Interlude, PG
Title: Interlude
Rating: Teen for some minor cursing. Huh, what do you know, I wrote something under an R rating.
Summary: It all starts with a girl waiting in a bar. Even an avalanche can begin with a single snowflake.
Notes: A third-person look at the Seifer/Quistis conundrum. I started this as soon as the community was created, and for some reason, it's been like trying to cram a round peg in a square hole. Others to follow.
The Bitter End is the type of bar where people go to drink alone. Night or day it's dark and cool inside, perfect if you need to hide a bruise or a face for a few hours. There's cold drinks to settle you down after a fight, warm drinks to heat up your blood if you've been out in the cold too long. Glass of ice to ease the sting of a swollen lip, bowl of half-stale nuts if you haven't eaten all day. Beggars can't be choosers, after all, and if you were a chooser, well, you wouldn't be here in the first place.
If you need a place to forget, though, this is your utopia. Your very own Island of Ennui. The Bitter End deals exclusively in amnesia....at least, for as long as your take your medicine.
Piers likes to think that the interior of the bar has a very 'human' atmosphere- that's a nice way of saying that people are always leaving things behind. The lacquered surface of the old bar has seen its share of blood and tears, and you can usually find a few teeth scattered across the wood floor after a Saturday night brawl. The bar's few windows are covered in a film of grease and smoke, filtering the sunlight into a grey haze that hides most of the rips in the cushions and the chips in the wood.
The walls are decorated with an assortment of taxidermy projects and hunting conquests from battles long ago- a Wendigo's paw has been stuffed mid-clench while a Chocobo's dusty head mount is missing a glass eye. People don't come for the decorations, anyway. Or for the drinks.
People come to a place like this to forget about why they need to come to a place like this. It's a vicious cycle that lines barkeeps' pockets everywhere for as long as they've had pockets to line.
Piers inherited the bar when his old man died five years ago, leaving him everything he owned. This amounted to a bar and a half-rusted sword from his father's time in the Galbadian army, which now hangs over the back wall in a tribute to...something. The place isn't much to look at- it's a mixture of paneled walls and a clapboard roof which, when the summer comes, is covered in seagull shit from top to bottom so thoroughly the damned thing looks like someone painted the damned thing white.
Most days when you open the door, you can smell the breeze off the docks and the stink of fish guts from the cleaning stations. Some days, though, you can hear the rush of the waves and the smell of fresh air, and on those days, Piers doesn't feel like his father's corpse is punishing him for dropping out of the military and wrecking his prospects, whatever those were to begin with. In Balamb, you can be a fisherman, a soldier, or you can be the guy that sells them enough alcohol to forget about how much they hate doing these things. As it happened, Piers fell out of the second option and into the last.
At any rate, the patrons seem to care about the ambiance one way or another. Today, there's the usual crowd- Salina with her short skirt and matching black eyes, sporting a new bruise on her leg and already up to her gills in gin and tonics. She's picking at a hangnail, wriggling her skinny bottom two and fro on the bar stool and looking a little uncomfortable, because that prick has probably thrown her down the stairs ass-first instead of face-first this time. She's talking with Andres, an unlucky fisherman who's got as many troubles with fish as Salina does with men, both of them playing Triple Triad for peanut shells and trying to avoid going home for as long as possible.
There's Blue with his scotch,(three fingers, neat), staring off into whatever old hell he's trying to escape, and then there's Mason, an old man with a scarred face whose fingers tremble around his whiskey until he's well into his second of the morning. Raddik is in the corner, surrounded by his usual cloud of smoke and drinking whiskey like it's water.
The girl in the corner, however- she's new.
She's been nursing the same cherry coke for over an hour, her chin resting heavily on her fist. Her other hand is occupied in holding her cherry garnish by the stem, dunking it in the now watered-down drink. Condensation is sweating down the glass and creating a puddle on the table, which she occasionally traces patterns in. She looks just a little familiar, but Piers can't think of where he would have seen her before. Not in this bar, certainly- he never forgets a face....or a wallet.
This newcomer is beautiful in a way that doesn't seem to fit into this place, and she's waiting for something or someone that seems a long time in coming.
In the meantime, Piers finds himself just a little bit captivated. Sure, he's seen beautiful women before, but the beauty he's used to in places like this is the wilted kind, faded and half-forgotten like a rose slumping in a jelly jar.
This girl is all edges- sharp and polished down to her ocean blue eyes and the tight bob of the fishtail flip in her hair. She's wearing a brown leather jacket and a white shirt over jeans, her purse on the counter beside her. Her leather boots are polished to a shine. The clothes and the bag look new- there's no creases in the leather, no marks on the purse canvas. The girl's skin is another matter. An old scar is slashed across her right palm, white and long-healed- defensive wound. Another old one on her neck, edging down from her jawline, and a fresh one from her wrist he glimpsed when she reached in her purse to pay him for the soda.
She's sitting with her back in the corner booth with a clear view of the exit, her eyes flickering to the door every so often. And though she's pretty enough to be one of those Estharian supermodels, you don't get those kinds of marks by walking down a runway.
Definitely a soldier.
Piers gets them a lot in the bar, all haunted eyes and sharp attention. They're his best customers, scarred and world-weary in a way that never ever heals completely. They usually sit in a corner, and they always, (i>always</i> keep an eye on the exits. That vigilance isn't something they can turn off, whether they're on the battlefield or in a bar probably trying to forget just how nice those battlefields can be.
He wants to ask her what she's doing here, but her demeanor doesn't invite questions. She was cordial enough when ordering the drink, her smile practiced and polite...but she's not friendly. After five years of bartending, Piers recognizes the look of a patron that wants to spill their guts and a patron that wants to be left alone, but he can't quite take his eyes off her all the same, because, top to bottom, she just doesn't quite add up. Long-limbed with lustrous blonde hair and a mouth that could make a Hynian priest sweat...and then there's that gaze of hers. Deep and cool and glacier-blue, and with all the warmth you'd expect from two orbs of sculpted ice.
The object of Piers' attention sighs and plops the cherry back into her soda, submerging it before pulling it up again...rescuing it only to drown it.
Piers picks up a glass to dry and wonders what it is she's waiting on. Someone, he decides, not something, because it's more interesting that way...but who?
People-watching is Piers' favorite past time, one that makes serving watered-down drinks in a hovel by the sea a somewhat tolerable profession. He notices details because he looks for them, but this girl in front of him isn't giving any hints away.
Who could be coming for her? Old friend? New lover?
As if she can feel his stare, the girl's gaze flickers up to his. For the briefest second, she looks troubled, but her expression quickly schools itself into that polite mask she wore earlier when ordering her drink.
"Can I get you something else?" Piers calls to her, scrambling for a cover for why he's been staring at her for the last ten minutes.
She hesitates a moment, picks up the cherry, then plops it back into the glass with a sigh. "Yes. Three fingers of Odine's Whiskey, neat."
Piers fetches the glass and dumps out the soda before pouring her a generous glass of the whiskey. He walks the drink back to the booth, sliding it across the table smoothly enough not to slosh it.
"Thank you," she says, sliding him some gil. "Keep the change."
Piers goes back to polishing glasses at the bar, but his eyes every so often snake back to the pretty little puzzle in the corner.
Her hands are cupped tightly around the sides of her new drink as if she can draw warmth from the glass. She doesn't drink, but stares into the amber liquid like it's a wishing well. In that moment, he'd give anything to know what she's thinking.
Piers pours a new scotch for Blue and goes back to watching her, risking whatever it is she does to assholes that stare at her too long. Silent or not, she's still the most interesting thing in the bar.
Just then, the door opens and the girl's gaze snaps to the entrance. It's a young man. He's tall enough that he has to duck under the rotting doorway, and this face Piers remembers- he's seen it before in that same corner, hunched over a bowl of peanuts and staring at the walls with the kind of hard, relentless attention that weathers rocks.
Hard to forget a man with a scar like that, a faded red rut that carves down the middle of his face. Piers doesn't know his name, but then, this isn't the kind of bar where you ask for names. You ask about drinks- what kind, how many, another one?- but everything else, well, that's what they're here to forget.
The girl's eyes have lit up at the sight of this man, but not, Piers notes, with friendliness. There's a wary recognition on her face as she watches this newcomer walk her way.
The young man pulls off his woolen cap and walks to the end of the bar, sliding into the booth opposite the girl. "Bottle of Carden's Black," he calls to Piers, then in a lower voice says something to the young woman that Piers can't make out.
Judghing by the new unfriendly slant to her eyes, the comment can't be going over very well. The young man doesn't seem bothered by the reception, however- if anything, he seems to be encouraged by it, leaning forward so that there's only a few antagonistic inches between them. Piers cracks open the beer against the side of the bar, fighting a smile as he walks around the bar to deliver it.
Old lovers, maybe?
Maybe, judging by the way the man invades her space with such ease.
Old friends?
Piers practiced abilities as a lip-reader enable him to catch one particular word as it leaves the young woman's lovely lips in a hiss.
Definitely not friends. Not anymore, anyway.
As Piers walks around to deliver the drink, he can make out the last few bits of their conversation above the juke box and Salina's curses as she loses yet another round of Triple Triad.
"-wasted your time, coming here," he's saying to her angrily.
"If that's true, why'd you bother to show up?" she replies with equal ire, and both of them snap their heads up as Piers sets the beer on the table.
The new arrival indicates the woman across from him with a dash of his head. "It's on her." He has blood under his fingernails, and the jacket he's wearing is glittering with fish scales. Like so many fellow patrons, he's here fresh off the docks, though, judging by the dampness of his cuffs and collar, he'd washed up at one of the cleaning stations before coming.
A stony silence ensues as the young woman digs in her purse, handing Piers a few gil notes.
"Thank you. You can keep the change," she says again.
"And you can get lost," adds the young man, glaring at him.
The girl's eyes narrow. "Try and mind your manners, if you have any," she snaps at her boothmate, and Piers fights another smile as he walks back to the bar. He can't hear the rest of their conversation, but from the nearly permanent frown knotted between the girl's eyebrows, it isn't going well. Time ticks on, and their whispers grow more and more strained. At one point, the young man slams his beer down on the table hard enough to wobble the legs. The girl sits back in the both, and there's that worried expression again, for the merest of moments. But then she's leaning forward, expression tightening as the young man laughs.
Suddenly, the girl stands up, snatches her purse, and stalks to the door. Piers is surprised to see the young man get up just as quickly and lunge after her, grabbing her arm before she can reach the exit. She whirls around, looking furious, and Piers starts forward to break up what seems to be an escalating situation when he overhears their conversation, because they aren't troubling to keep their voices quiet any longer-
"I should have known-" she's saying, and for a moment, those pretty blue eyes seem on the verge of tears.
"-ask me." he says, "Ask me yourself, or are you too much of a fucking coward?"
"I TOLD you we needed help, that's why they sent me. I don't know why you have to make this so difficult-"
"No." he shakes his head. "I want YOU to ask ME. It's actually that fucking simple."
"What does it matter if-" she snaps, and he jerks her closer, forcing her to glare up at him. He's not gentle, but then, judging by her scars, she doesn't look like a woman that's used to gentleness.
Their faces are almost touching, and that icy stare of hers has melted now into something bright and furious. If possible, it makes her look even more beautiful, and, from the young man's expression, he isn't immune to it, either.
"It matters to me." He says quietly.
The other conversations have fallen to a standstill, and all eyes are on the couple that is not a couple near the door.
The girl's breath is coming a little quickly in her anger, and she seems to be struggling with something in the silence that follows. Something must win out in her, however, because she says, her eyes not quite meeting his-
"Please." She spits out the word as if it has a bad taste, her gaze on the floor. In that moment, her body seems to sag a little, and her body looks as tired as her eyes.
The boy with the scarred face waits, his hand still gripping her arm. She's still fighting with her words, her hands have balling into fists at her sides. When she speaks again, her tone is quiet and steady, but no less fragile for it.
"...come back." It's less a question and more a command, but the young man's face softens at it, just enough to ease the wrinkle in his scar.
For a moment Piers thinks the boy will draw out his victory and let her sweat, but instead he replies almost immediately.
"Okay." And just like that, the boy's grip on her arm loosens, though the small sliver of distance between them remains the same. She is looking up into his eyes now, and in the following moments it's impossible to say whether they want to kiss or kill each other.
Maybe both.
After all, Piers knows from experience that there's a fine line between love and war.
Suddenly, the boy grins. "There, that wasn't so hard, was it, princess?"
-and whatever spell was brewing between them is broken as the girl yanks her arm from his grip and wrenches open the door.
“Grow up, hero,” she replies, and it doesn't take a genius to know she doesn't mean the last part as a compliment.
Chuckling, the young man follows after her, and the bar patrons turn back to their drinks once more.
Piers picks up a new glass to polish, shaking his head.
He doesn't know what he's just witnessed, but he has the feeling it's the beginning of something rather than the end of it.
Rating: Teen for some minor cursing. Huh, what do you know, I wrote something under an R rating.
Summary: It all starts with a girl waiting in a bar. Even an avalanche can begin with a single snowflake.
Notes: A third-person look at the Seifer/Quistis conundrum. I started this as soon as the community was created, and for some reason, it's been like trying to cram a round peg in a square hole. Others to follow.
The Bitter End is the type of bar where people go to drink alone. Night or day it's dark and cool inside, perfect if you need to hide a bruise or a face for a few hours. There's cold drinks to settle you down after a fight, warm drinks to heat up your blood if you've been out in the cold too long. Glass of ice to ease the sting of a swollen lip, bowl of half-stale nuts if you haven't eaten all day. Beggars can't be choosers, after all, and if you were a chooser, well, you wouldn't be here in the first place.
If you need a place to forget, though, this is your utopia. Your very own Island of Ennui. The Bitter End deals exclusively in amnesia....at least, for as long as your take your medicine.
Piers likes to think that the interior of the bar has a very 'human' atmosphere- that's a nice way of saying that people are always leaving things behind. The lacquered surface of the old bar has seen its share of blood and tears, and you can usually find a few teeth scattered across the wood floor after a Saturday night brawl. The bar's few windows are covered in a film of grease and smoke, filtering the sunlight into a grey haze that hides most of the rips in the cushions and the chips in the wood.
The walls are decorated with an assortment of taxidermy projects and hunting conquests from battles long ago- a Wendigo's paw has been stuffed mid-clench while a Chocobo's dusty head mount is missing a glass eye. People don't come for the decorations, anyway. Or for the drinks.
People come to a place like this to forget about why they need to come to a place like this. It's a vicious cycle that lines barkeeps' pockets everywhere for as long as they've had pockets to line.
Piers inherited the bar when his old man died five years ago, leaving him everything he owned. This amounted to a bar and a half-rusted sword from his father's time in the Galbadian army, which now hangs over the back wall in a tribute to...something. The place isn't much to look at- it's a mixture of paneled walls and a clapboard roof which, when the summer comes, is covered in seagull shit from top to bottom so thoroughly the damned thing looks like someone painted the damned thing white.
Most days when you open the door, you can smell the breeze off the docks and the stink of fish guts from the cleaning stations. Some days, though, you can hear the rush of the waves and the smell of fresh air, and on those days, Piers doesn't feel like his father's corpse is punishing him for dropping out of the military and wrecking his prospects, whatever those were to begin with. In Balamb, you can be a fisherman, a soldier, or you can be the guy that sells them enough alcohol to forget about how much they hate doing these things. As it happened, Piers fell out of the second option and into the last.
At any rate, the patrons seem to care about the ambiance one way or another. Today, there's the usual crowd- Salina with her short skirt and matching black eyes, sporting a new bruise on her leg and already up to her gills in gin and tonics. She's picking at a hangnail, wriggling her skinny bottom two and fro on the bar stool and looking a little uncomfortable, because that prick has probably thrown her down the stairs ass-first instead of face-first this time. She's talking with Andres, an unlucky fisherman who's got as many troubles with fish as Salina does with men, both of them playing Triple Triad for peanut shells and trying to avoid going home for as long as possible.
There's Blue with his scotch,(three fingers, neat), staring off into whatever old hell he's trying to escape, and then there's Mason, an old man with a scarred face whose fingers tremble around his whiskey until he's well into his second of the morning. Raddik is in the corner, surrounded by his usual cloud of smoke and drinking whiskey like it's water.
The girl in the corner, however- she's new.
She's been nursing the same cherry coke for over an hour, her chin resting heavily on her fist. Her other hand is occupied in holding her cherry garnish by the stem, dunking it in the now watered-down drink. Condensation is sweating down the glass and creating a puddle on the table, which she occasionally traces patterns in. She looks just a little familiar, but Piers can't think of where he would have seen her before. Not in this bar, certainly- he never forgets a face....or a wallet.
This newcomer is beautiful in a way that doesn't seem to fit into this place, and she's waiting for something or someone that seems a long time in coming.
In the meantime, Piers finds himself just a little bit captivated. Sure, he's seen beautiful women before, but the beauty he's used to in places like this is the wilted kind, faded and half-forgotten like a rose slumping in a jelly jar.
This girl is all edges- sharp and polished down to her ocean blue eyes and the tight bob of the fishtail flip in her hair. She's wearing a brown leather jacket and a white shirt over jeans, her purse on the counter beside her. Her leather boots are polished to a shine. The clothes and the bag look new- there's no creases in the leather, no marks on the purse canvas. The girl's skin is another matter. An old scar is slashed across her right palm, white and long-healed- defensive wound. Another old one on her neck, edging down from her jawline, and a fresh one from her wrist he glimpsed when she reached in her purse to pay him for the soda.
She's sitting with her back in the corner booth with a clear view of the exit, her eyes flickering to the door every so often. And though she's pretty enough to be one of those Estharian supermodels, you don't get those kinds of marks by walking down a runway.
Definitely a soldier.
Piers gets them a lot in the bar, all haunted eyes and sharp attention. They're his best customers, scarred and world-weary in a way that never ever heals completely. They usually sit in a corner, and they always, (i>always</i> keep an eye on the exits. That vigilance isn't something they can turn off, whether they're on the battlefield or in a bar probably trying to forget just how nice those battlefields can be.
He wants to ask her what she's doing here, but her demeanor doesn't invite questions. She was cordial enough when ordering the drink, her smile practiced and polite...but she's not friendly. After five years of bartending, Piers recognizes the look of a patron that wants to spill their guts and a patron that wants to be left alone, but he can't quite take his eyes off her all the same, because, top to bottom, she just doesn't quite add up. Long-limbed with lustrous blonde hair and a mouth that could make a Hynian priest sweat...and then there's that gaze of hers. Deep and cool and glacier-blue, and with all the warmth you'd expect from two orbs of sculpted ice.
The object of Piers' attention sighs and plops the cherry back into her soda, submerging it before pulling it up again...rescuing it only to drown it.
Piers picks up a glass to dry and wonders what it is she's waiting on. Someone, he decides, not something, because it's more interesting that way...but who?
People-watching is Piers' favorite past time, one that makes serving watered-down drinks in a hovel by the sea a somewhat tolerable profession. He notices details because he looks for them, but this girl in front of him isn't giving any hints away.
Who could be coming for her? Old friend? New lover?
As if she can feel his stare, the girl's gaze flickers up to his. For the briefest second, she looks troubled, but her expression quickly schools itself into that polite mask she wore earlier when ordering her drink.
"Can I get you something else?" Piers calls to her, scrambling for a cover for why he's been staring at her for the last ten minutes.
She hesitates a moment, picks up the cherry, then plops it back into the glass with a sigh. "Yes. Three fingers of Odine's Whiskey, neat."
Piers fetches the glass and dumps out the soda before pouring her a generous glass of the whiskey. He walks the drink back to the booth, sliding it across the table smoothly enough not to slosh it.
"Thank you," she says, sliding him some gil. "Keep the change."
Piers goes back to polishing glasses at the bar, but his eyes every so often snake back to the pretty little puzzle in the corner.
Her hands are cupped tightly around the sides of her new drink as if she can draw warmth from the glass. She doesn't drink, but stares into the amber liquid like it's a wishing well. In that moment, he'd give anything to know what she's thinking.
Piers pours a new scotch for Blue and goes back to watching her, risking whatever it is she does to assholes that stare at her too long. Silent or not, she's still the most interesting thing in the bar.
Just then, the door opens and the girl's gaze snaps to the entrance. It's a young man. He's tall enough that he has to duck under the rotting doorway, and this face Piers remembers- he's seen it before in that same corner, hunched over a bowl of peanuts and staring at the walls with the kind of hard, relentless attention that weathers rocks.
Hard to forget a man with a scar like that, a faded red rut that carves down the middle of his face. Piers doesn't know his name, but then, this isn't the kind of bar where you ask for names. You ask about drinks- what kind, how many, another one?- but everything else, well, that's what they're here to forget.
The girl's eyes have lit up at the sight of this man, but not, Piers notes, with friendliness. There's a wary recognition on her face as she watches this newcomer walk her way.
The young man pulls off his woolen cap and walks to the end of the bar, sliding into the booth opposite the girl. "Bottle of Carden's Black," he calls to Piers, then in a lower voice says something to the young woman that Piers can't make out.
Judghing by the new unfriendly slant to her eyes, the comment can't be going over very well. The young man doesn't seem bothered by the reception, however- if anything, he seems to be encouraged by it, leaning forward so that there's only a few antagonistic inches between them. Piers cracks open the beer against the side of the bar, fighting a smile as he walks around the bar to deliver it.
Old lovers, maybe?
Maybe, judging by the way the man invades her space with such ease.
Old friends?
Piers practiced abilities as a lip-reader enable him to catch one particular word as it leaves the young woman's lovely lips in a hiss.
Definitely not friends. Not anymore, anyway.
As Piers walks around to deliver the drink, he can make out the last few bits of their conversation above the juke box and Salina's curses as she loses yet another round of Triple Triad.
"-wasted your time, coming here," he's saying to her angrily.
"If that's true, why'd you bother to show up?" she replies with equal ire, and both of them snap their heads up as Piers sets the beer on the table.
The new arrival indicates the woman across from him with a dash of his head. "It's on her." He has blood under his fingernails, and the jacket he's wearing is glittering with fish scales. Like so many fellow patrons, he's here fresh off the docks, though, judging by the dampness of his cuffs and collar, he'd washed up at one of the cleaning stations before coming.
A stony silence ensues as the young woman digs in her purse, handing Piers a few gil notes.
"Thank you. You can keep the change," she says again.
"And you can get lost," adds the young man, glaring at him.
The girl's eyes narrow. "Try and mind your manners, if you have any," she snaps at her boothmate, and Piers fights another smile as he walks back to the bar. He can't hear the rest of their conversation, but from the nearly permanent frown knotted between the girl's eyebrows, it isn't going well. Time ticks on, and their whispers grow more and more strained. At one point, the young man slams his beer down on the table hard enough to wobble the legs. The girl sits back in the both, and there's that worried expression again, for the merest of moments. But then she's leaning forward, expression tightening as the young man laughs.
Suddenly, the girl stands up, snatches her purse, and stalks to the door. Piers is surprised to see the young man get up just as quickly and lunge after her, grabbing her arm before she can reach the exit. She whirls around, looking furious, and Piers starts forward to break up what seems to be an escalating situation when he overhears their conversation, because they aren't troubling to keep their voices quiet any longer-
"I should have known-" she's saying, and for a moment, those pretty blue eyes seem on the verge of tears.
"-ask me." he says, "Ask me yourself, or are you too much of a fucking coward?"
"I TOLD you we needed help, that's why they sent me. I don't know why you have to make this so difficult-"
"No." he shakes his head. "I want YOU to ask ME. It's actually that fucking simple."
"What does it matter if-" she snaps, and he jerks her closer, forcing her to glare up at him. He's not gentle, but then, judging by her scars, she doesn't look like a woman that's used to gentleness.
Their faces are almost touching, and that icy stare of hers has melted now into something bright and furious. If possible, it makes her look even more beautiful, and, from the young man's expression, he isn't immune to it, either.
"It matters to me." He says quietly.
The other conversations have fallen to a standstill, and all eyes are on the couple that is not a couple near the door.
The girl's breath is coming a little quickly in her anger, and she seems to be struggling with something in the silence that follows. Something must win out in her, however, because she says, her eyes not quite meeting his-
"Please." She spits out the word as if it has a bad taste, her gaze on the floor. In that moment, her body seems to sag a little, and her body looks as tired as her eyes.
The boy with the scarred face waits, his hand still gripping her arm. She's still fighting with her words, her hands have balling into fists at her sides. When she speaks again, her tone is quiet and steady, but no less fragile for it.
"...come back." It's less a question and more a command, but the young man's face softens at it, just enough to ease the wrinkle in his scar.
For a moment Piers thinks the boy will draw out his victory and let her sweat, but instead he replies almost immediately.
"Okay." And just like that, the boy's grip on her arm loosens, though the small sliver of distance between them remains the same. She is looking up into his eyes now, and in the following moments it's impossible to say whether they want to kiss or kill each other.
Maybe both.
After all, Piers knows from experience that there's a fine line between love and war.
Suddenly, the boy grins. "There, that wasn't so hard, was it, princess?"
-and whatever spell was brewing between them is broken as the girl yanks her arm from his grip and wrenches open the door.
“Grow up, hero,” she replies, and it doesn't take a genius to know she doesn't mean the last part as a compliment.
Chuckling, the young man follows after her, and the bar patrons turn back to their drinks once more.
Piers picks up a new glass to polish, shaking his head.
He doesn't know what he's just witnessed, but he has the feeling it's the beginning of something rather than the end of it.