EVEREST
Everest emerges from the back hallway of the Hanged Man with damp hands and sleeves rolled precisely halfway up his forearms. The door clicks shut behind him with a sound that’s too sharp for the bar’s dusky atmosphere, and he pauses in the threshold, gaze sweeping across the room.
The world here is loud—visually, aurally, socially. Lanterns swing in a rhythm he doesn’t quite like, and conversations stack over one another like badly shuffled cards. There’s too much to parse all at once, too many colours layered over scents, over sound, over glitter.
So he recalibrates.
Chin angled slightly down, he starts a careful path toward the open-walled edge of the bar. The warmth outside will be unpleasant—he knows that—but not nearly as overstimulating as the shifting press of bodies. He’s halfway across the floor when a glittering blur catches the edge of his vision.
Not Flora. Not Mateo.
Isla.
Her hair catches the lantern-light like seafoam, and she looks relaxed in her seat, drink in hand. Not part of the noise, but not apart from it either. For just a moment, the crowd stills enough that it would be easy to walk over. A few strides, a hello, a conversation that might not even feel impossible.
Ever shifts direction without fanfare, but before he can take two full steps, he notices Remi and Ronin approaching.
They're already heading her way, drawn through the party like moons orbiting the same star. The moment narrows—Ever pauses, recalibrating mid-motion. It’s not jealousy or nerves exactly, just the sudden reappearance of an obstacle he hadn't accounted for. He stops neatly where he is and raises a hand in greeting, fingers parted, palm turned toward Isla in a simple, quiet hello. The smile that tugs at his mouth is faint but real.
And then he just… lingers. Not quite retreating, not quite advancing, standing in the lull between songs amidst dancers and sea-bright laughter. His shoulders square automatically to make room in the flow of bodies. His hands twitch once—an aborted adjustment of his cuffs—before returning to stillness. Decision no longer pressing, he finds himself a little unsure of where to go next.
The world here is loud—visually, aurally, socially. Lanterns swing in a rhythm he doesn’t quite like, and conversations stack over one another like badly shuffled cards. There’s too much to parse all at once, too many colours layered over scents, over sound, over glitter.
So he recalibrates.
Chin angled slightly down, he starts a careful path toward the open-walled edge of the bar. The warmth outside will be unpleasant—he knows that—but not nearly as overstimulating as the shifting press of bodies. He’s halfway across the floor when a glittering blur catches the edge of his vision.
Not Flora. Not Mateo.
Isla.
Her hair catches the lantern-light like seafoam, and she looks relaxed in her seat, drink in hand. Not part of the noise, but not apart from it either. For just a moment, the crowd stills enough that it would be easy to walk over. A few strides, a hello, a conversation that might not even feel impossible.
Ever shifts direction without fanfare, but before he can take two full steps, he notices Remi and Ronin approaching.
They're already heading her way, drawn through the party like moons orbiting the same star. The moment narrows—Ever pauses, recalibrating mid-motion. It’s not jealousy or nerves exactly, just the sudden reappearance of an obstacle he hadn't accounted for. He stops neatly where he is and raises a hand in greeting, fingers parted, palm turned toward Isla in a simple, quiet hello. The smile that tugs at his mouth is faint but real.
And then he just… lingers. Not quite retreating, not quite advancing, standing in the lull between songs amidst dancers and sea-bright laughter. His shoulders square automatically to make room in the flow of bodies. His hands twitch once—an aborted adjustment of his cuffs—before returning to stillness. Decision no longer pressing, he finds himself a little unsure of where to go next.
the boards will still creak
the leaves will still die
the leaves will still die
