello, it is I, Mars, back with an update for this here fic! I bring an offering of Silver getting drunk and being a meme.
Hot take: if I were Lyra I would've thrown Silver in a canal, but also she is far more forgiving than me. Also covering for him? Unheard of with me. I would've thrown him under the bus. "Yeah he showed up drunk and I let him sleep here so he wasn't a menace to the general public" is how I would personally go about it but go off I guess.
Also! Hinting at Lyra composing a piece...fun fact: I composed a piano piece based off this fic! Like...months ago lmao. It's no masterpiece, but I will link the MIDI when appropriate. It's kind of a bittersweet thing. I compose on the side for funsies, but I rarely compose for piano, as I am actually horrible at playing it pffft. If I wanted to be super true to form I would've made Lyra a lover of German lieder or a saxophone player but eh.
I'm moving on Saturday, and tomorrow I'll be heading to an aquarium and possibly a museum, which is super great. I'll try to get another update out before classes start in a week and a half, but we'll see. I have a few other side projects to attend to.
Until next time, always check in your mirrors before making a lane change!
~Mars