THE MANOR / THE EIGHTEENTH OF JULY / @lauraxvardhamana
Contempt with the day sours Sacha’s mood; there’s no hiding their annoyance as they leave the East Gallery. In fact, they’re the first one out the door, splitting as soon as the votes have been cast and counted. Sacha is second to only Jack, who is admittedly an obvious choice ( the person the Dominion votes for themself, even ). Of those that name Sacha, votes from other allegiances don’t bother him at all, unlike the ones that come from within Death. What kind of ‘thank you’ is this, all his personal sacrifice and donated funds only to be met with fingers pointed in his face, accusing him of treacherous things he hasn’t done…but perhaps dreamt about once. Or more than once, but Sacha tries not to enjoy the fantasies too much, if for no other reason to save himself the heartbreak of his subservient reality.
One vote in particular irritates him beyond what is probably reasonable — Laura nearly laughs as she names him, and Sacha seethes in response. Her icy words are a shrill ring in his head, one that repeats until he can’t sit still anymore. Content to roam the grounds rather than stick around in the shared room, Sacha drowns out the rest of the tumultuous world with AirPods in ears, on their way to brood about the garden for a change. Turning a corner past the kitchen and dining areas, he stumbled upon an all-too familiar figure, appearing to be busied by something: it’s Laura, lazily cleaning her assigned wing of the manor, if you could even call the half-hearted work cleaning. He feels hot blood rush to his cheeks, anger colouring vision and face as he sees her.
Impulsively, he approaches her, grabs hold of her wrist and pulls her further down the hall wordlessly, leaving no room for argument. They make a swift turn around corner into a butler’s pantry, outfitted with marbled countertops and rows of cabinets likely filled with someone else’s silver and china, the perfect setting for two angry bulls to duke it out. Sacha finally lets go of her wrist upon entry, unaware or apathetic about how forceful he is. He storms to the far corner of the long, narrow room, preferring space between them. “The fuck was that in the gallery?” he spits, holding angry gaze until their eyes meet, somehow unable to take the tension. Shaking his head, he quotes her words with ire: “‘Sacha is quite sensitive when you slight them?’ Throwing me under the fucking bus doesn’t exactly do you any favours there, Laur.” Despite the truth to it, they hate being reminded of their own weaknesses. “You weren’t fooling anyone with that fake dusting shit, either.”