Considering the long and perilous trajectory of Larry's life, he could acknowledge that it was somewhat strange how little time he spent in the hotel's bar. He hadn't given up drinking by any means, but he'd not made much in the way of friends yet, and the idea of sitting there alone in the dim felt distinctly wrong. Blasphemous, even.

More often than not, when he wanted a drink in this place, he paid for a bottle of beer and carried it somewhere else, usually outside. Drinking alone purportedly being a bad idea, he didn't know if that was actually a better situation for his mental health, he just knew he liked the breeze on his face.

When he stepped toward the bar today, the plan hadn't altered any— That was, until he found himself met with an imploringly outstretched palm, the scrawl across it recognizable despite the imperfect canvas.

The words swam across his vision and then blurred through a veil of saline, because he knew, god he knew

(hoped, prayed)

the face beyond beyond would belong to someone he never thought he'd ever see again, although now, after everything, he didn't know why he'd assume that.

Breath caught tight in his throat, Larry briefly swayed in place, and the slender volume of Browning poems he had pilfered from the library slid from his fingers to the polished wood floor.