It wasn't sarcasm. It was genuine curiosity, mixed with a hint of something that sounded like… pity? Or perhaps surprise at the simplicity of this young man's suffering? Because to Samael, losing someone to a breakup sounded almost like a luxury.
"Because of that? That's the only reason you're like this?"
The man looked up, eyes reddened, his expression shifting from tears to disbelief.
"What!?" he exclaimed, his voice rising higher than he intended. "What do you mean, 'Really? That's it?' You don't understand! You're just a kid! What do you know about love?"
The shout drew attention from nearby tables, but seeing it was the drunkard and the boy with the strange eyes, they chose not to get involved.
Samael waited for the echo of his voice to fade. He didn't flinch. He didn't blink. He just waited, with a patience that didn't seem befitting of someone his age.
When Ed lowered his gaze, ashamed of his outburst, Samael paused, looking through the windows into the night. It wasn't a dark night, not entirely. Gas lamps—and some magical lamps, with eternal flames encased in glass—illuminated the cobblestone streets. The city lived its own life out there.
He seemed to be weighing a decision. Then, he looked back at the drunkard.
"Well, it's just that… I don't know," Samael murmured, searching for the right words before letting them out. It wasn't something he did often, searching for words. Usually, he either stayed quiet or said only what was necessary. "Maybe you could… let's say, try talking to another girl or something."
It was such a simple, down-to-earth suggestion that for a moment, time seemed to stand still.
Ed stopped staring at his glass. The proposal, what the younger boy had mentioned to him, was something he had never even thought of. Or maybe he had wondered, in those moments of lucidity between binges, but he had always dismissed it as impossible.
"Try to approach another woman?" repeated Ed Tonor, as if wanting to taste the words or process them better. They sounded strange in his mouth, like a foreign language. "I… I don't think I can."
He tilted his head, losing himself again in his empty glass.
"I…" he said, and just hung there.
Samael watched him for a moment. Then, with his usual calm, he spoke:
"I mean, you're not the most attractive man in the world," Samael continued, with the same calm as always. "But you're not at the very bottom of the beauty pyramid either."
And it was true. Ed Tonor wasn't an Adonis, but if he wanted to marry a woman, he wouldn't have many problems. Unless the girl was extremely demanding.
Because Mr. Ed had that kind of attractiveness that doesn't shout, but whispers.
His hair was light blonde, almost golden when the light hit it, short and textured, with slightly lifted strands that seemed to defy gravity. It wasn't a rigid or perfectly ordered hairstyle; rather, it had that controlled messiness that gave an impression of naturalness, as if the wind had gently passed through him without ruining it. The tips caught small glints of sunlight, and the sides, precisely trimmed, made the volume on top stand out even more. The strands at the front lifted slightly upward and backward, forming a soft yet dynamic silhouette, like small golden flames frozen in motion.
Beneath that light hair, his green eyes stood out with a quiet intensity. They weren't a bright, artificial green, but a deep shade, reminiscent of wet forests after the rain.
That combination—textured blonde hair and serene green eyes—gave him a curious appearance: friendly and relaxed, but also perceptive, like someone who observed more than he said.
He wasn't a man who stopped traffic with his mere presence, but he wasn't someone easily ignored either. There was a warmth in him, a humanity, that was more attractive than any perfection of features.
"You tell me to do that," Ed replied, and there was no envy in his tone, even though Samael was objectively much more attractive, "because you wouldn't have any trouble getting a girlfriend. You probably already have one, don't you? Or several?"
It wasn't envy. It was an observation. Samael was attractive, yes, but not just because of his physique. It was his face, his way of walking, his presence, that aura emanating from the young man sitting across from him. Something about him made you want to keep looking at him, even if you didn't know why. Not because of his personality—he was barely getting to know him.
Samael didn't give him any response. His face remained impassive, but something in his eyes darkened for an instant. Just an instant.
Ed noticed it. Drunk, but not blind.
"But anyway," he said quickly, changing his tone. "We didn't come… no—" he corrected himself. "You didn't come here to listen to a man older than you, but more pathetic in every way."
Several minutes passed. The pianist in the back began a slow melody, the kind that invites nostalgia. The floating bulbs flickered slightly, as if the magic that powered them fluctuated with the establishment's mood.
Neither of them said a single word to the other. But it wasn't an uncomfortable silence. It was a shared silence, the kind that only occurs between people who, without knowing each other, have reached an unspoken understanding.
Until finally, the drunkard broke the silence.
"Do you want me to tell you a story?" he asked Samael.
The young man looked at him, assessed the proposal for a second, and then nodded.
"Okay, once upon a time…"
And Ed began to speak. It was a simple story, the kind grandparents tell children. About a fisherman who found a bottle in the sea, and inside, a spirit that granted wishes, but every wish had a price. The fisherman, greedy, asked for riches, and got gold, but lost his family. He asked for power, and got it, but lost his friends. In the end, he asked to be poor but happy again, and the spirit, tired of his whims, turned him to stone.
Not even two minutes passed when the story reached its end.
"You liked it, didn't you?" asked Ed, with a hopeful smile.
"No."
The answer was quick, dry, crushing. Like a hammer blow.
Ed's smile froze.
"But—" Samael continued, and his tone softened slightly, "it wasn't that bad either. It was… it was good to hear you talk."
Mr. Ed Tonor's cheek reddened a little. He didn't know if it was from the alcohol, from the shame that his story wasn't liked, or from that small comfort at the end. Probably all of it together.
"Then you tell me one," he said to Samael, as a smile—this time more genuine—returned to his face. "You look like an adventurer. You must have something to tell me about your travels, don't you?"
Samael processed the sudden question. It wasn't something he expected.
"You really want that?"
"Yes. The night is long," Ed murmured, nodding toward the window, where the moon was beginning to rise. "And I don't want to stay here alone, without company. You've already seen how I am when left alone."
"You really think I'm going to put up with you for that long?" Samael replied, and there was no repulsion in his tone. Just a practical observation. "I need to rest, you know? Tomorrow I have… things to do."
"Hmm… I know that, but…" replied Mr. Ed, with another smile. This time, warm, grateful. "But you sat here with me for a reason, right? People don't just sit down with drunks for no reason. You wanted… I don't know. Company, maybe. Or information. Or you just didn't want to be alone."
And for the first time since he had entered the tavern, Samael was surprised.
A little.
Just a little.
But it was enough for his eyes, those dark, inscrutable eyes, to blink twice in a row.
A few seconds of silence.
Samael searched for something to tell him from his many journeys and travels. Throughout his days, he had accumulated enough stories to fill libraries. But most of them were not for sharing. They were heavy. Dark. Full of things that would make this man, who was crying over a woman who left him, run away in terror.
Until he found the right one. The perfect moment.
"Alright," he finally said. "Then I'll tell you who I am."
His tone changed. He adopted a cadence that spoke of long-guarded memories, of words that hadn't been spoken in a long time.
"Or at least, where I come from. Maybe then you'll understand why your misfortune seems like… a luxury to me."
Ed frowned, confused.
"A luxury? My girlfriend leaving me is a luxury?"
"Listen, and you'll understand."
Ed calmed down. He sat up straighter in his chair, a considerable effort given his state. He took a drink—the bartender, with silent efficiency, had left them a new jug on the table at some point—and then, with a sincerity that only alcohol allows, he said:
"Sorry about before. For yelling at you. I shouldn't have…"
"Forget it."
And so, while the tavern continued its frenzy around them—the laughter, the arguments, the clinking of glasses, the piano in the background—Samael began to speak.
He didn't start with today, nor with yesterday. He started from the beginning. From the ashes.