“You’re drunk,” she smirks as he enters, singing her name as if it is the sweetest word to ever grace the tip of his tongue, and for a quick moment she’s jealous, envious of his ability to cast all worries aside at a time like this. To stop and enjoy oneself in the face of death seems an impossible thing to Inessa, but then again, Feliks himself seemed impossible to her as well, yet there he stands. Right in front of her. A dead boy not so dead anymore.
If she’d been so close to the brink of death as he, if she had met death face to face, she isn’t sure what she’d do if she were yanked back into this nightmare of a world. From what she understands, it wasn’t as if he lived a life of strife and pain, in fact, she’s fairly certain he fucked and drank his way throughout Ravka, fighting on the battlefield during the day and curling up with a warm body at night and yet, she knows that life isn’t enough, not for him—not anymore.
Oddly enough, dying changes a person. Though the more she gets to know him, the more she can understand why. His stories don’t align with the sight of who he is today. That spark he talks of, that twinkle in his eye that made ladies swoon and enemies cower, its vanished. Replaced by a far darker look, a blackening of his eyes, of his soul. But Inessa knows it is that very darkness that draws her in. From the first, it has enticed her, pulled her close and kept her there. She can’t really say whether she cares for the sad sack, or just pities him—perhaps both, perhaps neither. The only thing clear to her at this point is the thirst for kvas once she spots the bottle in his hand.
“All right, give it here,” he goes on and on, a rambler, but she imagines he was smooth once with a twist to his lips and a silver tongue. She yanks the bottle from within his grasp and brings the brim to her lips for a sip. It’s warm against her throat, a bit harsh once swallowed, but hell, that was the point of drinking it. “To death,” she says, voice monotone as she glares at him. You’re lucky you’re drawing breath this very moment, she thinks, wants to say, but he would never call himself lucky, and most likely take it as an insult if she said so. And so instead, she turns around to face him, a smirk playing along her lips. “You? Feliks Bazin. Honorable?” She laughs a lighthearted laugh, as carefree as any laugh can be in the face of an incurable illness that spreads as quick as a rumor throughout the Grand Palace. Horrendous and vicious and slanderous, both one in the same if you asked Inessa, hence the effort to joke in the face of collapse.
“I cannot drink to something so preposterous,” she winks, handing him back the bottle.
Feliks had been honorable once, back in his village, before he went off to war. Of course, he committed every sin, marred every sentiment handed down to him--but he was still honorable. He was honorable because people saw him that way. People thought he was worthy of their respect. That was all it took to be righteous. Every moral man sinned in secret. Feliks Bazin had been honorable because that’s how he was perceived, and because people were desperate to hand over adoration.
But Inessa was right. Whatever he was now, it wasn’t honorable. He could be the most moral, most noble person in Os Alta, and he still wouldn’t have anyone’s respect. Feliks was glad he no longer bothered with facades. He was glad he no longer bothered with Saints. It made life much easier, at least. He threw back another swig of kvas. Life was easier this way, but it was also emptier, and Feliks was trying not to mind.
“Your laughter’s painful, ‘Nessa,” Feliks hoisted himself up, leaning on his elbows with the bottle still in hand. Any other day, he wouldn’t even think about making himself comfortable on her bed. But now he had the proposition of death--and, well, he was hopeful. “I’m a loyal soldier with strong morals and a lot of compassion for everyone around me.”
Feliks was sure he sounded drunk again--at least, far more drunk than he was. He wasn’t bothering to edit his thoughts before speaking, but that was a common doing of his. It was far more common before his death, but it was still an easy habit to return to. Besides, he didn’t care much what Inessa thought of him as long as she didn’t think much. He didn’t really care to discover who she was underneath her pearly smiles and lighthearted laughter as long as she didn’t discover who he was underneath his sarcasm. This balance seemed to be in jeopardy the last time they got drunk together, when he shared more than he cared to, but still he hadn’t thought to tread carefully tonight.
“If you were to die next week,” he said, taking another sip of kvas before pointing the head of the bottle toward her. He wasn’t drunk, but he was still tipsy enough to forget the barriers he’d set up between them. He was tipsy enough to forget that he didn’t want to know Inessa. “What would you wanna do this week, you know, just to get it out of the way and all? Assuming death is polite and would wait for you to carry out your last wish. And don’t say anything like ‘fall in love,’ or your bed sheets will be rancid with bile in just a moment.”
