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@amritavalli
amrita nasra'il bhatti. crown princess of house of nasra'il. daughter of a war minister. thrill-seeking, feral creature.
as envisioned by camellia for redsnow rp. dni if unaffiliated.
dossier
open starters
musings & countenance
thread masterlist under the read more.
"Yes," his voice curt as he was focused on settling Kane in the stables, though when he turned his head he immediately tensed. He proceeded to lean against the fence, arms crossed, jaw tight. "Feeding birds now," he says flatly, eyes flicking to the tiny creature on Runner before looking away. "Not puking on me… progress, I guess." He was still bitter bout their last rendez vous but he could hardly put two and two together. The woman who was present was ... an entirely different person than the one he last met. The part of his brain that entertained thought was quickly quelled, refuting the curiosity for wanting to inspect and understand more about the woman.
Runner shifted, nudging the bird, and Cesar's hand twitched as if to steady it, then dropped to his side. He exhaled through his nose, expression hard. "Keep your hands to yourself," he mutters, voice low, clipped. "Birds don’t need rescuing from idiots." His gaze lingered a fraction too long on the bird before snapping back to her, face unreadable, lips pressed tight. No smile. No comment. Nothing.
At his muttering, Amrita turns to look at him, a strange feeling of deja vu washing over her — as though her eyes had roamed the planes of his face before in the exact same order, beneath the same gabled roof under which they were now standing. It's strange, but she can hardly remember now if it was real, or mere divination. She's about to probe, to ask what exactly he meant by progress, when Runner suddenly shifts beneath her steady strokes, and the man before her seems seizes up with an indecisiveness that results in a sharp, awkward movement of his arms, accompanied by more incoherent mumbling from his lips.
Amrita meets his eyes with an equally blank stare. Blinks once, then twice, then looks back down. The bird, having steadied itself rather adeptly, settles further into Runner's mane, clearly satisfied enough with the warmth her horse offered that it was willing to risk future potential mishaps by remaining in its precarious position.
What a strange man, is all she can think, a conclusion firming up in her mind as she begins detangling horse hair. Perhaps... he's an unsteady boat at sea. Off his rocker, as one might say. Yes, that would certainly explain the surreal quality to his words.
"What's your beauty's name?" she offers instead, using her head to nod towards his horse, with every hope of shifting him towards more steady land. Happy to offer herself any respite from her own rather gloomy thoughts as of late. "And yours?"
"I'm Amrita, and this big boy right here is Runner," she adds, not waiting for him to ask in return. A proud smile on her lips, she pats Runner gently on his back. "Well, his full name is actually Runner Speed The Third, but it gets tiring to say his name in full all the time."
With a satisfied nod as Amrita dropped a coin into the pouch, Misha tied it back and stored it away (not minding that the pouch contained coins from all over, and they would have to do a lot of separating if they were to use it). But tradition is as such, practiced despite the inconvenience. "That is has," he agreed, the absence of his friend made itself known in various points of the day, and a little more in moments he missed such as with the elephants.
Before he could pursue the topic, she brought up the one that has been looming over their heads. Misha took a moment of pause to contemplate over her question. It was a heavy one, and he would not answer lightly. "[Granny told fortunes and said two things — it will either rain or snow; it either will or will not]." A recitation of a Russian proverb, he believed would answer her far better than anything else.
Amrita nods slowly, lips pursed in thought.
"I agree," she sighs. There's a small throbbing at the back of her head again, and she reaches over to a nearby handrail to steady herself on. With gingerly steps, she shuffles towards the rail to lean her back against it, hoping it would anchor her to reality, even if only somewhat. Perhaps the fall earlier had really hurt her head, but that would have to wait.
"A part of me is curious, though," she admits, careful not to lean her entire weight on edge, "I don't like assuming we are truly safe here, as the cardinals have promised, but I don't see what else we can do for now. There does not seem much we can go off on, no?"
"Of course — the other parts of me will be satisfied to simply indulge in the feast," Amrita chuckles, though her smile doesn't reach her eyes. It's a feeling she can't quite shake, an instinct she has never learnt to rid herself of — the piece of her father that still remains at the very root of her heart.
where: in the stables, again
when: chapter 2 - late morning
who: @heavyisthexxcrown
"Aren't you a lovely little thing?" she coos at the injured bird who'd made a temporary home on her horse, Runner. Unbothered by the brush she was running through her horse's mane, or the slow rise and fall of the body of the gentle beast, the tiny creature seemed at ease with its precarious perch atop Runner. Runner, to all his credit, was careful to not make any sudden movements, content to wait for the bird to contemplate its next destination.
Amrita reaches into her pocket, pulling out (along with some strands of hair and a torn piece of parchment) a handful of seeds and fruits she'd stolen from the breakfast hall earlier. There's a soft, barely audible shuffling behind her, but she ignores it. Instead, with a slow, fluid movement, she offers them up to the bird, small smile playing on her lips. "Eat up little birdie, I wonder which beastly thing has hurt you so!"
"Perhaps it's a good thing, though. It's not a good time to be a flighted creature," she mutters, looking up at the crimson dome above her. Finally addressing the stranger behind her, but still without looking over, she asks, "Here to groom your horse?"
AMITA SUMAN Photographed by Rachell Smith
where: the halls of santicarno, near the library when: chapter two | the ninth gate who: open to all!
waking to a scream had filled rosalie with a terror she didn’t quite comprehend. without thought, she had thrown herself out of her bed and ran to the babe. gently taking her into her arms when she saw the nurse maid had done the same. her limbs shook when she moved towards the window, the little one in her arms when her terrified eyes caught sight of the mote that had slithered like a serpent that surrounded them in the night. a blood red river, snaking, deep and threatening. she didn’t know how long her eyes stayed locked on the scene that morning, but the soft movements and cooing of the little one had the queen tearing her eyes away.
smiling softly, she eased the girl before passing her to elise, gently allowing her to feed the child and begin caring for her for the day. murmuring to the other softly, they agreed that today the child would be kept inside and to their quarters. just to be safe. rose did not know the cruelty of the other guests but would not allow them the chance to use the little girl as a tool in this wicked request for a sacrifice. she would be sure to check in on them later, if only to ease her own mind on their safety.
she on the other hand, was willing to walk about the grounds that were not kept from the world. checking on each of the servants that helped her dress for the day, they reassured each other that each was alright. her doing her best to soothe worries. that the royalty and courts of the visit would come to a decision and the horrors would not persist forever. they would not be trapped forever.
to pass her time, rosalie found herself walking about the hallways, partially hoping to run into her elder brother or sister, seeking comfort in the known of the world. another afraid of what she would see if she did see them. would they hold the same fear in their hearts as she ? her prayer beads were softly held in her hands as she hoped to make her way to where she had found the library days before. the delicate string easing something in her as she caught sight of another figure walking about.
offering a soft engagement with a nod of her head, rosalie smiled warmly at the new figure, glad to see another living soul that wasn’t hurrying in worry past her. “i would say good morning but i think, perhaps, that would be a little off the mark this morning,” she spoke easily, while eyeing the other with a curious tilt to her head, “are you and yours doing well?”
"Oh, Navghan is in one of his moods again," Amrita hums in greeting, looking out of one of the windows in the hallway. She could see a sliver of crimson from where she stood, the reflection of the sun's rays on its surface presenting itself as teasing winks from a distance. She sighs, a soft smile gracing her lips as she thinks of her husband who was probably sulking in bed that very moment. "Though I suppose it is actually warranted this time. Poor soul is probably wracked with guilt that we're trapped here."
Eyes lingering on Rosalie's empty hands, she prompts, "And you? Where is your little darling?"
A pause.
"And... Henri?" Amrita adds lightly, careful to conceal the trailing edge of concern in her voice. All rudimentary etiquette, of course, to ask of Rosalie's husband — not because she actually cared, obviously. But Henri's blasé attitude did often leave a strange, off-key tug on her heart, reverberating like an overtightened violin's string. It isn't quite love, Amrita thinks, but it carried with it a melody not too different. Almost, but not quite, the same sort of worry and fear that she felt for her sister, or Navghan, or Devayani in moments like these.
location: the garden, a safe distance from the river. open starter to everyone.
Daiyu found the masquerade a tasteless thing from the start. It was only fair that the Malnoctio-entity, or whatever it had been, had been pissed at their behavior. A deity, from the heavens, quite literally threatened the humanity and what was their reply? To throw a feast and a masked ball, as if the Deity had merely asked them the time. She was not surprised by the acts of retribution, but she had been terrified by it. Why harm the birds and the creatures of the land? What ill did they ever do? Or, perhaps, it had merely been yet another warning for the royals and the nobles of the world.
a deep sigh left her lips as her dark gaze fixed upon the blood red river surrounding the grounds of the royal palace.
What will become of them all? Daiyu wished she knew, but a part of her had dreaded knowing. If the Malnoctio keeps demanding that one life... whose life will it be? She dreaded the answer -- the bloodbath which may follow it. A sound of footsteps made her turn her attention towards the reddish, translucent dome trapping them in. "Do you think there is a way to break this... thing, holding us all hostage here? Everything that is created can also be destroyed, but I don't even know if there is a way to end it. It seems to devour everything that comes near it." she spoke to the person coming to stand beside her.
"What do you make of today? Of Malnoctio and this... crimson plague?"
If there was no way to forget it, then perhaps the only thing to do was to confront it. With crossed arms and a trembling, newborn determination in her steps, she crosses the castle grounds, an eerie heaviness sinking into her bones. The stillness of the air is an itch on her skin, as though her physical senses were keenly aware of the uncanny nature of the reality they were in.
It seems that someone has beat her to the garden.
"Perhaps one should try to dig down," Amrita greets in return, her jest shaping itself in the wry turn of her speech, "There might be an exit underground."
She lets a quiet moment pass.
"I think nothing of it," she says in a low tone, a rare grounded feeling filling her voice. It's thoughtful, if one can believe it — a quality her own father had given up expecting from her. "That is to say, what good is trying to weave sense from senselessness?"
"We know nothing, and everything we make of it will be merely conjecture. Perhaps I offer my mind to entertain a few possibilities from time to time. But nothing breeds excessive fear more than uncertainty and an overactive imagination, and what good is that, no?"
who. alexei & whomever. [capping at 0/5!] open starter. where. the main dining hall of the palace when. a few hours after the discovery of the river & dome.
"i think it is clear based on the events we have all witnesses this morning, we can no longer continue to act as if this is not posing a great threat to us, everyone within this palace and perhaps the city as well" while alexie was not raising his voice, it should be clear to anyone who knew him just how serious he was taking this matter. in fact, the events of the day had unsettled him so deeply that for the first time in a long time the crown prince's stoic and serious facade was not in place. what had happened this morning was no longer a warning. it was a threat, and they were all at risk. they could no longer pretend it was a trick of their minds, or that it would not become something worse.
"we must start to consider our options," the few they had. "if we are against offering up one of our own, we should prepare for these threats to only get worse by the day. and," he paused, his throat going dry at the statement that is about to leave his lips. "and consider that we may all perish if we do not do what is requested of us and offer up someone by the thirty third day mark."
the prince took his seat and looked at the few people around him, not speaking to any specific person, but to the room as a whole. "if only we had some way to speak directly to them, perhaps try to come to a compromise or an agreement. or to even learn more about what is going on as to better prepare for the coming weeks..."
"Who exactly is 'them'?" Amrita asks drily from the furthest end of the dining hall, leaning back to prop her legs up on the edge of the dining table. She toys with her breakfast idly, not quite consumed by any sort of appetite, especially not after the chaos of the morning. Her stomach churns at the merest reminder of it — or perhaps, more from the lack of food in it, though she quickly dismissed that thought — and she narrows her eyes at the man.
She had resolved to forget the entire ordeal this morning, seeking refuge in the bright, airy space of the dining hall as opposed to festering with the horrors between the suffocating walls of her room. And she had been doing fairly well, busying herself with tracing the intricate moulding on the ceiling, until this man decided that the dining hall was the perfect place for his monologue. Truly, who asked?
Amrita inspects the lone grape in her finger, before lobbing it over his head.
"And then to think we could reason with them," Amrita snorts, chewing on the end of her fork. "This is the work of a madman, or an otherworldly force — neither of which have been known to be fair, rational creatures open to negotiation."
"In the first place," she pauses to pick up another grape from her plate, with half the mind to throw it at the other man again, "Should we not question the cardinals? How is it that the boundaries of a holy place is a tool of murder?"
Sharvani wasn't entirely sure how thrilled she had been about the masquerade. While, in theory, it sounded like a good idea, in practice it may not prove as wise. The world's royalties and nobles, all crammed in a single palace? That was not bound to end well, not knowing men to be so eager to find faults with each other. Still, for her sister's sake, she smiled and hummed, as nodding would have spoiled Ami's work on her dark curls.
well, her sister's handiwork was impeccable, as always.
"If you are asking about the hair, then you know I never find faults with your expertise. No one can come close to braiding my hair wonderfully as you do." she gently responded, but tsked at the latter, tongue clicking against the back of her teeth. "You know when it comes to men there is only one thing I wish to instill upon them, and that, my dearest, is not charm." Sharvani retorted with a soft scoff. It wasn't her sister's fault she had been so... resentful.
"I am sorry, Ami. You know I hold no interest for men these days. I would much rather think of old friends I may meet again. Is there anyone in particular you are looking forward to seeing on the ball? I am hoping to meet with several of my noble friends from other lands."
Amrita doesn't mind the insolence at all, not especially when she understands where it comes from and knows she shouldn't have pushed it. She absorbs it with surprising grace, placing a hand on Sharvani's shoulder to give it a reassuring squeeze at the latter's apology. All forgiven.
She doesn't immediately answer Sharvani; instead she gives a soft hum as she carefully slides a pin into place. She leans back, stretching out her fingers as she gives her younger sister's question some thought. There were probably a few, but she was much less travelled than her sister and had the awful habit of forgetting to write back to those who'd reached out. It takes her a moment, but her face practically lights up when her mind finally grasps a name. "Oh, I'd be so excited to meet Misha, you remember him?"
"Does this mean you'll finally introduce me to your friends?"
Lips pursed together in thought , eyebrows knotted together in a frown. She could not say if it had been better to continue the masquerade or if everyone should have just gotten back in their carriages to flee back to their own kingdoms or empires. She would have liked to be back in Spain now , even if it had meant dealing with her brother's matchmaking. "No , I suppose it does not really matter. I was merely curious. What if we get snowed in? Or ashed in , more accurately said." she may have been a little too paranoid but her mind worked the paranoid way. She liked to have a way out. Her continuous getting out of marriage arrangements had been telling of her intelligence enough.
"I agree there is very little else to do. It might have been a smarter option if we all just turned around and went back home. I distinctly remember the voice from above seeking a sacrifice." they should have all turned around that very moment. However , since they did not , now she ought to navigate her way through the secrets of Santicarno. "I would say we could dance , but I am not much for dancing. If you dance with a man more than once , or brush his hand by accident , they find themselves entitled to ask for your hand in marriage." Bianca chuckled.
"True," Amrita concedes, eyebrows knitted in thought. Why hadn't they all just turned back? It was strange, was it not, how they were herded in like sheep with no other option? And how was it that none of them had thought to suggest otherwise, including, but especially herself? It was the panic and fear of it all, she justifies to herself, though deep down she knew that it lacked any weight.
Amrita moves to reach out for a cup, then reconsiders, letting her hands fall idle by her sides again. "But I wonder... what do you make of the threats? For a sacrifice? Do you think it's real?"
"Oh," she blinks, the change in topic pulling her from the tangle of reason in her mind. Her grim countenance softens into a smile, eyes lighting up at the mention of dance (and marriage). "Well, I'll dance with you, if you want. But what's wrong with marriage? You sound just like my sister."
He laughed, but it wasn't kind. It was the sound of glass cracking under pressure: sharp, breaking, inevitable. "Of course you didn't say it. You never say what you mean; you just dance on the edge and wait for someone else to shove you off." And yet that was the very thing that kept him quenched of anything else. He never wanted to admit that, yet there was some kind of twisted sick humor in behaving the way he did, because she offered some semblance of leniency that coddled his hubris.
He stepped forward, voice low, strained like it hurt to admit. "You want a king with compassion? Courage?" A scoff. "No, you want a God who bleeds for you. Who suffers because of you. Don't you?"
Navghan’s eyes found hers, pupils wild, cutting and absolutely unguarded. "I see you, patni. The part of you that wants to feel alive by daring me to destroy you. You'd burn down the whole kingdom just to be sure the flames still kissed your skin." He can see through it, or perhaps it was some kind of delusion that he dreamt. In the chaos, and the madness of every flame, it too could be softened. When rage subsided, there was still a lingering warmth. It was difficult to access whether it would grow into rage once more; but this was a pause in the flames that softened enough for air to be shared between to breathing bodies.
He stepped closer, his voice dropping. velvet over a blade. A breath. A flicker of something that might've been tenderness, if only because it hurt. "But damn me, if I don't love the fire."
The timber of his voice sends a small burst of current down the synapses along her spine, and her body quivers before she can stop it. She feels the heat of Navghan's body against her skin dancing with her own, the invisible wisps of their souls tangling themselves into a singular entity. Warmth pools just beneath her navel and she's distinctly aware of him — of his physicality — all at once. The sharp, rugged planes of his countenance cast in chiaroscuro from the light of a lone candle. The subtle shift in his jaw as he clenches and unclenches it. The flutter of his eyelashes against his dark complexion.
You want a God who bleeds for you. Who suffers because of you. Don't you?
What is a God ruined by the touch of a human? And how would it feel to be the very mortal body to which such an indomitable force mellows and yields to?
She imagines him on his knees, face pressed into the soft flesh of her belly. Imagines his hot, trailing breath leaving condensation on her skin as his fingers dig into the back of her thighs, almost begging. Imagines running her fingers through his hair with a tenderness — then tugging his head away by the wisps of his hair with a sudden, strange, and sickening cruelty she could never conceive herself capable of in reality.
Instead, she settles for reaching out with measured slowness to tuck an invisible strand of hair behind his ear. Good boy. In the momentary lull of his anger, she can trace the outlines of her beloved husband again, his beguiling sentimentality shaped like a hopeful promise — one she clings to with fervent devotion. One powerful enough to render all his infractions meaningless in the jury of her mind. In all of its complexity — ugly and beautiful, harsh and gentle — his tyranny concedes such a lovely home for a ruined heart, she thinks.
You'd burn down the whole kingdom just the be sure the flames still kissed your skin. But damn me, if I don't love the fire.
And if she wanted to set the kingdom on fire, would he not light the match for her? Wrongs already forgotten, forgiveness already handed out without question, she leans in, letting her fingers splay out against the side of his skull, her touch so light she wonders if it tickles.
"My, better not let our neighbours hear you," she murmurs, applying a gentle pressure on his neck to pull him closer, until their noses brush and she can see her desperation in the reflection in his eyes — the visceral desire to stand in the heart of the fire and relinquish everything worldly, to let her body fold under the pressures of his designs.
With the smallest tilt of her head, their lips meet, though barely. In the fraction of hesitation as she holds his gaze, she seeks not permission, but finally, complete and utter submission.
closed starter with : @amritavalli location : the courtyard
moonlight was the only thing lighting heracles’ way as he stepped into the courtyard, the quiet whisper of night had covered santicarno like a blanket. and as night descended, heracles had slipped out of the masquerade ball, seemingly unnoticed as he searched for his dreams underneath the stars. his fist clenched the fabric of his forest green embellished cloak, fingers flexing to find something to anchor himself with.
alone, finally. he no longer had to fake smiles, fake appearances, nor try to impress his father who would never happily accept him as heir. heracles knew his issues were champagne problems at the end of the day and that he should be more grateful for his position. heracles was lost in the labyrinth of his thoughts and didn't hear someone join him in the courtyard until footsteps clicked on the stone behind him, assuming it was his mother, heracles sighed, "i'll be back inside soon. i promise."
In that moment, she thought of herself something akin to a black cat — trailing its prey along the shadows of the night, hidden in the spaces the moonlight would not reach. Her choice of prey was more happenstance than anything; but perhaps nothing was quite as fascinating to Amrita as the sad slopes of his shoulders, or the intensity with which fingers curled into the deep emerald of his cloak.
She kept her distance for a moment, before approaching.
"Oh, you certainly must," Amrita laments in jest, leaning against a nearby sculpture. She looks down at the white stone as she runs her fingers across the cracked surface, wondering what dirt and grime lay stuck in the crevices. "Why, what's wrong? The party not up to your standards? Or has your belle gone off the dance with another?"
sumitra was in her element. of course, the earlier events of the evening was not something she was necessarily used to, but the masquerade ball? that was her bread and butter. she hosted many in her estate back home. it was such an occurrence that she was certain there were members of her staff that had never seen her without a mask affixed to her face.
she also found that she had an afinity for recognizing someone behind a mask. while it often obscured the majority of their features, there were some - such as a jaw line, birth marks, full lips - that could still be assigned to a specific person. that is what she paid attention to. that is how she learned the majority of her information without ever needing people to take their masks off. and that's what allowed them to act as they did, a false sense of security.
she had noticed amirta on her way over, but the widow did not greet her until the soft collision of shoulders. while sumitra wanted to snap at the other woman not to raise her voice too loudly, she kept that instinct tucked away and made her both her features and her voice were calm as she responded.
"it does feel very like home, does it not?" she asked, raising the glass of wine she was nursing to her lips to take a drink. "i supposed we will have to see if everyone acts, and if anything they say or do is worthy of my notice." head falling to the side as she inspected amirta, sumitra asked "what have you gotten up to, tonight?"
"No," she snorts, taking her time to her eyes roam across the scene before the both of them. Perhaps there were some nostalgic elements that might have reminded Amrita of home, had her dour mood not determined her to contradict everything that Sumitra said. It's petty, but I have the right to be, she mulls, indignance rising just at the thought of the unsavoury history between the both of them. "This is nothing like home."
"What I've been up to?" She's cautious, more than usual, careful to give an air of nonchalance with the soft melody of her voice and a quick shrug. There's a part of her that hardens at the prospect of giving Sumitra anything more; after all, Sumitra had siphoned so much from her already, had she not? The older woman was precisely the kind of person Amrita's father had warned her about. A malady that ravaged entire kingdoms, he'd called them, driven nothing but selfish desires. "How uncharacteristic of you to ask — who'd you send your little birdies after to watch instead? Or do you have them no longer?"
Bitterness blunts the sharp edge of her questions, and even beneath the mask, Amrita has trouble hiding the evident hurt in her disposition.
where: in the gardens of santicarno when: chapter 1 - during the ball who: @princessyueli
Amrita squats down, peering at the fallen red ash with nothing but the soft, warm glow of the evening's celebrations filtering through the castle windows. The quiet crunch of fallen leaves and grass alerts her to the presence of another, but she ignores it. Instead, she reaches out to touch one of the larger pieces of ash, and yielding to the curiosity that overcomes her, puts her finger to her lips, tongue darting out to taste. It's strange — melts in her mouth like meringue, yet has none of the sweetness of it; in fact, it tastes almost like nothing.
Her eyes flit up to examine her new companion.
"Princess," she hums in recognition, not moving from her crouched position. They'd had a chance at reintroduction earlier, in the heart of the ball, but it was clear that the stuffy, oppressive atmosphere — or was it the years of separation? — had held them both back from anything beyond basic pleasantries. There's a part of Amrita that yearns to jump and yelp, to pull an old friend into a tight embrace, but she forces herself to be patient, to wait and see. She'd suffered enough humiliation today, she thinks. A sort of weariness has overcome her bones.
"Come see," she offers, running a finger through the ash on the ground. "It reminds me of the time we stole an urn. Do you think this is also human ash?"
where: santicarno ballroom / dining hall (?) when: chapter 1 - during the masked feast who: (sumitra) @chamberedhxarts
Even under the dazzling — almost magical — masks that reflected the evening's candlelight, and the stuffy, heavy cloak the day's events had cast over all of them, she'd recognize Lady Sumitra anywhere. The name, in all its elegance, carried with it a disdainful lace trim in Amrita's mind, the acrid aftertaste of betrayal still fresh on her tongue.
The sane, logical part of her, of course, begs her to be the bigger person. To walk away and pretend like she'd never laid eyes on Sumitra in the first place.
But was she the kind of person to listen to the sane, logical part of herself?
She floats over to the other woman, feigning an air of indifference as she looks at everything but Sumitra. When their shoulders bump, Amrita makes sure to let out a small gasp, as though surprised by her (arguably shoddy) attempts of a serendipitous encounter.
"Lady Sumitra," she drawls, eyes meeting the other's with a sharpness uncommon for her. She clicks her tongue on the roof of her mouth. With a slightly raised voice, she probes, "It's a wonderful setting to look for your next blackmail victim, is it not?"
Whatever lurched from her mouth was absolutely putrid. And impressively, the scent managed to be more foul than manure.
"Fuck!" He was disgusted. Oh the feeling of the nasty, acidic bile of whatever she ate mixed in with whatever she took that left her on her little mind trip now stained his trousers. Fuck, he really liked these trousers. He staggered a step back, as if proximity alone might infect him. His lips curled. He looked at her like she was something rotting in the sun.
"You are vile." Then he turned.
Not another word. Not a glance. Just the sound of his boots, wet with her filth, retreating across the floor. He left her there, doubled over, stinking, laughing; because staying would mean acknowledging her.
And she hadn’t earned that.
fin.
Cesar didn't flinch at her comment. Ugly? He had been called worse by better. But the moment her hand caught his arm, his breath hitched. Not from the contact but from the sheer timing.
"Oh?" He almost laughed, glancing down at her grip like it was a crime. "Did you mistake me for a crutch, or are you finally succumbing to the weight of your own dramatics and delusions?" He didn't shake her off yet, his hand twitched like he might steady her. Might.
"Careful there, if you're going to throw some more insults, try not to collapse halfway through your delivery." He held her gaze, matching hers. He then shifted, not to push her away but to offer just enough support to keep her upright without making his gesture appear kind. "Go on then, say the next clever thing," he murmured. "Or are you done with your script?" He cocked his head at her, ponderous of what was going through her head now.
There was nothing going through her head in that moment — in fact, she barely registers what he says at all. A sense of dread consumes the entirety of her thoughts for a fraction of a second before it hits, barely enough to forecast what was to come, and definitely not enough to even consider giving him a warning. Later, she would wonder if she would have, if she could — there's some shame in uncovering a childish pettiness that gave a nonzero probability to a negative answer. But for now, there was nothing she could do to stop the contents of her lunch from forcing its way out of her mouth, half-digested with the sharp tang of her stomach acid.
The sheer force of her stomach contractions had forced her to double over, leaving her to throw up all over the floor and — unfortunately for the man — on his lower legs.
Relief is followed quickly by horror as she meets his eye, but that too doesn't last long; everything feels in focus again for a fleeting moment in their held gaze, and the absurdity of the entire situation leads to only one fathomable conclusion: laughter. One that shakes her from her core, with her palm still pressed against his arm.
