[ taair puts his glass off to the side like a proper fancy toast, and yet yves chases after his glass with his own like some fool who's only used to the rowdiness of bars and drinking parties with friends. clink! ]

To hope!

[ and so he drinks, content with this declaration ]

Everything's going to work out. I do believe that. Weekends are terrible and the heartache is real. It makes sense for everyone to feel that... they ought to. To mourn loss is the real sign that you loved anyone at all.

But I will hold onto my unwavering certainty that some fortunate resolution will come for us all—maybe not easily, but inevitably eventually.