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You’re rather sure now that the new stiffness in Pheres isn’t a figment of your imagination, and now that you’ve noticed it your mind is searching for reasons for the tension. Did he think you were taunting him, showing off your psionics so casually? Plenty of trolls were of the mind that you shouldn’t have them at all, that they made you a mutant worthy of culling.
Pheres had never struck you as the type, but he was a firm believer in the right ways of things. To have to see your psionics stable while his own were crippled might be the cause, you decided with a bit of resigned exasperation.
It’s one thing to know you’re a part of the Psionic Corps. But sometimes actually seeing proof of why you’re there is enough to turn away some trolls. It’s easier when you had psionics like Tomois, you think a bit bitterly- his aptitude straddles the thin line that divides psionics and psychics and seems so much more tolerable to traditional thinking trolls.
You’re about to try and drum up some polite excuses for both of you to leave this conversation when he looks up at you and makes a sound you’d never expect to hear out of such a proudly docile troll as Pheres. But there’s no denying a hiss when a troll makes one, and when he rears back like a snake about to strike your hindbrain is perking up in to complete attention.
Fortunately for both of you, he doesn’t lash out. But he glows, a flash of light that comes from more than just his eyes and stirs up a bone-deep outrage that throws you off-center with its intensity. You can feel your fins flare up, tines stretched to their limits- but Pheres is backing down, and when his hands cover up that glow you feel yourself settling. But why did you react like that in the first place?
Pheres is retreating from you now though, and you feel a bit stilted when you grapple for words. Some part of you thinks he should be sorry, but it’s a strange impulse you try and squash down. “It is alright,” you say, because you refuse to pay attention to the weird hostility that’s still trying to simmer under your skin.
“My apologies if I startled you. Are you unused to seeing other trolls that glow when they use their psionics?” That had to be what he was doing. You’d seen his eyes light up, and if there was more that had shined through as well… It was odd, but you weren’t an expert on the ways that psionics can physically manifest. You just think that maybe he’s a bit self-conscious about it.
It doesn’t provide an answer for why it upset you, however. You release your psionics, trying to tuck your fins back in to something resembling calm before Pheres looks at you again. No need to make him feel worse about this, you try to reason. He obviously felt bad enough already.
For one sickening moment, it almost looks like Vadaya tenses when you hiss at him. But he doesn't retaliate. He just flares his fins at you, the colour brightening as his eyes narrow -
- and then you've got your hands clasped over your face, blocking out the sight before the spike of anger can actually grow into something dreadful. Oh! You hate this. And part of you wants to yowl at him for the fact he reacted to you, when he's so much larger. What does he think you can do to him?
He isn't allowed to flare at you!
Except he is, because he's an indigo, and you're maroon, and this stupid muddle of bizarre, overwrought madness is absurd. It's like there's a smaller version of Sipara in your pan that wakes up when you see lights and highbloods. It's dreadful! You scarcely want her around when you're near them normally, never mind in your head. And.. you're being silly.
And Vadaya is talking.
Is your face still glowing? There's warmth under your fingers, but that likely just means you're blushing. And he already knows you have burnout. If he questions you, you'll just say it's.. scarring, you decide. Your skin is thin in spots, and that means the light leaks out. It sounds plausible. "I haven't," you admit readily, not entirely sure what he just asked, but it's fine. All you have to do is sound earnest. "I'm so sorry. This is, ah -"
Oh, thank heavens, his fins are pinned back. "This is my first time seeing someone glow," you lie quickly, and you just hope it makes sense with the rest of the conversation. "I didn't - heavens! I wasn't aware, ah, it was.. a thing.. with.." Is it insensitive to say fins?
"Ears!" you chirp instead. "Ears. Glowing ears. Does it always, ah, do that?"
Had you crossed a line in your pushing? Pheres is a troll of words, but after one ‘oh’ he falls silent in a way that feels awkward to you. You hadn’t taken him as a troll that was sensitive about his burnout, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t still have sore points about it. Perhaps his perceived worth to others was one of them that you had just blundered right over.
It would make sense to be sensitive over it, wouldn’t it? You don’t know how exactly he had sustained his injury, or really much about Pheres at all past what he’s shared with you. It’s a worry in your mind even as you form your construct, and once he’s looking at it you have to wonder if this is just salt in the wound that your blundering is rubbing in.
But he doesn’t seem at all depressed at the sight. He says it’s impressive and he sounds genuine to you, though part of you argues that you’re sure he’s seen much more impressive things in his time with Scimitar. “Thank you,” you say instead, letting the image flicker away as he speaks.
It takes you a moment to understand what it is he’s trying to say at first, with ‘important figures’. But then you realize that he means his position in comparison to a Canary, and you can see where some worry might come from that. He wouldn’t want to get accused of impersonating a superior officer, though you shake your head when he mentions working for Vahakn of all trolls. “Well Longhaul will probably just put a request in and see what they can spare. Perhaps it will not be as ornate as the usual officer-issued stabilizers. But there are other designs, yes.”
Another flex of psi lets you build up the image of a stabilizer bracelet, and you hold on to your psionics this time as you talk. “Simple bands like this can be used, though they are sometimes more elaborate- a chain and ring might connect to them, or multiple rings.” You form the additions with your words, giving his horns a thoughtful glance when you’re done. “Or perhaps a happy medium would be a horn ring. Your horns are rather integral to your type of psionics, are they not?” Maybe you were assuming he was too much like Zavare, but the similarities hadn’t failed between them yet. Pheres just had a lot more horn to deal with than they did.
As it turns out, you don't like the newer manifestation of psi, either. The bracelet he shows you is a sparkling violet hologram, the perfect match to the glow of his eyes. It's the sort of thing you've seen on the higher echelon's wrists, the sort that sleep at desks and rarely venture from them. You ought to be paying attention to that, or the words, but it's hard to focus on anything past the fact a very large part of you detests the harsh violet light he keeps projecting.
It's not fair, you think. It must be a sort of bigotry, to dislike someone's psionics just because of their caste - and this is what it is, isn't it? You're not a bigot. You oughtn't care at all. But evidently, you do. A great deal.
"Ah," you say, distracted. "I - see! That makes sense. That is very lovely."
Your horns are rather integral, he says. That's an easy question to answer! That's the sort of thing that you absolutely can answer, without any complications, or being bothered at all. It's Vadaya. He's perfectly harmless to you, and perfectly kind. You don't know why you're getting in such a furor.
Or, no: you know exactly why, but you don't know why you can't stop it. It's the construct, you decide. You just need to rip your eyes off of its glow, and back onto his face. Except when you look up, Vadaya's fins are spread. Not in an aggressive way! They're just there, and you rather hate it.
Then he exhales, and lights pulse bright in through the tines. The flood of outrage rolls in so sharply, it feels like lava down your spine. The hiss is instinctive as you jolt back, eyes lighting up - but it's not just your eyes, is it, that's leaving it so bright?
When the thought hits, at least, you have enough sense to clamp your palms over your mouth, fingers curling over your eyes. Maybe you aren't glowing! Maybe you have bigger concerns than glowing, regardless, given you just hissed at Vadaya. "Oh, I'm sorry!" you manage, taking another step back. There's no one behind you, or set to walk into you. It's fine. It'll be fine.
(Nothing will ever be fine ever again.)
"I'm so sorry, I just - ah -" Did he see anything? Are you still glowing? You widen your fingers just enough to peer through them, then squeeze them shut. Your heart is racing like a rabbits, but even in your panic, there's an act to be upheld. When in doubt, you always redirect. "It's just - oh! You're - you're glowing!"
Pheres questions you, but of course he does. You know how aware he is of your caste, his hesitance in accepting any of your help in the first place had proven that. It just means you have to be a bit careful with him, in a way that still feels awkward. “I am absolutely sure,” you insist, and hope that that’s the end of it.
“I do not need any reward for making sure that another troll is well, do I? And yes, I am sure Longhaul would see the value in having an assistant that could simply teleport about to deliver things. He is a very busy troll, you probably know that better than I. Any way that he could cut time would probably be invaluable to him.” If the Corps had one thing, it was stabilizers. The Education Program and its sister programs were always on the cutting edge of making more efficient helms, sure, but your program cared about the other things that psionics could do.
Things that could help Pheres, or so you hope. You think your joke surprises him, but he doesn’t seem upset by it as he leans in to look at your hand. “It is simply more practical for us,” you explain, turning your hand so that the gems are visible. “Jewelry can be caught on things, or stolen.” Or ripped out of a troll, but you aren’t going to offer that reason. “It also allows for a stronger effect but that is not something you would need, I do not think.”
You flip your hand back over on a whim, pulling your psi in to form the usual diamond shape of the Canary-style stabilizers. It’s just enough to make your gaze turn heliotrope for a moment, and you rather hope you don’t startle him with the glow. “Something like this is most popular. It works best I have heard, close to the horns.”
Longhaul would appreciate having an assistant. That's the second troll who's told you that, and you don't suppose Hadean and Vadaya could be more different if they tried. Perhaps there's a grain of truth to it, then, if everyone else sees it. "Oh," you say, but you're not sure what else to say. It's hard not to view your integration into the IPC, more and more, as a sort of betrayal to Sipara.
You don't know what she does, precisely, in her spare time. But you know it's hardly more legal than you. The sort of thing that would be dangerous if your hobby career ever spilled -
- but you're saved from that train of thought when light flares in front of your eyes. And with it comes that flash of agitation again, sharp enough that it feels like heat in your veins. There's a burr in your throat, sore and scratchy, that you have to swallow hard to keep down, and bile to match it. You don't know why. It's just lights.
You never had this problem before, but a lot of things are shifting lately, and you hate all of them.
"Oh!" you gasp, clasping your hands over your mouth, and the way your claws catch at your skin is a distraction in itself. If you're getting jealous over psionics, then that's a silly, easily solvable problem. Vadaya is your superior in a number of ways. This is the least of them, and perhaps the most absurd to be bothered by. "That's so impressive! Ah, I've seen that, I think.. it's very handsome. D'you suppose I could wear something like that? Isn't that just for, mm.."
You release your hands, and let your smile tilt to the side, ever so self-deprecating. "Important figures?" you say, gingerly. "I haven't the faintest idea what sort of design would work for Scimitar, either. I'd hate for the lieutenant-general to assume I was trying to work for, ah, miss Vahakn, or someone else.."
He’s so tall! It’s such a shame that he’s so.. positively murderous, and attached to Iconic, and generally a bastion of bad judgement. It’s a shame that he’s a fish, really. You can’t flirt with a fish.
You can’t flirt with Vadaya at all, because your entire clade would cull you, if Iconic didn’t first. But if only he wasn’t so murderous, you’d probably consider it all the same. Especially when he goes and says it’s a pleasure to see you.
Your laugh is bright, and the anxiety isn’t faked. “I saw Iconic earlier. But I didn’t see miss Nanako.” You won’t, if you can avoid it. You remember her, even if she doesn’t recall you, and you’ve no inclination to let her see your face long enough for that to change. “I don’t need anything at all. Ah, I just wanted to say..”
It’s a little forward to clasp his hand between yours! It’s also a little silly, given how absurdly large his hands are in comparision, but you do it all the same, keeping your grip firm. “I just wanted to say thank you,” you say, earnest, “for the medication. Ah, it was deeply appreciated. And very kind of you to offer in the first place. It helped out a great deal, you know, and I was a little.. mm, it ended up that I didn’t quite have the attention to thank you properly, at the time, which was absolutely dreadful, I know, but.. that is why I wished to say thank you now!”
“And is there anything I could do to repay you? Because that was very kind of you. And, ah, it was appreciated.” You shake his hand to emphasize the point: “Deeply!”
The first time you’d met Pheres, you’d thought he was so birdlike-always fluttering about, so delicate that you couldn’t imagine living his life. Your opinion has grown the more you’ve come to know him, but the bird comparison has just stuck to him.
When he laughs, just a bit strained, you accept immediately that that’s not going to change tonight. Before you know it, you’re sure he’ll be darting off after someone else, but for now you’re perfectly happy to indulge him in some idle chatter while Iconic is distracted.
Or not-so idle chatter, you realize when he takes your hand in both of yours. His hands are so dainty, you marvel for a moment- was there anything to them, other than skin stretched over bone? Two of his fingers were probably as thick as your own, it felt like having a wriggler holding your hand. Though admittedly, you’re rather sure Pheres still is a wriggler, for all that he’d probably deny it.
“There is no need to thank me,” you immediately insist when you can get a word in. “I am just happy that I was able to assist you when things were so hectic for you, really. Burnout is never comfortable for any of us, and having medication to help stem it can make all the difference. I know that you still had much to do, I was certainly not insulted that you took care of that instead of thanking me.”
Of course Pheres is a troll of manners. He’d shown that plenty of times, so worried about being proper. You should have expected this you’re sure, but it’s nothing you can’t handle. “Do not worry about repaying me either. My repayment is seeing you doing better. But perhaps you should check in with Longhaul? He could easily put in a request for a stabilizer for you, I hope you know. It would help your efficiency in the workplace even, if you were able to use your psionics a bit more freely to do your job.”
Was that a bit much to tell him? You hesitate before you decide that perhaps it would soften the blow if you joked. “And in case you were worrying, we do have stabilizers that are not so permanent,” you try, wiggling one of your prosthetics for emphasis. “There are even rather stylish ones that look like jewelry.”
Vadaya is always so polite! It's so unusual, for a highblood. But you always seem to find this sort. "Well," you murmur, "as long as you aren't offended.. but are you sure?" His repayment is seeing you do better. If you didn't know better, you'd think it was a pale overture.
But you're quite certain he's incapable of that sort of thing. No, he's just lusus-inclined, like Raphae. "I would like to do more than just, ah, survive, as a reward! And - oh! Do you think he would?" Hadean would slaughter you if you went and got yourself a new stabiliser. The hole in your wrist from the last, for all that it's healed over, still itches at the thought.
But perhaps Vadaya senses your hesitance, because he pauses, then actually japes. Your eyebrows go up, then you release his hand - just to bounce onto your toes, all the better to look at the hand in question. "Really! I didn't know that at all - ah, whyever are yours implanted, then?"
If you were being honest with yourself, about fifteen percent of the reason you kept antagonizing Iconic out to the dance floor was to get the both of you away from the VIP area of the ball. You had to admit, you hadn’t been expecting Iconic to use his fame to get the two of you in to such an area, and you still had no idea why he had wanted to in the first place.
You weren’t made for rubbing elbows with celebrities, and if you have to tell another actor or musician that you didn’t watch or listen to much media you think the room might combine to burn you at the stake. It’s just nicer out in the main hall, where there are faces you recognize. And when you didn’t have to worry about every other face belonging to someone far too prideful about their entertainment value.
The two of you had just been hanging at the edges, waiting for the orchestra to finish with their break and begin the next round of dancing when Iconic had murmured something to you- about dealing with a troll trying to take after her lusus a little too far, you think- and had vanished in to the crowd with a dramatic flap of his cape. Utterly over the top but then, you reflect, so was everything else about your kismesis.
It couldn’t have been more than a handful of minutes that you’re left alone however, though the troll is unexpected. But there’s no mistaking Pheres for any other troll, dimpling up at you and looking markedly improved from the last instances you had seen of him. You imagine his worker must have returned just in time for him to recover for the event.
“Just Vadaya is fine,” you say, a reflex that you pay little mind to. “Hello, Pheres. A pleasure to see you as well.” You’d rather thought he would avoid you, after dodging much of your help while he was pushing himself so hard. But perhaps he was feeling differently about it now that he wasn’t so tired. “I am here with my kismesis, actually. Though Nanako is in attendance as well. Were you in need of assistance with anything…?”
You doubt it- nothing has ever gone wrong at one of these balls, and the security is extremely tight on the event. But there’s a first time for everything, you reason, even if Pheres wasn’t looking too concerned. You’d just rather that nothing ruined the evening.
He's so tall! It's such a shame that he's so.. positively murderous, and attached to Iconic, and generally a bastion of bad judgement. It's a shame that he's a fish, really. You can't flirt with a fish.
You can't flirt with Vadaya at all, because your entire clade would cull you, if Iconic didn't first. But if only he wasn't so murderous, you'd probably consider it all the same. Especially when he goes and says it's a pleasure to see you.
Your laugh is bright, and the anxiety isn't faked. "I saw Iconic earlier. But I didn't see miss Nanako." You won't, if you can avoid it. You remember her, even if she doesn't recall you, and you've no inclination to let her see your face long enough for that to change. "I don't need anything at all. Ah, I just wanted to say.."
It's a little forward to clasp his hand between yours! It's also a little silly, given how absurdly large his hands are in comparision, but you do it all the same, keeping your grip firm. "I just wanted to say thank you," you say, earnest, "for the medication. Ah, it was deeply appreciated. And very kind of you to offer in the first place. It helped out a great deal, you know, and I was a little.. mm, it ended up that I didn't quite have the attention to thank you properly, at the time, which was absolutely dreadful, I know, but.. that is why I wished to say thank you now!"
"And is there anything I could do to repay you? Because that was very kind of you. And, ah, it was appreciated.” You shake his hand to emphasize the point: “Deeply!"
If Iconic sees you, he’ll slit your throat and hang you from the ceiling by your own organs, no matter how much Sipara’ll squall.
But that’s only if he sees you. It’s only if he gets near enough to use his wretched fucking psionics - and frankly, you’ve got no intention of letting him so much as slink within twenty feet of you, never mind the full ten. You know how he feels in the radar of your psi. No matter how far he’s floating off the ground, he can’t sneak up on you.
And that’s why you’ve been sidling in the periphery of Vadaya’s sphere of influence, waiting for Iconic to get distracted. It doesn’t take long. You’d told Sipara to post the pictures of her with his stolen cigarettes on Hivebook, a good ten minutes ago, so it’s just been a matter of waiting. Soon enough, your phone vibrates with a notification in Sipara’s fire orange.. and then ID tilts his head, eyebrows furrowing. He murmurs something to his kismesis, curling his lip in that sneer he passes off as affection, and then he slips away.
Straight towards the courtyard outside, where Sipara’s trying to light up the entire pack at once on livestream.
She’s not your moirail anymore. You’ll feel bad about this bit of subterfuge later. For now, though, you wait until Iconic’s at the edge of your awareness, then you sidle up to Vadaya. A toss of your hair, then you’re tilting back your head, beaming wide enough to seem sincere.
It’s not hard. Vadaya’s a big lug of a troll, with fins gaudy enough to make you uneasy, but he’s never shown the slightest interest in hurting you. Quite the opposite, if you’re entirely honest, and that’s why you’re here. Mostly. “Hello!” you chirp. “Ah, mister Urvata - it’s lovely to see you here. I just didn’t think you’d be coming at all! Did you bring the rest of your battery...?”
two times kit got pheres to dance (and one time he didn’t)
For an ask from @anontrolls ages ago! I’m going to sit down and get all of these drabbles done. EVENTUALLY.
>1/3
“I don’t think you can use your horns as an excuse, Pheres,” Kit teases, dropping back onto his feet. When he wipes his hands on his pants, they leave behind sandy trails. “They’re not even as long as mine!”
You kick at the furrows in the ground where his horns scraped, dubious, and he laughs.
When Kit had offered to teach you how to dance, this is not what you’d imagined. You’d pictured the cleared floor of his hiveblock, with open windows and music and just enough alcohol to make things more entertaining then mortifying. You’d brought the alcohol, even!
Now it rests morosely in the shadow of the hivestem, with sand collecting on the bottles rims. You’d barely been past the central archway when Kit had tumbled down the stairs. “Pheres!” he’d said, beaming, and you hadn’t the heart to stop him when he’d hauled you around back instead.
(And when he turned to look at you, just to make sure it was fine - well, you hadn’t the heart to correct him then, either.)
It’d taken one look at the courtyard, milling with lusii doing their best to crop the scraggly weeds lower, to decide you’d rather do this sober. It isn’t as if it’s been hard! You can do the.. waving, and the hip-pivotting, and all the other things Kit’s shown you. They don’t take skill, really, and you know how to dance, no matter what Emerel says. (No matter what Sipara says: as if she’s got room to talk about elbows, when she leads everything with her damn hips.) You’ve been able to perform all the moves, with only the slightest mis-steps.
Until now. Your palms are resting flat on the ground, and your horns, uncapped, are scarce inches from the sand. That isn’t the problem, though, not really. The problem is in how the ground is tipping up at you, and your horns are doing their best to drag you down to meet it.
“That’s why you keep your chin up! But, uh.” Kit rubs at his neck, his grin lopsided. “If you don’t want to,” he says, “you don’t have to! We can just -”
“Oh, no. You’re not escaping your offer that easily, I’m afraid,” you say, glancing up at him. The way he brightens is gratifying!
It almost wins out over your uncertainty. Almost. There’s a crick in your neck that’s only getting worse with each passing moment you stand like this. “I said I’d try it, didn’t I? But. Ah.”
“You’re not going to let me fall, are you? Because,” you say slowly, “I’m willing to try, but, ah, I’m not especially keen on falling on my face.”
“That seems a little painful, Kit. And perhaps cracking a horn or two is perfectly fine in your case - which isn’t to say you should, mind, they’re lovely, it’d be a dreadful waste - but I’ve got two sets of horns to hit on the way down. In addition to my nose.”
The thought makes you pull up. It’s a relief! But you can’t even pay much attention to that, not when you’re reaching up to your face, distressed.
“I can’t fall and break my nose, can I? Is that a risk, if I fall? Because I don’t have anything to set it, Kit, and I don’t want –”
He catches your wrist. “I promise I won’t let you fall,” he says, seriously enough that you almost miss the mocking quirk to his grin. “I’ll hold your legs the entire time. Okay?”
When you nod, he moves his hand to your neck. It’s less of a push and more of a suggestion, but you bend all the same. “It’s just like a flip, but you’re holding still. You can do it!”
“But if you can’t,” he says, glib, “then I’ll let you kick me in the face. How’s that?”
Riccin meets Aleida, a fuchsia-blooded heiress from a different sector of space, in a diplomatic outreach on the part of the church, Pheres has questions about Riccin’s new friend.. which ultimately results in Aleida offering him a sword as an overture of friendship, and Pheres trailing Riccin across space on a journey to get it.
After all, Hadean and Sipara said don’t talk to strange highbloods. But they can’t protest if he brings back gifts! =:)
PHERES:
By the time the ship lands, you're entirely ready to scamper. But Riccin doesn't let you out until they've had a chance to tie an indigo scarf around your neck, and dabbed white across the lids of your eyes, the arch of your mouth. They clasp something strange and metallic around your wrist, the cuff just loose enough to spin, and when you turn it to look, the symbol of the Messiahs winks up at you.
"It's so they know you're with the Church," they tell you, firm. "Anyone so much as look at you twice, brother, you flash that, and tell 'im you're on an errand for Moongaze, yeah? It lets me know where you're at, too. 'n' if you need it off, all you gotta do --"
They press a palm to it. Their psionics pool over it, the liquid blue light catching in the lines, and then it clicks open. "There," they say, and they slide it back shut. "But don't fucking take it off. You got two hours, aright? Then I'm comin' to fetch you."
Hadean would squall. But there's a comfort in their worry, and you press a kiss to the open flat of their palm, all formal bright gratitude, before you bolt towards the meeting spot. Malevola's a strange place. It's only off in degrees, you think: if you were only watching it from the corner of your eyes, then it'd look like home, but there's a thousand different subtleties that drag at your attention in ways you can't quite understand. Your eyes keep lingering on spots they shouldn't. Your gaze keeps lighting up on trolls that it shouldn't -
- but luckily, whenever you're in doubt, you can always fall back on manners. You keep your head down low, a soft smile on your face, and you let yourself blend in. No matter the planet, no matter the station, no one ever looks twice at a maroon who's simply a part of the crowd. It's a fact you've always abused, and it's one that, now, gets you all the way to the bridge you're supposed to meet at.
It's.. very damp, is your first thought. Your next, worried thought is:
- oh, dear. It's very empty.
ALEIDA:
You'd intended to be there early! Really, you had, and for a small window of time, you might have even been considered punctual. But no, you had to get distracted. You didn't want to give this sword to Pheres if it had barnacles on it still, so in an effort to gently unstick them, you're sitting under the bridge at the water's edge. The sword is mostly covered by sackcloth, tied with twine, and you're working bit by bit to get it clean.
Or... you were doing that, until the bridge had some unanticipated visitors on jetskis, who sprayed everything and everyone in water, free of charge.
"Be careful!" you call after them, your fins flared out in distress, and dripping pitifully. Your words are drowned out by the loud motors as they speed out of view.
That's when you notice someone on the bridge. Pheres? You can't be sure, you hear only footsteps. You grab your cargo and hoist it up in your arms, bolt to the start of the bridge and then slow to a walk.
You're a strange mix of imposing and really ridiculous. You have a large, ragged patch of scar tissue that spans your exposed stomach, side-to-side, sternum to hips. Your rounded fins give you a goofy impression, and your messy clusters of bioluminescent spots don't quite help. Your hair, now soaked, is hanging in your eyes, despite your efforts to breathlessly blow it from your face. As always, you're wearing only athleticwear - no jewelry, no crown, no collar, and most importantly, no shoes.
"Hey!" you call, waving. "Sup, dude? Where you headed?"
PHERES:
Something roars under the bridge. You startle, sparks catching on the edge of your horns, but you don't move: you just stay firmly lodged in place on the bridge, trying to reach out with your psionics. You can't feel movement. That means it's just someone on the water, and sure enough, a moment later, two jetskis pop into existence on the other side.
You relax, just in time for a seadweller to pop up to the start of the bridge, and start walking towards you.
It is a sad fact your first impression of them is that they're large. Taller than Vadaya, you think, and only a touch narrower, with more scar tissue than you think you've ever seen on one troll before. No, that's a lie: more than one adolescent, but the planes of their face aren't that soft. They're of a size with Vadaya, and they're of an age, and..
.. at least they're glowing at you. You've travelled across space to accidentally meet up with an adult tyrian, evidently too pink or with too fierce a custodian to risk anyone culling, but they're glowing at you. And you caught them off-guard, you think, if they're not wearing any adornments, and if they haven't had time to brush their hair.
So you smile at them, carefully fangless, and it's not hard to duck your head when they've got nearly two on you. "I'm here looking for mix Aleida," you call out, meek, but with your words meant to carry. "For a delivery, mix!" It must be them. It must. But just in case: "- ah, I don't suppose you know where they are..?"
ALEIDA:
Your biolum is a little finnicky, and tends to catch best on your startle response. In the time it takes you to half-jog across the bridge to meet Pheres, it slowly calms down, until your spots go dark pink against your face. And then it's just you: Blocky, butch tyrian, holding what is very much not a sword, thank you, you're a law-abiding citizen, without a doubt!
"That'd be me, bro!" you say, with a bright smile. And you dip your head in a strange little bow of greeting. It might pass for a joke, if you hadn't accented it by extending one foot behind you on automatic. Etiquette training dies hard.
"You made it here fast. Sorry to keep you waiting! I won't, like, take too much of your time, promise."
The sword is a good three feet in length, broad and heavy. You don't flaunt your strength, so it looks lighter than it really is, when you hold it out for them. You lack all awareness, though, so you neglect to mention this.
At a lower volume, you say, "Like I said, this is like... nnnot supposed to be on Malevola? Which is why it's wrapped. You can peek, but like, for both our sakes, don't unwrap it completely, please?"
PHERES:
They bow at you, and it takes a full, embarrassing ten seconds for you to overcome your surprise and dip back in a curtsy. You can't bring yourself to bow, not when it's just as like to end with you tipping over entirely. "Lovely to meet you!" you chirp, eyeing the way their foot slid back.
And then the tyrian spots on their face. They're so awfully pink. You've never actually seen a tyrian in person before, but least this one is.. aggressively friendly.
"There's no need to apologise," you murmur, stepping forward. "Ah, I asked Riccin to drive.. they're Harley-class, it was hardly a bother at all." Your eyes are bright, literally, as you keep a metaphorical hand on your psi. If you need to, you'll jump. But you don't think you'll need to. They're so.. so...
... meek, you decide, as you take hold of the sword. You don't quite take it from them yet, but you rest your hands on it, trying the weight, and trying not to think of how easily they could maul you at this distance. ".. I shan't! Ah. Thank you, mix, this was very considerate. If I might ask.."
Oh, you shouldn't.
But they're so meek, you think, there's no harm in doing so anyway.
"Wherever did you find this?" you ask, peering up at them through your lashes.
ALEIDA:
"Would you accept 'in the ocean?'" This is meant to be a joke, and your goofy smile is a dead giveaway.
You nod your head to a spot down the river, in the direction the jetskis came from. "It's out there, where the water opens up to the shore. Some wreck or another. I didn't even know we had those! I'd give you a more exact location, but it's kind of like, off the map?" It doesn't have a name. None of your homes do. It's too dangerous to be close to something with a name. "Sorta close to Meridianum, if you're familiar." You speak like you're talking to an old friend. It doesn't occur to you that Pheres, not being from Malevola, probably has no fucking idea what you're talking about.
You move to readjust your footing and shift your weight. On flat or dry ground, this would be no issue, but as it stands you're on the soaking-wet crest of a bridge. One of your bare feet slips, and you have to let go of the sword with one hand, precariously, to grip the handrail and steady yourself.
"Whoops... Sorry, I'd tell you more but I genuinely don't know much! These aren't supposed to like... be here? So I don't know, maybe it's aliens. It's uh, like, pretty precarious here, watch your step."
PHERES:
You titter, warm and friendly, and your hand flits in front of your mouth. "I suppose I would," you murmur, soft as the water below, because.. heavens, they're very docile, aren't they? Everything about them is soft-edged and mealy-mouthed, and if it weren't for the sharp edge of their fangs, you mightn't be worried at all. That, and.. well. The fins, honestly.
But they're not being aggressive, and you don't suppose they have a reason to! No, even though you're well in their space, they're just.. talking, nattering away in the words that're just this off from sounding properly familiar. "You didn't know you had wrecks?" you ask, emboldened enough that it sounds properly curious. "And, ah.."
You have no idea what they're talking about. But you've grown less keen to play the part of pitybait, and part of you almost wants to impress them. They like Matcha. There's no reason they shouldn't like you. ".. heavens, that's nearer than I'd expect." The lie's easy. Easier than holding onto the sword when they suddenly let go. They're still nattering, but all of your attention's on the fact it's suddenly gotten so much heavier in your hands. Folded steel, your pan offers, harried. Or perhaps just carbon fiber. It must be twenty pounds, easily, if not thirty, and it's hard to keep a hold of it. It slides. Your grip falters, and then you're snatching at it with both hands, your caution forgotten -
- especially when it slides right through them, and hits the water with a splash.
You spend one, horrified heartbeat watching it slide past your grip, and then the entire situation catches up to you at once. You're on a bridge, with a tyrian. You just lost their sword. Their sword is in the water, and you're up here, on the bridge, and you just lost it -
"I'll get it!" you yelp, and you race over to the rail of the bridge, your foot hitting the ground just as your psionics unwind. There's a pulse of white, and then you're well over the rail, hand to your scarf as you dive head-first into the river's waves.
ALEIDA:
Pheres is faster than you thought. The instant he hits the water is the same instant you realize hey, he's a landdweller. Does he know how to swim? You think about Elysid, who you had to teach. And then you think about Matcha, who very nearly drowned, and still fears the water. Pheres is already on edge around you, drowning would make that much worse! Especially since it's kind of your fault the sword slipped anyway and -
"Ohhhh no no no no no-" You can see the darkening hair on your forearms, and you can feel the way the heat of it rockets up to your neck, standing on end. This is a very bad time!! This is the worst time!! You need to be able to swim to help Pheres, and you're in public! But these fears only serve to jump-start the transformation, with your snout lengthening and your claws growing in, and your "no no nos" become "woo woo woos" in a matter of seconds.
Well... maybe he won't notice?
Your large, padded paws curl around the rail, looking at the water with no small amount of fear. With the moonlight reflecting off the surface, you can't see what lies below, Pheres or not. Should you go in after him? Jumping from this height could be really bad without gills to supplement. If you don't, you'll have to run to the end of the bridge and then down to the bank, effectively taking way longer. How much longer would that take? Is it worth it?
PHERES:
You take a long, deep breath before you break the surface of the water, and then you're falling.
One benefit to your horns is that they're so heavy. They take you straight to the bottom like anchors, and while it takes effort to straighten up, align your feet with the dirt underfoot, the water takes on most of the weight. Malevola's not that different underwater than Alternia. You suppose no planet is: everything is always dreary, and brown, and empty, no matter the locale. It's alright. It's comforting, really.
And it gives you less distractions as you find the sword, and have to haul it bodily out. Even underwater, it's heavy, heavy enough to send bubbles streaming past your lips with exertion. Each kick up seems to just keep sending you bobbing back down.. until you remember the fact you've got psionics, and there's no reason to kick at all. Except - oh! You don't need to show that off here, on a foreign planet.
.. except, oh, Zavare teleports, and no one's ever thought they were anything other than teal. So the first jump sends your horns bobbing up towards the surface. The second one actually lands you on the shoreline, sopping wet, the sword suddenly so much heavier. "Mix Aleida," you call out, bedraggled: you can't quite set down the sword like this, so you scuff your face against your shoulder instead, try to push some of the wet hair away from where it's sticking to you. There's some kind of barkbeast lusus darting down on the bank, taller than you like and with the sort of jaw that makes you pause, so you sidle back until there's water lapping at your heels again. ".. ah! Mix Aleida?"
ALEIDA:
You're a little quicker on four legs than two, so that's how you scamper down to the edge of the river to meet him. Once there, though, you pull yourself back to standing, because it's impolite to be on your hands and... well, feet, now that your hind legs are digitigrade.
"Raroo!" Oh. Hm. This may complicate things. One large, clawed paw touches your chin as you politely reconsider how to respond. You're taking their question as recognition, but you can't speak to reply. This is a dilemma!
You settle for nodding instead, with your straight dingo ears bouncing a little with the motion.
It never crosses your mind that you're completely unrecognizable like this. Your limbs are still as lanky as they've ever been, a little too long to be a regular dog, and yes your ribs are showing more obviously, giving you the appearance of some sort of hungry animal... But who would you be if you thought about anything, ever? Not Aleida, that's for fucking sure. One of the only indicators of your identity is the brilliant pink in your eyes.
And speaking of eyes, you can hardly see his under his hair. He looks surprisingly okay for having just jumped into a river. Cool! You really wish you could be friends with him. It sucks when all your friends are scared of water.
You move around to grab for the sword, holding the sackcloth that the sword was previously wrapped in. Then you remember it's impolite to grab, so you shuffle back and instead... hold out your big paws, pads up, and tip your head to one side. It's a request. You just can't add on a "please" the way you'd like to.
PHERES:
Why is this lusus looking at you?
It looks like a musclebeast that someone made more carnivorious, and then forgot to feed. If Kabiir was here, you'd simply let her deal with them, but.. she isn't, and here you are, with some towering excuse for a custodian bobbing its head at you. Is it being aggressive?
There's still hair falling in your eyes. When you push it back, they're looking at you.. but worse yet, they're moving forward. You spark reflexively, jolting another step into the waves. "Stop that," you say, decisive and brisk. There's pink in their eyes, but it can't be their chrome. They haven't got gills!
Or.. oh, no, no wonder Matcha's tyrian is so dreadfully feral, if they were raised on land. You wilt a little with sympathy, but the feeling's eroded promptly when the beast actually reaches out to you. Your sparking amplifies, your vision flaring white as your eyes pick up the glow. It's a poor threat display, but there's already blood trying to trickle down your snout, and you're not quite willing to flee entirely, not when they're not trying to be threatening.
They just think you're holding something for their charge. Well, no. Kabiir's taught you much, over the sweep, but mostly, it's that you shan't be bullied by a dog. "Bad dog," you snap, brisk, and you take a step forward that's far more decisive than you're feeling. Louder: "No. NO. Bad DOG. Go back to your charge!"
ALEIDA:
They think you're a lusus. Oh, dear. This was not the intention. You drop back to all fours and edge backward, ears flattening. Your tail droops even as you stand back on your hind legs and, this time, try to convince Pheres that you're not just a "dog." But how?
You hold up the cloth. Surely they'd recognize this? And you point back to the empty bridge with one paw (it's hard to separate the "fingers" but you're doing your best), then hold up the cloth again. This is intended to show that you know the cloth belongs here, with them - that is to say, with the sword,. And you offer it out to them, with your tail wagging just a little behind you.
PHERES:
The barkbeast steps back, their ears flattening to their head, but they're flattening down to the ground again. You scamper back again, tossing your horns like that'll do a damn, now that they've been shaved practically to the root. Oh! You wish you were Riccin right now, capable of just.. scaring off everyone with a toss and a look, but no. This creature's bigger than you even on their feet, practically speaking.
But you shan't be bossed around by a beast. You won't, even if it is Aleida's lusus. (And part of you wonders why it isn't white, if that's the case - but you're on a strange planet, full of strange trolls with collars around their neck and odd customs on their tongues. Why should its fur be white?) So when they hold out a rag, gesturing in an oddly troll-like way towards the bridge, you take a deep breath, then make yourself step forward.
Gingerly, you reach out to take the rag from them, gently but firmly. And then, with the same force, you wrap the cloth around your hand, and try to push their head towards the bridge. "No," you scold, but kinder this time. They're only a dog! You shouldn't be cruel. "Your charge is up there! On the other side of the bridge, likely. They are not with me."
ALEIDA:
Now you're getting distressed. You let your head be pushed towards the empty bridge with a little whuffle, your eyes sweeping over its empty shape. Do they think you're your own lusus? This is getting absurd. It's hard being a dog. It's hard, and nobody understands.
Fine. If they want to go to the bridge so badly, you'll go to the bridge. After all, troll-you won't be there after all. One way or another, you'll show Pheres. And if you pass for a lusus, you'll probably be just fine.
You shake out your pink-orange fur - what a color, and if only you could see it - and lift yourself back to your feet, taking a few steps up towards the bridge. One hand-paw delicately lights on the railing for balance. Your ears, back to resting in the upright position, swivel towards Pheres as you look back at him, waiting for him to go with you. And just like a real dog, any moves he makes has your tail wagging just a little in anticipation.
PHERES:
Vadaya brought his lusus to the office semi-regularly. It was not a noteworthy event in itself, save for the way it made Iconic tense up like he was apt to be struck. It'd amused you to try and befriend him, but you'd never quite gotten the hang of it. Xrus was a dignified creature, too keen-witted for blatant bribery or compliments, and while he'd never fully rebuffed you, the most he'd been willing to give was lounging in your office.
It was deterrent enough for Iconic, and so it'd been good enough for you.
Kabiir, on the other hand, had adopted you immediately. Part of you worries about that as the lusus trots towards the bridge, as delicate as any dancer, because as soon as you fall in step behind them instinctively, their tail begins to wag. Lusii do not, in general, enjoy your company. And Kabiir's hard enough to feed. If this one attempts to take you on.. well, you can't afford to let something this large simply feed itself. That's how you get dead grubs.
"Good dog," you say, polite, as soon as they linger on the bridge. The sword is entirely too heavy still, but you've hit a compromise in your strange gait as you haul it: it's almost tolerable if you just.. hunker, once you think to rewrap it in the cloth. Right. They hadn't wanted it to be seen on-planet, but luckily, your scarf has been covering it well enough. "Ah."
You don't want them to adopt you. The way they swivel back to look at you makes you leery. ".. I'm sure your charge will be back soon," you say, encouraging. "Why don't you just wait here? I'll just.. ah, message them back at my ship, and let them know you're waiting.."
Are you really standing here, talking to a barkbeast?
".. here," you finish, face flushing red, and shuffle back.
ALEIDA:
He's not getting it. Your shift started out of panic, but it's now being reinforced by frustration. You're not who Pheres thinks you are, insists you are - but is that any different from the norm, with him? Now it's just a different kind of mistaken identity, one with a bit more fur and a bit less status.
But then again... at least when he's mistaken this time, he's not afraid of you.
Slowly, you settle back on your haunches, sitting on the ground and collecting your thoughts. That realization is enough to snap you out of your momentary anger. You consider the merits of trying to stay like this. Could you make friends this way, when you can't even speak, when he really thinks you're an animal? Is Pheres really less intimidated by an actual monster than he is of the real, troll you? Does he know you're a monster? (Has he seen you as a monster all along?)
Before you can think of answers to any of these, melancholy has already seeped into your bones. They begin to return to what they were. Your paws flatten and uncurl, forming fingers; your tail retreats; your fur recedes into softer, thinner hair, beginning from your face and traveling all the way down. It's the same process in reverse, Then you're just Aleida again, sitting on the bridge, looking down, then up at Pheres.
"Close," you say, "but like, no cigar."
PHERES:
You can't believe you're talking to a barkbeast. A woofbeast. A bloody dog, and your embarrassment isn't fading. Oh! You look like a buffoon. If Aleida is still around, undoubtedly, they're going to be laughing at you for acting like a wriggler, talking to their beast like it's a person. If the stragglers that have passed by already haven't come to that conclusion themselves.
The only thing you can be grateful for is that your symbol isn't on display, here, but - oh, damn it all, your face's hot all the way to your ears, and that's a sign of caste better than just spilling yourself in an entire liter of paint.
It's a good thing that the beast starts moving, because you're apt to just flee -
- up until you realise that they're moving, because they're melting.
You've seen a great deal of things in your life. This has not been one of them. Orange-pink fur shrinks back into the skin, piece by piece. The muzzle shortens, broadens, folds like clay into a nose that's more troll than not, even as the eyes widen and soften. There's no noises, but there doesn't have to be: the back of your neck prickles, even as your pan tries to shift and adjust to what you're seeing. It's melting. It's melting back into a troll.
It's melting back into a very specific troll, technically, and the sword clatters to the ground when you drop it, briefly forgotten. Concern outweighs fear right now, or even common sense. Three steps places you neatly back into Aleida's sphere, and then you're reaching out to grab their hand, turning it over neatly in your iron-hot ones. "Are you alright?" you demand, a little shrill. They melted. "Uninjured?"
ALEIDA:
"Uh...." You don't actually know. You lift your other hand, checking yourself over. "I think so! I'm not bleeding, right? And you didn't get me with anything. Thank you for that, I think."
You flash them a tired smile, and then grab onto the side of the bridge to pull yourself up, and- wow that does a number on you, doesn't it? You touch your temple as the world spins for a second.
"I'm okay," you tell Pheres, who you know is probably watching you, even though he's upside down and too far to the left right now. "I'm fine. Everything's okay... Okay." You breathe. "That's better."
Get your bearings: Pheres is still in your space, enough that you can touch his hand, gentle, with one of yours. (Jesus, he burns. You never realized anyone's skin could be so warm. Is that just him?)
"Are... you okay? I don't think I hurt you, but you dove off the side - Can you swim???"
PHERES:
As soon as you touch their hand, you recall what you're doing. But Aleida holds themself like a lowblood, despite the chill of their skin. They teeter like one, their voice soft, soothing in a way that you're used to hearing from yourself. Murmured reassurances to ensure that others will have the sense to stay away, so you don't have to risk them culling you.
A few perigees ago, you might've felt obligated to try and soothe them, hearing that: assure them that it isn't needed, and they shouldn't do it. Now.. you don't, not in the slightest bit. It's a relief, really, that there's no need to fend off aggression. You're in their face, in their space, and they haven't so much as managed a warning growl. Their society has plucked their fangs and dulled their claws, you think, but they're too daft to know it. They haven't even the sense to spook, over you being this near.
It's not pathetic in a way that makes your heart still, in the way Kit's vulnerability did. It's just.. a little sad, that's all, and concerning for it. ".. of course I can swim," you say, distracted as they reach out to touch your hand. You're still looking over their face, careful, trying to size up if there's anything wrong. They had looked like they melted.
But that can't be right. A button on their clothes..? "I'm fine, mix, my apologies for - um - distressing you. Are you alright? .. did you lose your -" You know the term for this. "- fursuit?"
PHERES:
As soon as you touch their hand, you recall what you're doing. But Aleida holds themself like a lowblood, despite the chill of their skin. They teeter like one, their voice soft, soothing in a way that you're used to hearing from yourself. Murmured reassurances to ensure that others will have the sense to stay away, so you don't have to risk them culling you.
A few perigees ago, you might've felt obligated to try and soothe them, hearing that: assure them that it isn't needed, and they shouldn't do it. Now.. you don't, not in the slightest bit. It's a relief, really, that there's no need to fend off aggression. You're in their face, in their space, and they haven't so much as managed a warning growl. Their society has plucked their fangs and dulled their claws, you think, but they're too daft to know it. They haven't even the sense to spook, over you being this near.
It's not pathetic in a way that makes your heart still, in the way Kit's vulnerability did. It's just.. a little sad, that's all, and concerning for it. ".. of course I can swim," you say, distracted as they reach out to touch your hand. You're still looking over their face, careful, trying to size up if there's anything wrong. They had looked like they melted.
But that can't be right. A button on their clothes..? "I'm fine, mix, my apologies for - um - distressing you. Are you alright? .. did you lose your -" You know the term for this. "- fursuit?"
ALEIDA:
You're thrown off-guard, and for a second you think you might still be disoriented from standing up. Did he just say what you think he said? A fursuit? What?
"... No?" You're trying desperately to think of some kind of answer to this and coming up totally blank. "No, it's not... what?" And then you just start laughing. Again, your etiquette training kicks you in the ass, because as soon as the sound starts, your hand is there to cover your mouth. Your fins wiggle a little, too.
"No," you say, more confidently as you recover, "I didn't, like, lose my 'fursuit.' It's uh..."
Do you tell him? Would he believe you? Or worse, would he run?
"... It's nothing." You smile, letting your hand drop once your face is perfectly poised: unassuming, pleasant, friendly. "That's a fun word though! I like it. But hey, where did you learn to swim, like, for real? Did you learn that on your own? Aren't you scared?" Then, an afterthought: "And do you, like, want a hand with getting that back to your transport?"
PHERES:
Is this how others feel when you try to pacify them?
Aleida slides their mask back on like it never came off. A moment ago, their words were smooth as the water beneath you. They'd stumbled, when they were catching their breath, but they'd been earnest, wide-eyed, in a way that they aren't now. Oh, part of it was fear, you think. Or pain? Did that hurt? Sipara's prosthetics feed off of her blood, and hook into her nervous system. Perhaps Aleida's suit hides in their body in the same way.
You hope it didn't hurt. But they're smiling at you again after they finish laughing, fangless and close-mouthed, and it seems worryingly likely that it did. "Is it nothing?" you murmur, ducking your head. You peer up at them through your lashes, trying to figure out a route. "Ah. Are you sure you're alright..? Was it psionics, then? Technology?"
They're a fuchsia, but they hold themself like a maroon.
.. perhaps that's not too different from you. They won't hurt you regardless, you think, if you push.
"And. There was a river by my hivestem, when I was growing up," you say, and then pause. "A hivestem is.. ah, a building, where several of us lived together at once. Taking care of the fields, primarily, or the building itself. Do most lowbloods here not know how to swim?" You're certain they don't know anywhere. But it's a nice diversion from answering their question, because if you haul the sword back to the ship now, you're not certain Riccin won't haul you right off the planet entirely.
ALEIDA:
You gesture to your exposed skin, free of wounding and nearly all marks, save for the irregular pock-marks of your biolum... And save for the healed-over shape of a vicious, bestial bite in your shoulder. It's half-hidden by your binder, light against your skin, but it's undeniably a bite, one that looks much older than it should. Good thing you're very, very good at denying the undeniable.
"Pretty sure, dude," you promise. "No tech, no psions, no tricks. I'm tyrian, I don't think we get psionics, right?"
You hope to every god you've ever heard of that Pheres isn't pink enough to prove you wrong, because you can't tell.
"I had to teach Elysid how to swim, and Matcha." There's a falter between those names, a hairline fissure that you paint over with a new line: "They're fast learners, and Malevolans aren't really scared of the water! It's just that, like, if you can't get to the cities, there's no real point to going in at all, when you can save yourself the like, breath, and just take a transport."
You grin. "We should swim sometime! I could show you where I found that, like, radical little shiny dude. I'm pretty sure there's more there, I'm just, like, working solo, you know? It's slow going!
PHERES:
They may not act like it, but Aleida is a tyrian. Their skin's smooth and unmarked in the way that only the highest of trolls get, sleek enough that it makes part of you nearly envious. Sometimes you feel like you're more scar than skin. But all they have is the peek of a bite on their shoulder.
If it hadn't been for Sipara, perhaps you wouldn't recognise the raised skin for what it is. But the marks of fangs, once you've seen them, tend to leave an impression. "Ah, I'm sure I don't know," you demurr. Fur, and a bite.. surely not.
Emerel has a worm in his gut that makes him appear to be a drinker. There is no parasite out there large enough to rewrite genetics.
But you'll have time to dig into that. Because, you've decided, you are digging. When their voice falters, just soft enough that you're not sure if you heard it at all, you don't let your attention show. You do make note of it, though, and the way they keep barreling on.
They certainly do like their filler words. "Who's Elysid?" you ask, still careful to keep your voice soft. The sword is heavy in your grip: you shift nearer to the railing, then lean against it, letting it take on the weight of things. Aleida is close enough to be a danger, if they wanted, but.. you could jump in time, you think, if you needed to. They don't appear the sort to be very good at fighting, no matter the cause. "And - really! That seems dreadful. The water is just.."
"Lovely," you decide, and then you smile back at them, lifting your chin. Your gaze is a touch owlish, with water still soaking your braids to your head, but perhaps they'll find that charming. Trying to look demure didn't seem to have any affect, after all.
And if they're a mystery to be solved.. well, the first step is always to find the key, isn't it?
ALEIDA:
You do find it charming. Something about the water has always made people feel as if they're on the same level as you. If he swims, if he likes the water, it means he understands something so fundamental to your being that you don't have to act like it doesn't exist.
"Elysid is my bro! He's, like, the coolest cat this side of Malevola. He's, like, a herb.... botanist?" Herbalist is the wrong word. He's a medic, but you're not supposed to say that. You shrug it off. "He spends, like, most of his time with plants, out near the Placid woods. Pretty good place for it! It just means, like, he doesn't spend too much time near the shore, unless he's hanging out with me. He goes surfing with me sometimes!"
Elysid was easy. Matcha was the one that gave you trouble, and she's still scared of the water.
You match Pheres, leaning against the bridge, and take a moment to look down into the depths below.
"Do other landdwellers swim, where you're from?"
PHERES:
More filler words. Were they using this manner at the start of things? "Ah." You lean down, letting the sword rest gently on the ground. It's still neatly wrapped in the cloth, the blade hidden away, and tucked between your feet, passer-byers won't have the opportunity to try and take it, if one had a mind. Then you start wringing the water out of your braids, one at a time. "Did you mean herbalist..?"
"My clademate is a herbalist," you lie neatly, letting your eyes drop to the ground. Videle would murder you if she heard you refering to her as your clade, but that's fine. They're scarcely going to go about telling her, so it's a harmless lie. If you need to, you could even say she's your kismesis, and Vide would understand.
Probably. More likely, she'd be too flustered to correct a tyrian. "Does he grow his plants? She's right across the row from me, and she grows hers, for her medical practice. Ah, the leaves cover everything! It'd be so much more practical if she lived out in the country, but.." You titter, your newly freed hand going up to cover your mouth. "I suppose most people don't want to leave the luxuries of civilisation," you admit, wry. "What's surfing?"
"And, ah - other land-dwellers don't swim, no. It holds a rather high risk of.."
You shouldn't say it. But you're so curious as to their reaction, so you let your eyes drift to the side as your chin falls. Your braids shift forward. "Ah," you say, delicate. "Drowning. I just don't have to worry about that."
ALEIDA:
Oh. He acts like you. In the movement of his deft hand, you finally recognize why you can't stand the way he talks to you: He's the reflection of everything you hate. He's the product of everything you once were, everything you rejected that you can't run away from, sweeps later.
And you hate that.
You skip over "medical" like one rivulet of a tumbling brook, stepping onto the next steady stone: "Oh man, dude! Surfing is like, the most radical sport ever. It's like flying, but on the water! It's so fun, you have to try sometime. There are, like, few things quite so bodacious."
"Drowning," he says, and your face falls. It's just a second, one tiny instant before you pick yourself right back up, but the guilty feeling claws at your chest like it wants to drown you, too.
"You don't have to worry about that?" You fixate on the easy part, because then you don't have to think about the d-word. You can carry on without it. It's fine! Don't worry about it! Nothing to see here!
PHERES:
Every passing moment is just another question. Aleida's face - well, the best word for it is crumples, if it weren't so extreme. Perhaps it's more that it wrinkles? Yes, you decide: their face wrinkles when you say drowning, like it's something terrible, and a part of you almost feels bad. They're foreign, and they're delicate, and you're not entirely sure, if Hadean was here, he wouldn't have had them in tears within the minute.
Curiousity's no reason to go upsetting them. If they start crying, you don't know what you'll do.
"Ah.. bodacious?" You shouldn't go upsetting them, but that doesn't mean you can't tease over their language. "I'm sure it is," you say, pushing your braids back over your shoulder. This.. isn't the reaction you'd wanted from them, but that's fine. You're used to fielding questions back, and every reaction gives you something else to work off of, doesn't it? Highbloods are like rolling logs. You simply have to keep jumping until you find one with enough traction to stay. "Do you have your surfing utensil here? I don't suppose I could try it on Alternia."
"It's.." Don't mention drowning. Don't mention violence. Your smile freezes, but only for a breath, and then you laugh again, softer this time, as you lean forward. "I'm afraid people would find it disrespectful," you admit. Everyone enjoys a secret, and what better way to win affection? Because affection, in your experience, has always been the key to getting answers. "Most don't appreciate, mm.. my swimming in the first place. Which is silly, I think! Being underwater.. it's simply incomparable. But, ah, I suppose that's why I don't set the standards."
Your smile shifts, just a smidge, towards sheepish. "Do you suppose we could keep that fact between the two of us..? Ah, it'd be reflect badly on me if your violet friend heard it online."
ALEIDA:
Your hand lights on your chest, with more grace and poise than any part of you deserves. It covers your heart, steadily pumping ice-cold fish blood around your body.
"It's not my fact to tell, dude," you say, with a solemnity used for swearing oaths. Your simple words belie your message, but the message is there all the same, for anyone who cares to look. You get the feeling he cares to look very, very much.
"I used to have a spare board, but I don't anymore." Lost it when Matcha nearly drowned. Cared more about her than about any old board. "But I can make you one? If you want, that is. You can use mine to practice if you want, they're just."
You gesture, with a hand high above your head, held with your palm parallel to the ground. "Big," you emphasize with a laugh. This is a safe topic, this is your comfort zone. Stay here long enough, and you can hide. You're keeping your cards close to your chest. (You wonder the extent of his etiquette training. Does he know the game as well as you'd like to forget you do? Can he see you playing all your safe cards, biding your time, holding out as long as you can? Or can you get away with this?)
"They've got to be tall enough to lay on, and like, a little more, so they're not the easiest things to transport. But if you try it and you like it, I can make one for you. Or I could show you how, if you like, prefer that?" Craftsmanship is a dying art, but he seems to care a lot about dying arts, if he came all the way out here for a sword.
PHERES:
A few millenia ago, back when the Empire was still young, and it had only begun spread across the planet, there were a thousand different ways to show respect. Then the Empire grew, consolidating civilizations under its grasp and forming its foundation on top of their backs. Rmeros had spent most of your sweep together teaching you the rules and regulations that governed modern society.
Your own interests had taught you the ones that governed history. You would've expected Aleida to hold themself like an emperor from cohort cycles ago, but for all that their words are crass, their gestures are the same you'd expect from any of their caste. It's fascinating. Obviously, they're not as feral as you thought, not when they'd flitted their hand in front of their mouth, a mirror of your own gesture, and so many of their gestures have the presence that befits..
.. well. A tyrian.
Maybe they aren't feral at all. Maybe they just like to pretend.
"You're very kind," you tell them, and it's not even a lie. Oh, they'll tattle to Matcha, you're certain, but you don't give a fig if she knows, and the fact they'd pretend otherwise is a kindness that they've no reason to bestow. Just like your patience through their explanation is. You'd pretended otherwise, to keep the conversation going, and to get them comfortable.. but, oh! Of course you know what a surfboard is!
"I've never heard of that before," you say, bright. "Ah, that's amazing! Perhaps I ought to start with yours, then. If you're willing to show me, of course - pardon my assupmtion.. do you just, oh -" You bite your lip, lifting your hand to make a flippant sort of gesture. "Ride it?"
".. or do you get on top of it, and dive? Is that how you found, ah.. your goods?"
ALEIDA:
He calls you "kind," and your fins wiggle a little. It's paired with a brief, faint ripple of glow that starts in your face, then runs down to the end of your limbs, like water. Again, your fingers cover your mouth, but your laugh is a lot more sheepish this time, through a mumbled "thank you."
Sorry, Pheres. You don't acknowledge anything unless it's staring you in the face, and even that's questionable. If you weren't so fucking dense, maybe you would have picked up on the fact that it's a lie.
But you don't, and you're just happy to be talking about something that isn't the d-word, or about your affliction, or about your rank. No, you're just happy Pheres is talking to you, full stop, and your delight is evident in your grin. "Of course I'd, like, show you! I'd love that! If you want to, of course? I don't know, I think you'd like it. But the boards are bouyant, you're not gonna get far if you dive, it's more of a, like, surface activity."
You gesture to the sword. "I found that from regular old diving. Well... As close to diving as you can get, with a reef! They're not that deep."
PHERES:
It's a wonder you were ever worried about this, because: a highblood is a highblood, it turns out, even when they're as meek as a goldfish in a bag. Aleida grins at you, and you beam back reflexively, only just barely suppressing the urge to bounce. You're marvelous at this, aren't you? The only trick is to keep it going.
"You glow!" you marvel, clasping your hands together in front of you. "Ah, not to be forward, but - that's amazing. Can you do it on purpose? If you don't mind my asking, of course - it's fine if you do. And.."
Hadean would throttle you, if he knew what you were saying, but luckily, what he doesn't know has yet to hurt him. He'd told you himself: it's only a lie if it's direct! Offering to get in the water with a tyrian is just.. a secret, the sort he'd disapprove of. "I'd love to," you chirp, taking note of the way they'd paused. They're talking to you like an equal again.
But of course they are, if they're not feral. Why would they ever receive proper training on how to interact with lowbloods? 'If you'd want to, of course -': that's the sort of language for indigoes, or violets. If they'd never met anyone lower than Matcha before.. well, suddenly so much more of this makes sense, you think, and the flush of satisfaction does make you arch up onto your toes, a flounce that sets your braids to bouncing. "I'd love to," you say, earnest. "Ah. D'you suppose you could show me now? And - you dive in reefs? Really?"
You love when opportunities pop up organically like this. "Those are dreadfully dangerous, aren't they? With, ah.. sharks?" A beat. Then you let your eyes slide towards the mark on their chest, where the skin has puckered and paled above their binder. You wish you had ears to drop: it'd be so much more emotive, but instead, you just let sympathy creep into your voice, just mild enough to not be disrespectful. "Is that how you got your scar?"
ALEIDA:
"Uh-" Okay, maybe you aren't out of the woods yet. Your rhythm stutter-steps, and your eyes flick to the side for just the briefest moment. "Haha, that'd be pretty cool, wouldn't it? No, sharks would make, like, a way bigger bite."
You don't realize the terrifying nature of what you've just said, because you're not exactly self-aware, so you continue.
"Sharks are like, just big chill wet bros, dude. They're just trying to live their best lives. They're not, like, aggressive at all! Just hungry. It's like when you've, like, skipped a meal, and you see fake food and think it's real, and bite into it? Except their 'fake food' is trolls, I guess, so maybe that's not the best comparison... Point is, they don't mean to bite trolls. They really want seals, or for the reef sharks, crabs and squid. Trolls don't provide proper nutrients for them, and like, they don't really perceive us as threats either, as long as we aren't attacking them."
PHERES:
"Would they?" you ask, and - your hands were clasped, but now you release them so you can press one to your mouth as they talk. It's very.. vivid. You're not aghast, exactly, but it lets you fan out your fingers and exhale a breathy 'oh!' like you are.
Maroons are expected to be docile even on Malevola, you're certain. Surely that's the sort of expectation they're expecting. "That's.. good to know. I always thought they were harmless. They're so dreadfully slow. But, ah, you know how it goes. They only have to be fast once, to try and get curious."
"I'm glad that it wasn't a shark, though," you tell them. "I got caught by an octopus once, and - well! It's not very pleasant, I think. Or.." You tuck your hands behind you once more, biting carefully down on your lip. You don't know animals, not well enough to identify their marks. But you can throw information out, like a fishing line, and see what comes in.
"My moirail got maimed by someone's lusus, once. It was.. worse than unpleasant. Do you have lusii here?"
ALEIDA:
"Yeah, those beaks are killer... It's the little ones you gotta watch out for, though. They can, like, pack quite a punch if they nip you. Sharks aren't like that, though - they're just curious, they'll come sniff you if you're hanging out with them. They're like big, wet barkbeasts!"
If you had any kind of a danger sense, this new question might have been your cue to get the hell out. You might have turned tail (haha) and run right now.
But you're Aleida, "just" Aleida, and you don't know shit. What Pheres drops is bait, and you're taking it.
"Oh, yeah, lots!" You smile. "They're, like, cool furry bros, or scaley, or slimy. My lusus is the slimy type, sort of. He's also got some scales, but, like, no need to get into that. We've got all kinds of lusii, but I've, like, never heard of one attacking before! Sometimes, like, wild animals will attack, super rarely, but never lusii, they're, like, good dudes."
And you're not lying - this is all very genuine! But it's so genuine, you don't notice how your evasion is painting you into a corner.
PHERES:
Behind your back, your fingers wind together, tightening as you fight the urge to bounce. If this was a trap, Aleida would have stuck their entire, finny head into it. As is..
Well! It's not a trap. You'd never play terrible social games with a seadweller who's fully capable, if not especially keen, on snapping you in half. But it's still a victory, that's the thing, and it's an active work of effort to keep from smiling. "Oh!" you breathe instead. "That's good! The ones on Alternia are always dreadfully aggressive.. but, ah, that's just to protect their charges. We're a rather combative.."
You can't say species. They're a member of the same species, for all that the culture is different, so you let your smile creep wry as you duck your head. ".. culture," you murmur, then peer up. It hasn't been working yet, playing docile, but habits are hard to break. "Ah. If I might ask, then.. if it wasn't a shark, and it wasn't a lusus, well..."
If they were lower, you would've been shameless enough to reach out and brush their scar, just to see what they'd do. But for all that Aleida acts like a maroon, they're not, and you're not so at ease you're willing to risk it. You just brush your fingers against where the scar would be on you, instead, letting your smile go lop-sided and apologetic enough to match your voice. ". what did that? It just looks awfully large."
ALEIDA:
You mirror the motion as he does it, unconsciously - but he doesn't have a scar there. You do, and you feel its little indentations in your shoulder. It's still aching from when you turned.
There's no way out of this one. This is a checkmate. But now, at least, you know the game Pheres is playing, and you know he knows how to play it, too.
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," you say, because he shouldn't. Most people shouldn't. You didn't, for a time, even when you bore the scars of it. But Pheres has seen you now, so if he hasn't put two and two together yet, he will in a moment. "It was a monster."
You have a hard time saying that word. It makes you compress in on yourself, just a hair.
"... Like, a werewolf. Or I think it was a wolf." It was hard to tell. It was dark, and you're colorblind. "Whatever it was, it wasn't all troll - but it's, like, fine. I can handle it." Maybe. You don't know enough about it yet, you hardly know enough about yourself. Your eyes flit to the space behind Pheres, further down the bridge, and you consider running. You want to. In your mind, you're already a mile away.
"Please don't scream."
PHERES:
If you're perfectly honest, you're not sure what answer you expected.
But it wasn't, somehow, this.
Oh, in hindsight, it makes perfect sense! What else would they say? That they were carrying about a disposable fursuit in their collar, hidden somehow underneath the tight confines of the nylon? Not at all. It doesn't even make sense. Clearly, the fact they're stuttering through calling themselves a werewolf makes significantly more sense. Because werewolves are real. Or at least, Aleida thinks they're real.
.. if they weren't so convinced you wouldn't believe them, you'd balk at the idea they expected you to buy such an obvious lie. But they think you won't, and that's its own brand of offense. You're a maroon. You've been nothing but respectful, and kind, and - and dignified, really, moreso than has been warranted, and yet, when push comes to shove, they think that something so meager as a bout of fakery will throw off your dedication. Like your entire persona is nothing but a mask that you've been putting on for the sake of this interaction.
To an extent, it is. But you've never appreciated being called out. "Oh!" you say, for what must be the dozenth time in this conversation, and you let your eyes widen, even as you're seething in the back of your head. Some of that comes out in your voice, unfortunately, in the sharp edges: you've still yet to master the art of reigning yourself in entirely. "Why would I scream?"
You take a step forward. It's not as hard as it would've been thirty minutes ago, or even a breath ago. They're just like Hinnom, with their ghosts, or Sipara: superstitious, silly, and worried enough that there's no bite left in them. That's why you try to take their hand, earnest, and clasp it between yours. "Of course I believe you," you assure them, still a little sharp-tongued, but hopefully the way you're holding eye contact helps alleviate it. "I'm sorry! That sounds wretched. Are you.. quite alright, now?"
ALEIDA:
Something about their attitude pings a warning light in the back of your head. Maybe it's one too many etiquette lessons, where your prim-and-proper instructors definitely didn't detest you, just barely restraining their distaste behind razor-sharp teeth. Maybe it's the times you were spoken to by friends-but-not-friends, who sided with you only with word, not in thought or deed.
It makes your hand go still. There's no warmth, no life left in it.
"Yes," you say, quietly, and correct yourself: "Yeah, it's fine. Everything's, like, fine. Sorry. Hey-" And you pull your hand free, immediately hiding it in the pocket of your translucent cover-up. "I'm, like, sorry for keeping you so long, I didn't mean to. This is probably, like, way out of the way for you, and you probably need to be heading back, right? Sorry about that. But let's talk surfing, like, another time!"
PHERES:
You're not sure how, but you can tell the instant that you've fucked up.
Your cheeks flush as Aleida pulls back, and you're quick to bury your hands in your hair instead, fussing with the braids as you tuck them back into a semblence of order. They're still sopping wet. Everything on you is still sopping wet, honestly. It's a better thing to focus on then trying to figure out what they're thinking, because -
- oh, they're a highblood, and they're foreign to boot. You have a thousand possibilities, but not any convictions, and it's positively wretched as far as combinations go. "Um," you say, letting your eyes drop to the sword. You scramble for it, picking it up delicately - if awkwardly - in your arms to keep it balanced. "Right. My apologies, mix, I didn't mean to -"
"Mm. That was impolite of me." You bob your head in a quick nod, and for once, it's embarrassment, not manners, that keeps your gaze on their horns instead of their eyes. "We should! And. Ah. I suppose.. I should. Thank you for the sword." A beat. "I hope your scar feels better."
ALEIDA:
"It's okay," you say, and your face is right back to that dumb smile. You're closing yourself off again completely, locking up everything tight, throwing away the key. "Don't worry about it." In your head, you're already running away, but it's sheer force of will that keeps you standing here for a few moments longer.
You give him a little duck of your head in return, followed by a wave in farewell. "Take care, dude, and, like, safe travels."
Specific content warnings on this: this is a follow-up to the previous Sunstrider drabbles: Elilah warning Pheres off of them [1], Pheres & the troupe at 15 [2], and Chapar and Pheres at 16 [3]. Usual content warnings for this plot-line, which are: a bunch of young college students taking advantage of high schoolers, which culminates in this drabble!
"I'm leaving the Sunstriders," Chapar tells you briskly, sliding your door shut behind him, "and if you've got any common sense, I think you're going to, too."
You drop the can of coffee you'd been opening onto your counter with a nervous laugh. "Ah -"
"I'm not joking, Dys." Your van isn't that large. When he starts pacing, twenty steps takes him from your recuperation slit to the passenger seat, then he's whirling on his heel to do it again. Each step has you anxiously eyeing the ceiling to make sure his rack won't scrape. Sometimes you think your horns are impressive, but that always ends as soon as you see your best friend. He's just.. impressive, from his voice, to his rack, to the way he never has to wear a neck brace to keep all of his horns up.
No, he just had the luck to be hatched sturdy enough to deal with it. He's just a full meal, Malaya had said once as a joke, and he'd only ever said it to make Khaneh squall, but the phrase had stuck with you all the same.
Mostly because Malaya had never said anything like that about you. It's hard not to be jealous of Chapar, sometimes, when he's got a moirail, and big horns, and he's actually a proper part of the clade, while you're stuck at the outskirts.
Except he apparently doesn't want a clade.
"Are you alright?" you ask him now, popping to your feet. Everyone's gotten taller than you in the past few perigees, but Chapar's sprouted up more than even the rest of the troupe. You can't reach his forehead even if you tried. So you step in close instead. "Ah. You're not sick, are you? I know that there's been that bug running around, the psychic residue one -"
When you reach for his hand, he growls at you.
You drop your hands, taking a neat step backwards. "Sorry about that," you say easily, for all that your heart is pounding. There's orange rimming Chapar's eyes, now that you look at him properly, and you're entirely too aware of how small the space is. Sometimes you forget how easily that he riles. It's so rarely aimed at you! "I.. that was an unkind presupposition."
"Dude, I wish you'd speak Standard." He drags his hand through his hair, but you don't relax when he turns away from you. You don't dare to actually leave him alone in your van, if he's in a mood. The only time that Trieua had cracked one of your mirrors, in her absurd little snits, Malaya had practically chewed off her ear - but Malaya likes you better than Trieua, when push comes to shove. You've always been quite sure about that.
You've never been sure where you rank in regards to Chapar. Khaneh's Malaya's actual matesprit, the one who's official enough to be on records, and the one that he hauls out to the historical society's parties. You all wear Malaya's blue, of course, but Khaneh's cerulean is the only one that he's ever worn.
And Khaneh's moirail is Chapar.
"That was stupid of me," you murmur, soothing. It's an unpleasant feeling to be both cornered and confused; you've known Chapar for ages, and you'd always trusted he was the most transparent of the Sunstriders. As the only other lowblood, the two of you had understood each other in a way that the others hadn't. It was why you’d befriended him in the start, back when you were still smarting from Elilah, and he was the only other courier lower than Stevia, and the only one who’d gone out of his way to be kind.
The fact you were both lowbloods was why he’d ended up introducing you to the rest of them. “They’re a little weird,” he’d warned you, sheepish, “but they’re blue, Dys, I think that kind of just comes with the package?”
"I'm sorry," you say now, watching him as you play with a braid that's fallen over your shoulder. You tug at the bead you've strung onto the end, just to give your hands something to do. You’re not scared of Chapar. You know he’d regret actually biting, even if you do manage to step on his toes, and that emboldens you. "May I ask what the issue is? You seem.."
Agitated, you want to say, but - bold or not, there's orange in his eyes. You swallow the words instead, and when he looks at you, sharp, you just shrug, your smile carefully toothless, your shoulders drawn in to make yourself look smaller. Chapar’s always been your friend! But everyone always forgets you’re maroon, when they get upset.
Apologies are all nice and well, but they’ve never quite made up for a split lip.
"It's - Empress, it's Malaya." A beat. He sighs, loud, and gives up on walking; instead, he throws himself onto your counter, legs kicking up in the air as he slouches his elbows onto his knees. "That's not right," he says. "It's everyone here. It's this entire historical society. Like, have you heard what they're saying?"
"I -" You don't know what the correct answer is, here, not when he's still looking so furious. Chapar's a coiled spring on your wardrobe, all pulsing energy, and he's just waiting for you to give the wrong answer. Chapar’s never gotten rough with you, for all that he’s tussled and bit at Treiua. But he’s never gotten mad at you, either, the way he has the others. If he does.. you'll just teleport, you think, and deal with whatever mess he might make afterwards.
Your answer takes a little too long. He huffs, some of the energy dissipating out of him. When he looks at you, his mouth's a thin line, but his expression's more exasperated than irate. "Calm down," he says now. "Stop flinching. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you, I just can't -” He jerks a hand in the air: “- do your whole pacifying thing right now."
He's an oliveblood, you want to say, and not even a high one. Your pacifying thing is the same way he acts, when someone higher than cerulean looks his way for too long. (And at least you’ve never done it in front of your moirail, you want to object.) But he's high-minded, just like Sipara, so you suppose the aggravation’s fair enough, in a certain point of view. And at least this gives you an answer that you know.
"I'm not scared," you scold him, but it's gentle, with no bite to it. You step forward, forcing the stiffness in your spine to loosen, and you're careful to make each step as loud as you can in the small van, so he knows where you are. You don't touch him when you get over to the counter. You just.. lean against it, close enough for him to brush you if he wants, and say, like your psionics aren't coiled tight: "- I'm sorry if I came off that way. I was just startled. Are you alright? Because this.. well. It isn't exactly normal, I think. What are people saying?”
“Are they judging our fashion?” It wouldn’t be a surprise. The lot of you dress better than most of the historical society: they’re all frills and lace and perfectly ironed buttons, in a way that always catches your eye, but blends into the crowd. Malaya has the lot of you dressing properly, in the sort of way that stands out, but still lets you into markets.
It’s sharply cut sneakers, smooth lines, layers. It’s white as an accent, not a full bloom of colour, and jade that you keep restricted to your glasses and your nails. It’s the sort of ripped jeans and long-sleeves that even Sipara has to begrudgingly adore, and that no one else in the entire society bothers with. Stevia’s always sniffed that you’re missing the point of the community, but Malaya says it makes the lot of you distinct. “Because Stevia’s silly,” you declare. “She just wants all of us flouncing around in white, like rainbowdrinkers.”
"It's not about clothes. It’s about -" He huffs, his ears falling. "I went to the circle to help set up, and Stevia was talking to Trieua. And everyone was there already, Dys.” Of course they had been. The caravan circle’s the place where everyone gets together to plan the routes, and decide who’s stalls will get set where. It’s not a meeting that you’ve even been invited to, given your role as a courier, but Chapar’s training to take over as the head of the couriers, once Jahane ascends. He’s been attending all of them.
“D’you know what she said? She said we're just portable pails," he says, begrudging. "And Trieua laughed, and Khaneh just - told her to shut up. She didn’t even say she was wrong. She didn’t even get upset, because d’you know what? Everyone’s been saying it! Everyone’s been saying it for perigees, and for perigees.”
You blink at him.
This was not, you think, the best time to have moved in closer to Chapar, no matter how much the show of trust made him relax, because he looks up as you go tense. "Did you know about this?" he says again, sharper this time. "Did everyone know, except for me?”
"What does that even mean?" you manage, because your mouth’s gone dry. Portable pails. It’s the sort of language that makes your cheeks flush at the best of times.
This is not the best of times. You’ve always been neatly sheltered against the worst of the troupe’s language, but it isn’t as if you haven’t heard the sort of things that get slung around. Fast psionics make for fast trolls. The only difference between a troll and a pail is two legs. Iconic’s made those jokes, and so have others, trying to nettle you. But Malaya’s always put a stop to it, when he’s noticed.
"It means we're easy and we can get passed around. And that’s not fair. We’re not doing anything that anyone else isn’t! And -”
“Did Malaya hear?” you interrupt, and he pauses. But you don’t. “Did he?” You’re trying for quiet, but, oh, you’re so dreadfully poor at controlling yourself sometimes: your voice pitches up, higher than you like. “Because not everyone’s saying that. He doesn’t let people say that -”
The anger’s dissipating, piece by piece. Chapar’s just.. brittle, now, as he watches you, his fangs biting into his lip. “He told her to stop being mean,” Chapar says, dour. “And changed the subject. But that’s not good enou - oh! Hey! Pheres!”
He reaches out and catches you on the back with a clap of his hand, just as you teeter back. It's not heavy enough to stagger you, but the weight of it doesn't do much to ease your discomfort, either. He's so much larger than you. And right now, you don’t want anyone touching you at all.
Portable pail.
But when you flinch away, he just shifts his grip to your shoulder. "Don't faint, dude," he scolds, brows knit, and then: "- y'know what, um, here! You sit up here, okay?"
"No, no, I don't - ah - need to sit -"
"You look like you're about to faint," he points out, and when he steps forward, he taps the counter in his place. It’s not so much an offer as it is an order. Chapar’s your closest friend, and you suppose this is part of the reason why: he’s always looking out for you, just like you look out for him.
Like the reason he came here, in the first place, instead of just leaving.
So you hop up there instead. It is not, as far as these things go, any better than being on the ground. But perhaps he has a point about feeling the need to faint, because the room's spinning around you, and you feel like you might be sick.
There’s still an agitation to him, projected in the brittle curve of his mouth, but mostly, it’s buried under the alertness that he watches you with. “I’m sorry,” he says again, softer. “I didn’t mean to scare you, dude. Or just - flounce in here. It’s - I’m just upset, that’s all. Everyone’s been saying all of this shit, and nobody’s said anything.”
A beat.
“Khaneh hasn’t said anything,” he says, and his hand goes up to his throat. For the first time, you realise he’s not wearing his cerulean scarf. “And if that’s the way she thinks of me - she thinks of us - I’m not going to let people keep saying it. Because it’s not fair. They do the exact same things as us, but nobody’s saying shit like that about them. It’s just us. Because - what, we’re warmer? I don’t even have psionics, and you don’t deserve to deal with this just because you do.”
Fast psi made for a fast troll.
This was supposed to make people like you. That was what Malaya had always said. There was nothing wrong with being friendly. There was nothing wrong with any of it, and there never had been, for him. Because he’s navy.
Your knuckles have gone white on the table. “Excuse me,” you say, hollow, and you lean over to the sink just in time to retch.
changing yourself isn’t easy. building anything takes time, and it took you years to build up the first time. you don’t have that luxury now. no matter how many times you divorce yourself, you’ll never be able to run away forever.
here’s the good news: you don’t have to. the good news is that rubble makes as good a foundation as any. the good news is that with every aged brick you tear down, you fortify your future structure.
take out the rotting wood. pry up the bleached tile. replace it, refit it, rebuild it, and don’t stop. it’s hard because it’s worth it. it can be done.
orange is a door, a transition, a tonal shift. if you lift your palate you can hit those higher notes. yes, there’s something brighter on the other side. are you willing to do the work to get there?
“Rust - Pheres,” you clarify, rolling your eyes. Last time you used an epithet, he’d said something about knowing who you’re with, like it was a joke, then sulked for days. “What is your problem, even?”
He blinks at you. “What?”
Knees balanced on yours, a hand braced on your shoulder: even leaning back, he’s only about of a height with you, nose level with yours. This close, you can smell the olive in his hair and the mint on his breath. This close, you can actually see the fine wrinkles of his face, and the way his mouth pinches. “I don’t know what you’re -”
He pauses when you settle your hands on his hips. There’s a sliver of skin where his shirt’s pulled up, right above the hip-bones, and it’s amazing what a single touch can do: you hook your thumbs there, and you can feel the wave of tension spreading through him, pulling him up and away.
“That,” you say, dry, “is what I’m talkin’ about.”
“I don’t -“ It’s just a shift back at first. Then he shimmies, just a little, and you know the routine. You lift off your hands, palms exposed, before he can slap them off, and flare them out in front of you:
cw: discussion of age gaps and resulting consent issues, abuse
“You lookin’ for a pale? Don’t worry about it,” Cu Chul had told you. “I’ve got it fucking covered.”
This is not what you’d thought she’d meant.
The apartment you’re lounging around is in set up - well, not like a pale bordello. You’ve been plenty of places, but you’ve never been in one of those, no matter how many insinuations Dysseu makes. Nah, it just looks like a plain ol’ fucking apartment, really. It’s the same as half the buildings in Lang Kheh. The ceilings are low and wooden, with rafters exposed and cobwebs plagueing the corners. The room’s smokey with the scent of roasting fish, and the stink of the docks from down below keeps wafting in through the cracked windows. The furniture’s faded in the way that everything is, here: it doesn’t matter how many doors you have, or shutters, or clothes. The salt always seems to find a way to bleach it.
It looks perfectly normal, save for the fucking floor. And that’s only on account of the fact…
“Cu,” you hiss, doing your best to keep your ears aloft. Your heart is in your throat, racing away like a rabbit on a track. You can practically feel each jump of your pulse. “Cu!”
She looks back at you from where she’s chattering with the host, some green-eyed sprat who scarcely reaches your shoulder. He’s got the sort of face that’d make your eyes linger, usually - the kind of horns that’re made to take a grip - but you’ve got bigger issues. The room’s cute. Even you can admit that. The folks are cute, too.
Significantly less cute is the way some of ‘em are flat-out piling.
At first glance, it just looked like your regular sort of party. But nah. The two tealbloods snuggling on the couch aren’t necking, for all that one’s got her face pressed in close to his cheek. They’re whispering, their fingers laced together, and it was only when her shoulders hitched that you’d caught those were tears on her face, not fucking highlights.
Cu gestures at you sharply to wait.
“Cu!” you yowl, louder this time. There’s an indigo and a rust braiding hair on the countertop. Every third strand, her hand goes skirting across the nape of his neck. When you jerk your chin towards ‘em for Cu to see, he actually fucking chirrs, harsh enough you can feel the vibrations through your feet, and he leans into it.
Your face’s as orange as the sun itself. You look away like you’ve been slapped, ears pulling back, and Cu -
- all she does is fucking laugh at you, lip curling like you’re being fucking silly. “I told you I’d get you piled,” she says, all full of scorn. “Cousin, you wicked nonbeliever, did you motherfucking doubt?”
“This ain’t a pile, girl!” You have to cant your voice low. The olive’s eyebrows have raised so high, they might as well be hidden in his hair, and he’s stepped back neatly into the crowd. When Cu realises he’s moving, she actually shifts to watch him go, her mouth twisting down into a mouie, and it takes you clearing your throat for her gaze to turn back to you. “This’s a fucking - fucking -”
She sighs. Then she steps in close, reaching up to grasp your braid and tug your face towards her. “Cousin,” she drawls, soft and warm, even as her cool breath puffs against your cheek. It’s honey-sweet, in a way that speaks to fucking pre-gaming that she didn’t have the grace to share. “Chillax. ‘course it ain’t one pile. How the fuck you gonna find somebody if it’s one pile? You think I’m haulin’ you out here, dragging your candy-ass all the way across the region, for one pile? You think I’m lookin’ to bend your knees and haul you into mine?”
“Nah, cuz. You wanted a pile, and I did you a good one. I gave you half a fucking dozen of ‘em.” She gives your braid a tug. “Now,” she says, “it’s up to you what you do with ‘em.”
Then she turns. “Stygia!” she calls out. “Stygia, babe, where’d you wander off to?”
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