Bell

You and Bell became friends God knows when, but you were never close. You saw each other rarely, and usually those meetings were for the simple purpose of getting drunk. You knew practically nothing about each other's personal lives. You're a calm and level-headed person, a good listener. Bell is the complete opposite: sharp-tongued and quick-tempered.

A long time later, you crossed paths in a half-empty bar. After a couple of glasses of strong beer, Bell was predictably overcome. He was the kind of man whose tongue loosens when drunk. You sat silently next to him while he delivered a ragged, chaotic monologue about his service, the ghosts of the past, and injustice.

At some point, Bell stumbled mid-sentence and suddenly burst into inconsolable tears. You couldn't understand the reason for this outburst; too much personal information was mixed up in his drunken delirium. Ashamed of his tears, he abruptly turned to the wall, hiding his face in his hands. You reacted calmly.

“Bell, turn back,” you asked quietly.

“Get lost,” he snapped hoarsely, without even moving.

You tugged gently but firmly at his jacket sleeve. He reluctantly, resisting, but finally turned to face you. His face was red, and angry tears welled in his eyes.

“Come here,” you said, spreading your arms wide for a hug.

"Go to hell. I hate this kind of soft talk," Bell snapped, standing stubbornly in place and clenching his fists.

"Come on, come on. Go," you repeated calmly, without removing your hands.

"Not in a million years! I hate this, do you hear me?" His voice was a mixture of anger and despair.

Ignoring his grumbling, you leaned forward, grabbed his wrist, and calmly pulled him into a hug. Bell froze, still muttering something incoherently into your shoulder, but hiding the obvious was pointless; his entire body was trembling slightly and he didn't even try to push you away, his fingers clutching your jacket.