Chapter Text
Despite the freezing temperature and the storms brewing over the peaks of the North mountain, Oaken’s bar was warm and welcoming. Dimly lit and rustic, it invited people to spend their evenings away from the unforgiving cold outside.
The smell of burning wood and beer clinged to every surface during the high season as noisy tourists sat close to the fireplace. Most of them were red-cheeked from the heat and alcohol, enjoying their time away from responsibilities to the fullest. Locals, on the other hand, stuck to the small tables and stools closer to the door and bar. They took slow, deliberate sips, letting whatever beverage they've chosen warm their bodies and temporarily wipe their problems away.
Marshall sat hunched over a half-empty glass, his eyes fixed on nothing in particular. From time to time he looked over his shoulder to see if his favourite table had emptied, but to his thinning patience it was still being occupied by a group of tourists that evening. The young lads had come into the bar before him and Dan, forcing them to sit by the counter. His friend sat beside him, still in his ski clothes, not at all preoccupied about their sitting arrangements.
“So,” Dan said after taking a long swig. “Will you do what Westergaard suggests?”
“No,” Marshall muttered, the word coming out like a warning.
He was tired of going over this. For the past three weeks everything had revolved around the fact he was once again losing control, letting unimportant things affect him, and slowly, but steadily, ruining his chances to be offered a stable position as a ski instructor at the resort.
Dan finished his drink and raised a finger to ask for another one. Oaken nodded and promptly began to prepare one of the elaborate drinks Marshall had never truly enjoyed. He always preferred a cold beer. Not only was it cheaper, he could also drink more of them, spending more time at the Oaken's and less at home alone with his deprecating thoughts.
“It’s impossible to talk to you sometimes, did you know that?” Dan said as Oaken placed the glass in front of him.
“Yet here we are.”
“You’re insufferable,” he sighed, exasperated by his friend’s behaviour. “No wonder you chose the middle of nowhere to start over. You could pick up a fight with yourself if you commit to it.”
“I could also crack that thick head of yours open if I commit to it,” Marshall said without looking at him. “So don’t cross me.”
“See what I mean? Who the hell speaks like that?” His friend gave a dry laugh, shaking his head. “You’ll lose your job, and then what?”
“I don’t know, mate.” He dragged a hand down his face before he turned to him. “And to be honest with you, I don’t care. Let them complain all they want. I’m not going to pretend I give a damn. Either they want to listen and learn, or they leave. I won’t be wasting my time.”
“You're the one who wanted to become an instructor. You should give a damn,” he said, poking Marshall’s shoulder. “Westergaard will kick you out if you mess this up. Word says he's created an opening. If it's true and someone better than you shows up, you're done.”
“Then I’ll work independently.”
His friend scoffed, leaning back. “As if that’s ever worked. There’s a reason no one works independently anymore. It’s a waste of time. What could you offer the clients that Westergaard hasn’t included in some fancy package already?”
“I know the mountain and its slopes better than most. And I'm good at what I do.” He took a long swig, emptying his mug. “Rich spoiled kids can stick to his fancy resort. Experienced skiers and climbers will sooner or later end up coming my way.”
Dan watched him for a moment, his eyes studying his face for any trace of humour, when he found none he turned back to his drink. “You should go back to your shrink, mate. You’re delusional.”
Marshall turned back to the counter as well, signaling Oaken for another beer in the process. “I have no idea why I put up with you still.”
His friend grinned. “Because I’m the only one who isn’t scared you’d—”
“Excuse me.” A soft voice interrupted them.
“Yeah? Can I help you?” Dan's words came out sharper than intended, directed at the girl standing at their back.
Marshall turned around, his eyes scanning the young woman. She had pale skin and a long platinum blonde braid that contrasted with her ice-blue eyes. Her light ski jacket looked too thin for the weather, and her worn-out boots and woollen hat didn’t seem to offer much protection against the cold either. Despite her flimsy attire, she didn’t seem the least bothered by the freezing air seeping in through the gaps of the door.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said quickly. By the way she was standing it was clear she was talking to Dan, though she barely made eye contact with him as she spoke. “I just wanted to offer you and your friend a free ski lesson.”
Marshall blinked, trying to understand what made her think the two of them, out of everyone at the bar, would be needing ski lessons. Dan was still in his ski clothes, after all.
“Excuse me?” said Dan, clearly as confused as Marshall.
“I—” she sighed, trying to find the right words to explain herself. “I’m a ski instructor. I’m offering a free lesson to tourists.”
Dan paused, blinking at her like she was messing with them. “Yeah, I can see that…” He then gestured towards the crowded room at her back. “You should try those tables over there. We don't need it.”
She looked back at the crowded tables and hesitated. Digging into her pocket, she pulled out some small, poorly cut flyers. She handed it to Dan with a tight smile. “You can keep it… in case you change your mind?”
Dan looked at the flyer, brows narrowing for a moment before he met her eyes and mirrored her uncomfortable smile. He didn’t move to take it, so she left it awkwardly on the counter between them. The silence stretched before she finally walked away.
Marshall kept his eyes on her for a moment, watching her walk quietly to his favourite table. At least the people sitting there this time were tourists, perhaps they would be more welcoming than his friend.
Dan picked the flyer, pursing his lips as he read it.
“See what I mean?” He held the flyer up for Marshall to see. “It’s pathetic. You’ll be doing this in a few weeks if you don’t start listening to Westergaard.”
Squinting, he tried to read the words. He wasn't sure if he was a bit more drunk than he had imagined, or if his friend kept moving his hand, but he couldn't make out the words written on it.
“Though you’d at least be wise enough to print these and not let a child write them. I can’t even read this.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
“See it for yourself,” he said, throwing it on the counter.
Marshall took the flyer, brows furrowing as he tried to make sense of the scribbled letters and amateur layout. “Oh…”
“ Oh indeed,” laughed Dan. “Poor gal, she’ll starve. She couldn’t even introduce herself.”
“You could have been nicer to her.” Crumpling the piece of paper, he turned it into a small ball and tried to toss it into Dan’s glass. It missed its target and Dan grabbed it before he could give it another try.
“You’re kidding me, right?” his friend laughed. “We’re here discussing your imminent sacking because you can’t be nice to your own clients, and you pretend to lecture me on the way I spoke to her?”
“The spoiled rich kids I teach deserve it. Not this girl.” Turning around he tried to spot her in the crowded bar.
She was still walking around tables and booths, holding out flyers with a rehearsed smile that didn’t reach her eyes. He watched as one group shook their heads. Another waved her off without even looking at her. A man at the back did reply, but whatever he said made his friends laugh, and by the way her shoulders stiffened Marshall guessed it was a joke at her expense.
“She’s just trying to make ends meet, like all of us.”
“Marshmallow, look at this,” his friend said mockingly. Uncrumpling the paper and showing it to him again. “This is not trying to make ends meet. I don’t even know what this is.”
“Could you keep it down?” he begged, turning around to make sure she wasn’t within earshot. “And don’t call me that.”
Sighing once again, Dan crumpled the paper once again. “Well, stop being overly sensitive for a gal who would most likely take your place at the resort given the chance.”
Dan stood up and drank what was left in his glass. He placed his hands on Marshall’s shoulders and reminded him, “If you continue acting like an arse to the clients, Westergaard will kick you out. And I won’t risk my job to try and change his mind… Anyway, I’d better head home.”
“I’ll stay a while.”
“Don’t drink yourself to sleep.” He patted his shoulders one last time and bid him goodbye.
“I don’t do that anymore,” Marshall said, loud enough for him to hear over the people.
A faint breeze rolled through the door as it shut behind his friend. He was left alone staring down at the crumpled flyer, the paper now wet with ink smudging on the corners.
Time went by faster than he imagined. He’d stayed to finish just his third mug. A couple more minutes, he had told himself. Yet once again he found himself emptying a fifth —or was it sixth— beer mug. The hum of conversations lowered for only a few minutes until another crowd arrived, replacing the drunk tourists with fresh noisy ones. It was the usual scene, though he felt ashamed to say he usually stayed long enough to know when the crowd rotated. Noise, toasts and laughs filled the bar again, while he remained hunched over his drink, thinking about the mess his life had become.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the door open and close again. It was getting late, but there she was again. The girl with the thin clothes and flyers.
This time he didn’t show any reservations and turned around to follow her with his eyes as she worked. She walked from one table to the other, and every time she got the same dismissive look or shake of the head. Not one single table paid her any attention. And before she reached the last few tables, she had stopped trying altogether. She simply walked around placing poorly cut flyers on the edge of tables.
He pretended he wasn’t looking at her when she got closer to the now empty counter to greet Oaken. And even good-natured Oaken shook his head when she offered him some extra flyers.
“You know I don’t mind, ya,” Oaken said, his voice softer than usual. “But we still have plenty from last time.”
“Right…”
Marshall heard her say as she tried to offer a polite smile, but all she managed was a strained one.
“Well, thank you. I hope I didn’t bother your customers too much.”
She hesitated for a moment until she finally made up her mind and offered one to Oaken with a shy, apologetic, gesture.
He shook his head gently. “I could’ve used it years ago, before I cracked my back,” he joked. “Thanks anyway.”
Pathetic. The word his friend had used to describe her situation. But the more he looked at her—trying so damn hard—he realised there was nothing pathetic about it. It was a desperate attempt to earn a living. And suddenly, as a lump rose in his throat, he saw himself reflected in her. That could be him. And not in some distant, hypothetical future. Soon. A few more arguments. A few more clients, walking away with complaints. One failed attempt to control his anger and then everything he had been working on for the past year would go to waste. He’d be at square one for a third time, and then what?
He had lost a job he liked, a job he enjoyed for his own stupidity already. Leaving the city behind hadn't been hard. He was convinced it was the only good thing that had happened to him after being sacked from the hospital. But losing one of the few available jobs in the mountain meant having to start over.
“I’ll have one,” he heard himself say before his thoughts spiralled out of control.
Elsa turned to him, surprised. She stepped closer and handed it to him with a small, honest, smile.
He felt sick for a moment, and it had nothing to do with him being drunk. It was the empty promise he was giving her. He didn’t need her lessons. He wouldn’t book a lesson. But if he could help her feel less invisible, at least for just one night, then he was willing to pretend.
“Thank you…” he trailed off, hoping she’d introduce herself.
“Elsa,” she said, and before he said anything else she walked out the door.
He looked at the flyer in his hand. The handwriting was as terrible as the first flyer he’d seen, but at least her number was clear enough. He shook his head and reminded himself he had no reason to book a class.
With a sigh, he turned back to the counter, finished his beer and asked Oaken for another.
“No more beer for you. Seven is more than enough for a Thursday, ya.”
Seven. So it hadn’t been his fifth mug of the night after all.
“It’s the third time I've seen you here this week,” he said, trying to sound casual, but even in his state he could hear the concern behind his words.
Marshall folded the flyer neatly and put it in his pocket.
“Well,” he said, voice low. “It hasn’t been a very good week.”
He gave a small, understanding nod, as if he knew exactly what kind of bad week he meant.
Marshall then stood up, hoping the old man wouldn’t try to start a conversation. His head was pounding and it was best to go. He clenched his jaw as he tried to take a steady step, soon regretting not having followed Dan earlier. The lump in his throat returned as he realised he needed to fix the mess his life had turned into.