It has been a long time - but now that they are standing in the same places they once used to, closer to the space where they once were, Régis wouldn’t mind having a taste of what once was. While the anger is quick to Sylviane’s words, he thinks they wouldn’t mind a little reminiscing either.
He catches the delicate way in which they lean into the hand that cups their cheek - a yearning perhaps? While his snicker clearly stirs something less fond within them, as if they suddenly remember that absolution is an afterthought for Régis while permission is expected. Even now, years after they’ve shared a bed, he expects it. Régis is bad at giving things back is what it comes down to it, his access to Sylviane included. And how hard would it be to snatch it back? After all, a frustrated blush kisses their cheek in an appealing way and it tempts him in the same way it once did. He could bring his lips to it, cool the heat of it or spur it on depending on his whim, and indeed Régis considers action as his long fingers continue to work at the ribbon of the mask to unravel the knot keeping that pretty face from his unobstructed gaze.
They stop him, before the ribbon is undone, and with the way they hold him, wrists in their hands, they must feel the way that small, quick spark of anger that shoots through him at their denial. Very bad at giving things back. Still, he douses the ember before it grows and merely lets out another laugh at their clearly heated suggestion to ‘get checked.’
“Perhaps I should.” He says and then allows his voice to grow wistful. “I seem to only remember afternoons spent there…” his eyes move to a patch of dragon’s breath clustered near their feet. He doesn’t free himself from their grip, nor lose his own grip on the paintbrush. He moves towards them, allowing the weight and strength of his body to push them backwards. It’s easy to romanticize this into a waltz of sorts. They’ve danced before, they can find the steps again. The past comes easy to him as Régis moves through the space. “And there” he says, tilting his head to the right, towards the crowned heads of irises. “-and there.” To the left, further down the lane towards the colorful bulbs of tulips. “- And, of course, here,” till the arch of Sylviane’s back hits the leaves of the hedge and they are haloed by the wisteria, bells of flowers colored like a cloudy dusky sky. “I’ll admit,” Regis says with a wave of his words, a smile a touch too assured. “I find my memory comes quicker to me as I go through the motions.”
He finally pulls his hand free from where it’s placed on his chest and uses it to push a low hanging branch from their hair, picking at the flowers that threaten to cling to their curls. Régis may be holding Sylviane there with his own weight, but there’s no need for it to be entirely unpleasant. Besides, in his other hand, the paintbrush remains contested territory. “I’m sure wherever you’re being called off to can’t be more important than this.” He means it casually of course; an arrogance that’s meant to be laughed off but ultimately adhered to.
It is too easy to say this is Régis falling prey to his baser instincts. But there is more to it - the unfamiliarity of Sylviane has caught his attention. Close, only a hands distance apart, he can see it now, confirms this is no trick of the light or spellcaster’s illusion. They may not know each other as well as they used to, but it’s clear the Obsidienne has taken them in the same way that it has taken their mask.
“There’s been plenty of talk of what you’ve said since your return. Your words have left the court and found their way to the streets of Val Faim, and they’ve been rather difficult to ignore.” He says, tone light as ever. “Your eyes are different.” Their grip is tight and he continues through the discomfort. His fingers leave the flowers, turn their attention fully to their dark curls, but his gaze stays locked with theirs. “What was out there?”
Again, a memory superimposes itself over the present, hazy like a soap bubble, a shining brief instant of heated touches, clandestine encounters. Régis speaks in soft caresses, and the nostalgia for a simpler time overwhelms Sylviane so strongly for a moment that they move easily with him, body falling easily into half-remembered motions. How many times had they taken this same route, albeit with more intent and fewer clothes? How has that summer remained etched so firmly into their mind, unshaken by all they’d seen and their own desperate desire to unseat Régis from the place he’d so skillfully carved into their life?
Their breath hitches as they hit the hedge, branches catching at their hair, digging into their back. Régis looms over them, unfairly tall as always, and they realize briefly that they may have underestimated how important he finds whatever knowledge he seeks. Their irritation flares again as he moves his hand to their hair, but he seems to have learned better than to try for their mask again - one small victory. “Only the Empress’ counsel,” they say wryly, “though falling from her graces can’t be too devastating, hm? Look how you’ve turned out - thieving and accosting people in the gardens.”
It remains their most coveted point of irony - Régis’ fall from grace in the wake of Frederic’s treason, their own standing only continuing to rise while his precious, in-bred noble title was stripped. To then attempt to ascend on the patronage of the man responsible for the situation in the first place - a delicious drama that the most vindictive parts of themself found captivating as it began to unfold. Though Régis’ ties to Alain Gauthier are no secret, his truest feelings on the matter remain obscured like all his others, another layer to the inscrutable, polished facade he’s maintained the whole decade they’ve known him. Something half clicks over in their brain, but the thought of Régis as Gauthier’s errand boy for all things Obsidienne is almost laughable, especially with how forthcoming they’ve been to the general masses. True, they’ve obscured some of the more horrifying truths, reserving those for Calandre’s disregarding ears - but surely no one could possibly imagine they’d divulge those secrets to Régis, of all people.
“I feel no need to obscure the reality of what I lived amongst for two years,” they begin lightly, trying to match their own disinterested tone to his own. “Surely you’re familiar with the basics of the Obsidienne, or has Ser Gauthier kept that to himself?” They cock their head to the side lightly, hair slipping lightly through his fingers as they do. “Black sands, burning sun, the worst feats of magic you could ever think of, ripped straight from the earth itself and uncontrolled by any mage’s hand. The sky, tearing itself open, pockets of reality open behind. The dead, walking like they’d never been laid to rest.” Their gaze is sharp, driving into his own. “All this, for two years.”
“It is hell on earth, Régis,” they say, leaning into him, “and something is shifting in it.” A strange smile steals across their lips, jagged and awful, and they lower their voice. Their grip on the paintbrush is so tight they fear it might crack. “I killed the same corpse twice over because it refused to stay dead. I have seen things you could not even being to imagine, and it is no fault of mine if your small mind cannot comprehend because everything I’ve said is true.” They are sure he can feel their heart beating against his own chest, feel the heat of the angry flush that has overtaken them. They stand taut as a bowstring, ready to snap at the slightest disparagement. “So I thank you kindly to give me back my fucking paintbrush and leave me be.”
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