Namkung Yona

Yona doesn't know what time it is when she gets home, no longer drunk-drunk, but still firmly in the realm of tipsy. The first thing she does, once she's shed her mismatched shoes — it really is a shame about her boot — and some of the other accoutrements she somehow accumulated last night is text Grantaire to let him know she's back. Well, no, the first thing she does is pet Fred, the dog who's been with her now through all the people she's had from home disappearing, and then, settling on the couch, still bedecked in mostly dead glowstick jewelry and the hat of which she has already become inordinately fond, she texts Grantaire so he'll know she's back and alright. It isn't, honestly, something she would usually do. She loves her phone and loves sending texts, but she never got in the habit of checking in with people this way, more inclined to just go and do her own thing and trust that anyone will reach out to her if they need her. In the wake of something like this, though, it just makes sense. Tensions and emotions are high, and in the face of something that hurts in a way she isn't entirely equipped to explain, it's nice, she thinks, to know they still have each other.

As she expected it would last night, part of the reason she went out in the first place, the apartment seems so empty. It's her imagination, probably, her own awareness of the person who should be there who isn't anymore. On the surface, after all, nothing has changed, and it isn't as if she hasn't spent time alone here before. She just feels Edgar's absence in her bones, much like the snow that's begun falling outside, fittingly unnerving weather for a time like this.

For a while, she sits sprawled on the couch, flipping through TV channels, watching five minutes of one show before she gets bored and switches to another. When it gets late enough, though, she gets her phone out again, and starts systematically going through the restaurants in her contacts, ordering delivery from all of them. They'll need to eat, and she doesn't feel like making a decision, and anyway, it'll probably be good to have leftovers on hand.

Once done, she texts Grantaire again: got food. couldn't decide what to get so there's some of everything, followed by a bright pink heart.

Days blur into each other sometimes. It's easy to let that happen when so many of them, she spends doing the same thing, but she doesn't mind that, either. There's still more variety in them than there ever was on the train, and far more places that she could go. Yona just happens to like the same few of them — the park and the beach, where there's wide open air, the subway, where everything is comfortable and closed in, and clubs with people packed on the dance floor, smoke in the air and alcohol in her veins and who knows what else in her system, too. Nothing in Darrow has given her quite the same high as kronole, but there's plenty that she likes, and she'll try anything.

Tonight, she's a little tipsy already, making her way from one club to another, smiling to herself as she heads down the sidewalk, arms out to her sides. Near the door, down the block, she catches sight of a familiar face and smiles. Sally has always been good fun before; she doubts now will be any exception.

"Hi," she says, grinning brightly, before she tips her head in the direction of the club, the faint pulse of music carrying out through the door. "Are you going in?"

Half a year now, she's been in Darrow, give or take, and Yona doesn't find it any less fascinating than she did the day she first stepped off the train. Oh, there are things she's gotten used to now, or started to, anyway, but even now that it's all a part of her day to day life, she's still fairly awestruck by it, by how normal it seems to these people. The persistent cold doesn't unnerve them. They're clean, well-fed. They don't realize how much all of this is, and it isn't even as stark a contrast for her as it is for others she knows.

Most of the time, she wanders without any real purpose, and that's the case today. In the supermarket, there are aisles and aisles of food, in brightly colored packaging meant to attract the eye. For a while, she walks up one and down the other. She's done this before. It's familiar.

So is the place where she eventually stops, a counter that has a tank full of lobsters in front of it, their claws held together by elastic bands. They'll be bought, cooked, but that doesn't bother her. She crouches in front of it, her nose nearly pressed to the glass, eyes wide with interest.

She's been there for a few minutes, maybe, when she speaks, just two words: "Hello, Edgar."

It's unclear if it's because she's seen his reflection in the glass or because she just knows he's behind her.

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