"When did we ever stop trying?" Rodi laughs at the end of their retelling. On the high bar stool, his leg brushes against Olive's when he crosses them.
Anthos bites his tongue back for a second, though it's not like it's a secret anymore. "...We have something we've stopped trying."
It clicks for Isandro when Olive's face gets overcast from the next recollection. They let the bitterness of their drinks speak until the glasses turn empty.
Their minds land upon their trials, never-ending, without a verdict in sight. They bred so much frustration, that Olive had even developed second thoughts about coming back to Inkopolis. He anticipated what Rodi was keen to bring up, without fault.
Their rings, their chains, or lack thereof.
"But that means we'd have to delay it another six months! ...Again!" Rodi fumed, yet his pointed remarks sputtered, seeing Olive already decided on how those months would look like.
"I'm sorry. I know it's inconvenient..." Olive abstained from pinning the last delay on Rodi. "These sorts of projects don't come often, and this one's getting fast-tracked, funded. Do you realise what kind of opportunity this is? It'll change everything we know about the Molluscian and pre-Molluscian divide. We did six months, we can do another."
Another frozen winter would be spent alone, while Olive chased the sun.
"You'll be on the other side of the fucking planet, how are we even..." Rodi stopped, pissed at himself for how clingy he sounded.
"I'll come. Just call me, and I'll come," he reassured, sliding closer to Rodi's slumped stance.
It just about made Rodi believe it.
Yet the half-hearted, apologetic kiss that followed was sharply rejected, with a full turn of the head. Olive's cheek got slapped by Rodi's side-swept tentacles, while he still had them.
It wasn't that Olive didn't want the wedding. It just seemed to pale when things bigger than themselves were taking shape, while they still had the luxury of being young. The mystery, and fear, of what Olive might discover overshadowed the one they've built between themselves. After all, their relationship was a solved case, signed with 'til death do us part.
For Anthos, theory took precedence over practice.
As part of his doctorate, Olive had been travelling the world to study wild flora, tracing its origins beyond the Great Flood. He kept seeing unlikely connections between the far-removed corners of the world and the desertification in the Splatlands. Rodi would've been a complete hypocrite to lock Olive away for himself, when he only wished for the same: to fly in this wide world with his wings spread out, watching the great spectacle from above.
Yet the way he'd built his life only reinforced the opposite. The apartment on Blackbelly Street was too dear to be sold, as well as Mimosa's hollowed basement. He toiled night and day behind cramped bars. He couldn't bring himself to let go of any of these commitments. Something inside him fought against it.
Their days spent apart lengthened with each research breakthrough, each new bar to manage.
In spite of these problems, they knew they would always have each other. Rodi even managed to buy the golden rings, ready to swap the silver ones. Yet these precious, fragile keepsakes ended up stashed in an ornate box, kept in the privacy of their old home, in fear of having something happen to it. They'd sometimes open the box and admire its contents, if they weren't spending the weekend together in some all-inclusive.
The dream state didn't cease, but this new life wasn't all they thought it'd be. The hotel rooms didn't have enough air to supply their flames, and they always found themselves in the morning consumed, charred by desire's wildfire. It was insatiable. This flame was what kept this love alive, but it was also what was killing it.
They had to rein it: another delay, another calculated kiss. The flame turned into a sympathetic spark. They had the rings, sure, but at the end of the stay, they remained married only to their own selves.
Rodi knew, somewhere in his hearts, how love stories dragged in their dying years. When lovers were comfortable in the permanence of their relationship, yet afraid to see it's been motionless, they happily lugged it in a corpse bag, draped in a tasteful patina.
They had been engaged for six years. Nobody wanted to admit the stalemate, or seek its cause. Yet, in spite of the stasis, the biggest heartache came from the smallest slip.
Every time one of the silver rings came off, or the ring box was left behind, pieces of their vows crumbled under a sensible excuse.
This place doesn't let me work with jewellery on.
I didn't want to lose the ring on that field trip.
I treasure it.
Me too.
It wasn't ever loud. Nobody cried. They simply kept forgetting them home. It was the most human way to err: forgetfulness.
Their promises got lost somewhere beyond the bend of the horizon, taken away by birds relishing in their freedom.