Wakeful Hours

At the unimportant heart of an unimportant town, a familiar face appears. In a slightly gentler world, two sworn brothers meet again after nine years.

-a breaking of the ice/how i fit into you-

There was nothing exceptional about this tavern. The atmosphere rose just loud enough to stir itself into frothy, bland white noise, the ale was mediocre at best, and as far as Sabo could tell the wait staff was populated by people whose particular brand of pragmatism meant their hopes and dreams extended no further than the edges of their service trays. Outside, the waves crashed at the same timbre as in any other port town, and the air was peppered with sea salt like a stew at the hands of some unadventurous chef. This place had not been blunted by past tragedy nor whittled to a point in expectation that someday the world would treat it as its axis and spin, briefly, on its prepared tip. As Sabo drank his satisfyingly tasteless drink and ate food identifiable by neither taste nor texture, he sat in the shadows of the furthest corner from the door and tried to color himself and the hat resting beside him on the bench in the same dull shades as everything else around him.

There was no reason why anyone of any import would be passing through this place. If someone thought just long enough about that, they were bound to come to the conclusion that such anonymity would make this the best location for someone like him to hide. Sabo found himself holding his breath on occasion, as if that would help maintain the diaphanous film between obscurity and conspicuity. It was, sometimes, the best shield he had at his disposal.

His meal finished, he sat in silence, nursing a second flagon of ale and watching the other patrons from beneath thick blonde bangs. Before this trip, he had never even heard of this town, standing in the middle of nowhere on an unimportant coast of an unimportant sea. He had been here for three days now, sitting, watching. Waiting. The occasional miscalculated bill had punctuated the