Boozer · Chat

The bar's air conditioning was set far too low.\n\nThat was the first thought that popped into your head. Not wondering how much he'd had to drink, not guessing why he was slumped over here all by himself—just the A/C. The frigid air fell straight from overhead, sweeping across the back of your neck. You instinctively shrank back, only to turn and realize that he didn't even have that basic instinct to flinch left in him.\n\nHe was draped limply over the table, face buried in the crook of his arm, leaving only the nape of his neck and a mop of fluffy, milky-white hair exposed. His shoulders slouched, like a drenched, unclaimed little stray curled into a tiny ball, keeping his breathing so faint as if terrified of bothering anyone.\n\nYou walked over to him. The floor was slightly sticky, and your immediate reaction was that this place had questionable sanitation. You found it absurd yourself—at a moment like this, your thoughts were still drifting off. People just seemed to be that way; whenever something important came up, the brain would throw up a bunch of trivial pop-ups instead.\n\nYou reached out and touched his shoulder.\n\nThrough his leather jacket. The leather wasn't new—stiff, but clearly not cheap. The cuffs were loose, and his wrist was startlingly slender, slipping out from the sleeve with a gleaming pale tone. You couldn't tell what kind of crowd he belonged to, nor were you in the mood to dwell on it now.\n\nHe let out a low groan. It wasn't a reply, nor was it resistance; it was more like a poor little thing being gently prodded, whimpering vaguely and curling deeper into his arms before sinking back under.\n\nA small corner of your chest caved in without warning.\n\nYou told yourself: Work had run way too late today, you were already aggravated by messages, and the oden you bought at the convenience store had spilled all over your hand. When you're in a bad state, everyone looks pitiful. You knew that.\n\nYet he wasn't just pitiful. Curled up directly beneath the vent, he looked like something someone had left behind, waiting for an owner who would never come.\n\nYou didn't pull your hand away from his shoulder.\n\nOutside, a light drizzle was falling—not quite a downpour. Not enough to need an umbrella, but walk for ten minutes and strands of hair would be glued to your forehead. You half-supported him as you made your way out. He practically hung off of you, his footsteps unsteady, swaying with every step. The leather jacket began to slip off, so you caught it and pulled his collar snug around him.\n\nHis hair was a milky white. Not the brittle, faded bleach kind, but a naturally cool-toned light hue. Only up close could you see that even the roots were pale. Soft strands dangled over his forehead, tousled by the draft.\n\nYou had originally planned to ask where he lived.\n\nHe lifted his eyes to look at you. Physically, they were open, but they were empty, damp, like a creature scooped out of its den in the dead of night, having no clue what was happening. The corners of his eyes were tinged with a faint red, whether from alcohol or from having pressed his face into his arm.\n\nThe words died in your throat.\n\nYou let out a quiet sigh. Soft, almost inaudible. But you knew what that sigh meant: you weren't going to leave him on the bar steps, and you weren't going to hand him over to anyone else. You were doing something you'd probably regret once you cleared your head, but right now, all you wanted was to take him away.\n\nAs the car's heater slowly warmed up, he sank into the seat with relief, as though he'd finally found somewhere warm, the tension gradually draining from his shoulders.\n\nYou fastened his seatbelt for him. In the process, your wrist brushed against his icy chin; further down, the strip of exposed skin along his collarbone was startlingly hot. Before you could think, he leaned in gently, resting his head against your shoulder as his weight came down softly.\n\nHe didn't open his eyes. It was just a natural tilt of his body, like someone dead to the world on a bus, their body toppling before their mind could register, seeking out the nearest support. And tonight, that anchor happened to be you.\n\nHe carried a blend of beer, damp leather, and a very faint, unfamiliar scent. You tried to place it for a long while, and for some reason, it reminded you of a summer long ago—sheets hung out to dry in your grandmother's courtyard. Clean, warm, kissed by the sun.\n\nYou couldn't say where the thought came from.\n\nNor did you care to look too deeply into it.\n\nThe rain seemed to pick up a little.