Tableaux, VI. THE LAST SUPPER (1495) ā Leonardo Da Vinci
Disclaimer: Malin RydƩn's freaks inspired me to write this.
Context: It's FINALLY divorce time, BABY!! Two years after Retribution, Romare (still mostly incognito as a villain) is invited to wine and dine for Thankgsgiving at Ortega's, though they're definitely not dating Herald anymore. I'm sure this won't sour the evening. Post break-up psychic damage and political freak-outs ensue.
What to expect: This time around everyone is here (Julia, Argent, Steel, Sentinel included), and most of them are of course huge dickheads. This is a chunky piece, if you read this through you are my personal hero and I appreciate you very much.
You lean on the guardrail. You take a gulp. Your mouth burns. Your mouth burns, and itās good. Itās good. What elseātell me, what else burns? Not you. Maybe you. Not this, though. Not enough. Not enough yet. Everything should burn. Everything should burn.
Below, the city dances with lights through the violet smog.
āI fucking hate Thanksgiving,ā you reply in English, holding the flask out; she takes it. She takes it, and her shoulder is warm against your shoulder, and when she laughs you feel your face itch around an answering smile.
āĀæQuĆ© es lo que no odias, mi vida?ā
Ā āA ti,ā you shoulder back.
āAwā¦ā she croons around an easy swig. āDid I hear that right? You love me? You love me. You said it.ā
āI definitely didnāt. Sounds like the next step is hearing aids, old woman.ā
Look at you go. You almost sound convincing, acting like you donāt know about her augments. Acting like nothing has changed. Acting like she can still pull your hair, flick your ear, still dodge your slap, still make you laugh, still squeeze you close.
You push her back. You look away. Noāyou close your eyes. In the metal of the flask, her grin was still shining.
āYeah?ā you mutter. āBut not enough to celebrate with me alone.ā
Youāre being an asshole; youāre the odd one out, not the other way around, you know that. But this isnāt a good night, and the scab looks good enough to scRatch.
āThanksgiving is about friends. I donāt make the rules.ā
āThatās not what Thanksgiving is aboutā¦ā
āOkay, Rom. Spare me the politāā
āAnd theyāre barely your friends.ā
That does shock her out of teasing.
āOf course they are. And your friends too.ā
āSure,ā you snort. āChen is my friend, Yuli. Never mind that he probably learned to dance the jig just so he can celebrate properly when I finally decide to smash myself on the pavement againāā
Around your nape, the hand has gone hard, and tense, and crackling. Electricity buzzes up your skull, a soft current, a nail raking on your scalp.
āDonāt joke about that. Youāre not funny.ā