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The library had finally quieted after another gruelling reception. Pages still whispered through its sprawling corridors, but the clamor of steel and the cries of guests had faded into memory, leaving only an uneasy stillness in their wake. Roland wandered through the library’s endless halls, not looking for anywhere in particular—just somewhere less suffocating than the aftermath of another bloody reception, his jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder, the fatigue of the day still weighing on him heavier than he cared to admit.
Eventually, his feet dragged him to Netzach’s floor—a place where time stretched thin and sluggish, the air stale with the sour tang of alcohol and the weary musk of worn-out furniture.
There, sprawled across the lounge couch like a discarded coat, was Netzach himself, half-asleep with a half-empty bottle of cheap whisky resting precariously on his chest.
“Y’know,” Roland drawled with a cocky grin, leaning against the doorframe, “most people actually sit upright when they drink.”
Netzach’s gaze wandered lazily towards him. “Most people actually care enough to sit upright. I don’t.” He tipped the bottle forward in Roland’s direction, letting it dangle loosely in his hand before he sighed. “What’re you doing here? Thought you’d be busy chasing after Angela or snooping around the library again.”
Roland smirked, crossing the room. The lounge was dim, its lamps casting a yellow glow over stacks of neglected books and the faint clutter of bottles abandoned on low tables. The air carried the sour warmth of old drink and fabric left too long without care, but it felt calmer than most floors. “Guess I needed a break. And maybe some company. Your floor’s quieter than most.” He plucked the bottle out of Netzach’s hand before the other could protest. “Though I’m starting to think you’re just gonna sleep through our little hangout.”
Netzach didn’t rise to the comment. He could only reply with a long, drawn-out exhale, his head sinking limp against the cushions with what little energy he had. He gave a faint shrug; arguing would take more effort than he was willing to spend. Instead, he shifted just enough to open a space on the couch. “Then sit. If you’re gonna bother me, might as well make yourself comfortable.”
Roland chuckled, lowering himself onto the couch beside him. For a while, neither of them said a word. The silence wasn’t heavy, though—it was the kind of quiet that softened the edges of the library’s endless halls.
“…You ever get tired of being tired?” Roland suddenly asked, his voice quieter than he intended.
Netzach gave him a sidelong glance, the corner of his lips tugging into something faintly resembling a smile. “That’s my whole deal, isn’t it? Being tired. But… sometimes, with the right person around, it doesn’t feel so bad.” His voice drifted, warm in its resignation.
Roland blinked, then let out a low, easy laugh. “You’re smoother than you let on, y’know that?”
“Don’t spread it around.” Netzach’s eyes slipped shut again, his head tilted just enough to brush against Roland’s shoulder. “I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”
Roland froze for a heartbeat, then let out a slow breath, relaxing into it. He placed the bottle down on the table and rested his arm along the back of the couch, fingers brushing through Netzach’s hair as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.
The library was vast, endless, and suffocating at times. But here, in the hush of a floor that smelled faintly of alcohol and old books, Roland found something he hadn’t expected: the fragile, unspoken comfort of being close to someone who understood the weight the days carried. Every reception, every battle, every interminable shuffle of pages and guests pressed down on them, and yet, in this quiet corner, the pressure eased just enough to breathe.
He smiled faintly. “Guess I’ll stick around a while.”
Netzach, already half-asleep, only murmured, “Suit yourself…”
And for once, neither of them minded the silence.