The pub is quiet, dimly lit. The wooden floors creak from the cold,
streaked with mud from the inclement weather. The bar room is cool and
clean but for a fine layer of dust in the corners and brown footprints
around the sodden doormat. The place feels like a loudness that lost
its will and became mute. The patrons spread themselves thinly,
keeping distant from each-other, perhaps unwilling to talk. Rain beats against
the window, keeping the silence from swallowing them all.

There is only one table with two. A man and a woman, looking at the
knots in the wood in front of them. His eyes are red as wine, her hair
is black as midnight. They do not speak.

He's older by at least a decade, with lines around his face that seem
drawn by pain or hard living. He hasn't looked up at the woman before
him since they sat down, a half hour ago. Perhaps they are both
waiting, there seem to be no words lying patient on his tongue. He breathes
deep and exhales loudly. The sound is a sigh or a tired prayer.

She looks up first, her eyes tracing his face, looking for something.
She licks her lips and glances around them. Whatever it is she's hoping
for, it's not there. Her hair is still damp from the rain. The air
inside is too cold and still to dry it properly. She cranes up at the
rafters, swears under her breath.

They could be lovers, but it's not longing in her gaze. Perhaps
there's some tenderness hiding beneath the frustration. They could be
two people who knew each other long ago, too dissimilar in appearance
to be related, too involved in their silence to be merely acquainted.
He's still more interested in his wine but he must know she's watching. He
waits for some undefinable moment, some inspiration, before he speaks.

“I killed him.” He whispers, looking at her and then down at his glass.

He shifts his chair back, leans his arms on the table. She stills,
looking at him, then the window. The rain becomes louder and louder
until she cannot say anything and still be heard. She shakes her head,
blinks away the thoughts. Her hands clench into fists in her lap.

Then she lets them go back on the table, flat. Her left hand touches
his right. The rain dwindles to the background again.

“Good.” She says.

She pulls away and reaches for her drink, seemingly satisfied that her
single word caries the meaning and reassurance of a whole conversation.

Slowly his mouth curls down against a jutted jaw, and his nasal breath
comes on loud and steady. He doesn't look up, instead letting his
shaking wrinkles make silent testament behind a veil of thick locks.
He might have said "thank you", but the patter of rain dissolved the
sound.

Here's a beautiful rendition of the scene Cart made:

Oh my goodness. Freaking chilly, man. Both the lit and the art. Really, I'd kind of wondered if Ivan had told anyone. It sort of surprises me that he outright told Fi (though I could be missing something, story-wise.)

Augh, awesome.

Oh, damn.

This is wonderful.