Crimson Bonds

7

Too many things on my mind

Peter stacks bottles on the shelves, his movements mechanical, though his mind is anything but. The music blaring from the store's speakers provides a rhythm, and he finds himself swaying slightly, his thin tail flicking to the beat. It's one of those rare moments of solitude, where his usual anxieties seem to take a backseat, letting him lose himself in the mundane task. But the tranquillity is fragile, threatened by the nagging thoughts of Theoden's latest rejection. This time, the Half-Fae had bluntly refused to talk, and Peter had nearly incinerated a book in his hands from sheer frustration. He didn't, but he had to resist. He couldn't afford to burn through his readings—literally.

His thoughts spiral, thinking about how he's been distracting himself with work, with study, with anything that keeps him from wallowing in the mess that is his relationship. His hands move methodically, placing a bottle here, another there, but his mind races—how much longer can he keep this up? How much longer before he crashes? He almost doesn't notice the door jingle as someone enters the store.

Saifa's entrance is as sudden as the chaos he brings with him. Peter barely has time to process the flash of blue from the oversized sweater or the lazy smile that stretches across Saifa's face. The High Fae looks different, something about him more dishevelled, more real, and yet still effortlessly charming. Peter frowns when he realises Saifa's standing right in front of him, holding a bottle of caramel macchiato as if it were a peace offering.

"Take it," Peter says flatly, holding out his hand for the bottle. "You can leave the money on the counter."

Saifa's grin widens, as if Peter has just made his day. "Thanks!"

Peter expects him to leave, but instead, Saifa lingers, leaning against the shelves with a casual air that sets Peter on edge.

"What?" Peter snaps, not bothering to hide his irritation.

"Do you want to come to my show?" Saifa's tone is light, but there's an undercurrent of something more—a challenge, perhaps. "It's where Aiman works."

Peter narrows his eyes, sceptical. "Why would I want to go out with you?"

Saifa shrugs, unphased by Peter's prickliness. "Because you look like you need to relax."

Peter blinks, taken aback. There's something disarming about Saifa's bluntness, a candidness that catches him off guard.

"What?" Saifa continues, his smile softening. "It's written all over your face. You look like you're about to drop dead."

"Well, fuck you too," Peter mutters, feeling an unexpected rush of emotion—anger, embarrassment, and something else he can't quite place. He turns away, focusing on the bottles, hoping Saifa will take the hint and leave.

But Saifa is persistent. He follows Peter to the counter, his voice gentle but insistent. "It could be nice. You have a drink, I do my job for an hour or two, and then we can have another drink together. And you'll see Aiman. He's your friend, right?"

Peter sighs, exasperated. "If I go with you, will you shut up?"

Saifa's grin returns, victorious. "Yes."

Peter knows he'll regret it, but he nods, his fate sealed. "Alright. I close the store at 11. I'll come by around that time."

"Perfect!" Saifa beams, placing the correct amount of coins on the counter. He turns to leave but pauses at the door, looking back with a playful wink. "Don't be late."

As the door closes behind him, Peter lets out a heavy sigh. What is he doing?

***

By 11:30 p.m., Peter is sitting at the bar, a glass of whiskey in hand, listening to Saifa sing. He's not sure why he agreed to this—he should be home, buried under his blankets, not here in this noisy pub. And yet, he can't deny that there's something soothing about Saifa's voice, something that makes the knot in his chest loosen, if only a little.

The pub is packed, the crowd thick around the stage where Saifa stands, his guitar cradled in his hands. Despite the late hour, the energy in the room is electric. People are laughing, dancing, and Peter finds himself smiling despite himself. Aiman had greeted him briefly before being swept away by a flood of orders, leaving Peter to his own devices. Not that he minds. Watching Saifa is proving to be more entertaining than he expected.

Saifa's voice is rich, each note carrying a warmth that Peter can feel seeping into his bones. There's a confidence in the way he performs, a natural ease that captivates the audience. But there's also something more—a subtle shift in the atmosphere with each song, as if Saifa is weaving some kind of spell over the room. Peter's eyes narrow on the Fae, watching attentively his movements until he notices a faint white glow emanating from Saifa's hands as they glide over the guitar strings. It's a small thing, almost imperceptible, but it confirms Peter's suspicion: Saifa is using magic.

Peter is no stranger to magic, of course. As a Fire Tiefling, he knows the power of elemental magic, the way it can bend and shape the world around him. But Saifa's magic is different—softer, more intricate. It's not the raw, untamed force of fire that Peter possesses; it's something more refined, more controlled. And it's mesmerising.

Despite himself, Peter finds his thoughts drifting away from Theoden, the usual pain and frustration dulled by Saifa's music. It's a relief, if only temporary, to not feel the constant ache that has plagued him for weeks. He knows it's a dangerous distraction, but for now, he's willing to let it take him.

As Saifa plays the final note of a song, the pub erupts into applause. Peter claps along with the crowd, his eyes meeting Saifa's across the room. There's a strange moment of connection, a silent understanding that passes between them, and Peter feels something stir in his chest. It's not love—he's not ready for that, he still loves Theoden—but it's something. A spark of hope, perhaps, that maybe, just maybe, things could get better.

But as Saifa's gaze lingers on him, Peter suddenly feels vulnerable. He quickly looks away, downing the rest of his drink in one go. What is he doing? What does he think he's going to find here? Answers? Solace? Or is he just running away from the inevitable, delaying the confrontation with Theoden that he knows is coming?

He shakes his head, trying to clear his thoughts. Tonight isn't the night for answers. Tonight is for forgetting, for losing himself in the music and the warmth of the crowd.

As Saifa begins another song, Peter leans back in his seat, letting the music wash over him. For the first time in a long while, he feels like he can breathe.