[Mature] Palisades/Storm

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Anaxas' main trade port; it is also the nation's criminal headquarters, home to the Bad Brothers and Silas Hawke, King of the Underworld. The small town of Plugit is nearby.

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Lars
Posts: 447
Joined: Sun Nov 25, 2018 1:04 pm
Topics: 44
Race: Passive
: nil igitur mors est ad nos
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Fri Apr 03, 2020 9:52 pm

LARS' APARTMENT
IN THE 16th HOUR VORTAS 8th, 2719
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Y
et another day of rest was perhaps not as necessary for his health, now, as it was simply beneficial for his mind. Lars did not rest often, and he did not rest easy; he had always kept such strict routines that it had hardly occurred to him that he might function better with a bit more rest. He had no floors to clean or kitchens to work, not anymore, and though he did have obligations elsewhere... he had found it entirely impossible to leave. He found it quite hard enough just leaving their shared bed, in fact, and he could not fathom going any farther than the (locked) door of his little apartment. Anytime he considered it, anytime he debated getting dressed and setting out to go to the Mad Queen, a glance back at Meraki made the decision for him.

No, not today — he had thought that yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that — it could wait, it didn't matter, it would be fine. Don't worry about it, would you like something to eat? Don't make me go, would you show me that waltz again? They won't notice I'm gone, would you help me with this book? They don't know where I am, can we crawl back into bed? Please? Hold me, keep me. Don't let them take me. Let's stay here forever. Don't ever leave me. All things the passive thought, all things he learned to share. He did not have to fear rejection of his innermost thoughts and feelings, not with Meraki. He did not have to feel so insecure. While there were things he still kept to himself (things that he would continue to keep to himself), they seemed few and far between as the Hessean settled into a comfortable, calmer state of mind with the Anaxi. It was more apparent though, now that he had offered the wick his honest self and spent so much time around him, that the passive was incredibly volatile... but that demure demeanor prevailed, even so.

It was bliss. Lars did not care that his injuries so easily tore apart again and bled, that they took longer than normal to heal, he did not care that Meraki's wounds required so much care either. How could he ever mind the process of recovery when it meant spending so much time together? He would willingly take hundreds of gashes more if it meant more time spent locked away with his lover. Away from the cold, harsh world outside. They had fire, they had food, they had each other — what else did they need? It might not have been the best of places to live, it might not have been the best of situations either... but it was what they had. Lars could not ask for anything else. He could certainly wish to not be under Scarlett's contract, and he could plot and plan and think about it all he liked, but until that changed, this was all that he had.

And it was so much more than he had ever expected to find. He had known, since the age of ten, not to expect anything like this out of the world. There were plenty of things that he still could not do: under galdori law, he could not marry, nor could he father children had he ever had the interest in doing so. Being with Meraki at all would have been so... frowned upon, by the family and society he knew, and not at all because of the fact that he was a man. His own father had hardly cared for the love of women, having only taken Lars' mother for a wife out of the desire to have a son and continue the family line. His mother, too, would not have cared about that. The matter of Meraki being a wick, however, and of their own son being even worse? Even lower, even dirtier, even more cursed in the eyes of the gods? No. He did not wish to know what they would have thought, nor what the high-class society he had been born into would think of it all either.

But it didn't matter. It didn't matter that he was not allowed these things. He took them anyway, and he was not giving them up. They would give him nothing, ever, and expect him to be pleased with it. But this was his. It was the only thing he had. No person, and no damned brothel, would take it away from him.

The days and nights spent together only strengthened his resolve. When he slept, he did not dream, not after the first night. Far preferable to the nightmares he was used to, sleeping cuddled close to Meraki offered the most truly restful sleep that he had found in years. When he cooked, he did so happily, as he was glad just to provide something more to his lover. And when Meraki was distracted, he spent his time flipping through the few books he had collected, occasionally growing frustrated with his own slow reading but reminding himself that he was at least reading at all. He even tried his hand at writing some more —


L a r s C
L a r s S e
S a v a t e

And sometimes he switched hands, tossing the chalk into his left hand instead —


L a r e n
L a u r e n t e
L a r s S a v a t i r
L a r s

And other times still, his attempts devolved into irritated scribbling, or childish drawings that looked almost, if you squinted hard enough, like animals. If his scribbling was ever noticed, the passive was not receptive to assistance, and would put it all away — but if he was in the midst of doodling some semblance of a creature, he was quite willing to accept any help that his lover might give. Lars tried to write Meraki's name too, next to his own, but every attempt was quickly smudged as he realized that he could not stand to see the lovely name in such a dreadful hand.

(He might have kept spelling it wrong, as well. Apparently, he gotten far too used to seeing golly names, because it was not spelled M-E-R-A-Q-U-I-S, but M-E-R-A-K-I. Which was, admittedly, a far better spelling, and he had hurriedly smudged away the chalk lines with a deep blush to his face.)

A part of him knew that he could not ignore the Mad Queen forever. Meraki had said it before, that problems did not just go away but remained there to fester and infect. He knew this, and he knew that his contract would have to be dealt with one way or another, and that he would still have to continue working like normal until it was. But gods, couldn't he pretend? For a few days, couldn't he just pretend that things were alright? Meraki did not want him to go back either, he knew, but the wick was more... rational, than himself. He understood the real world far better than the passive that had not been in it for even a year. He knew this, too, and yet he kept hoping that if neither of them ever mentioned it, he would never be made to go back to the re-purposed ship.

More time... more time. That was all he needed. More time away from the Queen. More time with Meraki.

By the early afternoon of their... what was it, the fourth day since Erik? Since acquiring their many injuries and holing up in his apartment to heal? However many days it had been, and whatever day it was — by the early afternoon, Lars had taken to another book. After using a good amount of his diminishing food supply to make them a meal (he was getting quite good at improvising with the random things he still had), he had pulled Meraki back into the bedroom with him. The lace curtains were pulled to the side to allow the cool light into the room; every now and then the clouds passed over the sun and left them in shadow, and he could hear the wind pressing in against the window. After grabbing the book that he had left opened on the low dresser, he returned to the bed, lying on his stomach with his side pressed up to Meraki. Dressed only in soft, dark brown trousers, he had the blanket pulled up just enough to keep warm. Book laid open on his pillow, it left his bandaged hands mostly free — so of course, he had to grab one of the tsat's hands to hold while he read.

The book was Jenny Wise. It was one of the few books that he had taken with him, after leaving the human family he had first found residence with in the Rose. He had known the name and author even before he could read them himself, due to how frequently the human child had spoken about it, but he often practiced writing Jenny Wise and Jane Anausie regardless, along with the titles and authors of all the other books he had collected.

Lars was quiet, for a while. Eyes focused on the pages, slowly taking in the words he'd read time and time again... but eventually his hand gave Meraki's a gentle squeeze, and he let his head fall forward to rest against the open book. He might have read the pages over, and over again, but there were still words he glossed over, words he was sure that he knew if he heard them, but that he did not recognize on paper.

"Meraki, love," he grumbled quietly, his voice soft and muffled by the pages. With a little sigh, Lars lifted his head, light eyes flicking over to look at the younger. "Can you — I know this word. I just can't figure out... the sound of it. From looking at it. Would you...?"

Letting go of the wick's hand, he reached up to touch his hair instead. Lars pushed his fingers through the strands, nails gently dragging over his scalp before the healing hand dropped to rest at his shoulder.
Last edited by Lars on Sun Apr 05, 2020 8:27 pm, edited 2 times in total.

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Meraki
Posts: 263
Joined: Sun Feb 09, 2020 2:22 am
Topics: 24
Race: Wick
: neque pertinet hilum
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Writer: Lazulum
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Sat Apr 04, 2020 1:42 pm

16th Hour
Lars’ Apartment
8th of Vortas, 2719
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Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory—
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the belovèd's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

Music when Soft Voices Die by Percy Bysshe Shelley
A
feverish four days came and went. The first of which had been spent almost entirely in the confines of their bed. Hungover, injured, and exhausted from a deprivation of sleep - as well as the immense stress inherent with the beautiful chaos enjoyed in Sharkswell – Meraki barely managed to bring himself to wash and eat before he returned to the comfort that was Lars sleeping beside him. Never had he experienced such relaxed peace before, as in the days and nights he spent sheltered away from the world with the passive. Not even once in his meager life had he ever slept so restful. Not with himself, nor anyone else. Of course, not with Doris, and never with his previous lovers. Then again, it was not all that surprising for none had known him like Lars had grown to know him. The passive had, most expertly, uncovered villainous truths that laid as secret as the wick's name, hidden in the shadows beyond the surfaces Meraki layered over himself to show the world. In the days to follow, he did not regret such vulnerability. Lars cared for what he had given, and as such, he would care for anything and everything that Lars wished to share in return.

Though he had drank the half-bottle of whiskey, Meraki remembered the night well and clear. Memories he didn’t wish to forget. Memories which would sustain him through the years, if he persisted on. Memories of Lars that he collected to hoard so that he might never forget the tragically handsome galdor and all that he meant to the bastard wick.

For Lars did not dismiss him or tell him to leave. Not a single mention through the slow crawl of the hours into days, not the barest hint that he wished for Meraki to go elsewhere out-of-sight. Rather, the opposite seemed to be the case. Whenever Meraki seemed keen to head out of the apartment, the passive persuaded him to stay. He’d slipped away a few times, while Lars slept, but he did not go far. Only up to his own place to collect some items, out for a lonely night’s walk while the wind blew frigid through the harbor, and then earlier in the morning of the fourth day. He didn’t remain gone for long though, afraid that Lars might wake while he was away and be concerned… but when he returned, he found the other man as he’d left him.

Though he slept restful for most of the days, Meraki did not sleep for such long stretches like Lars did. Spikes of fevers were common, as he overheated easily in the bed, and the slightest of sounds or changes in the environment awoke him. In the most quiet and perfect of settings, he woke every hour or so regardless; of which, he attended to different things – stoked the hearth; drank water or tea; rinsed feverish sweat from his body; jotted thoughts down; meditated with the mona in strange mutterings while knelt on the floor in the farthest corner of the apartment; tidied up; smoked a cigarette; and more – before he inevitably returned to slumber. Sometimes, though, he simply sat in the bed and admired his lover while Lars slept. He tried to think of all the ways to describe the pale blond hair, or the ghostly white skin whenever the moonlight streaked through the lace curtains, or how even the sunlight seemed to shine off the healing bruises. How to explain the shape of the delicate bones that lay underneath the muscle, sinew, and skin, and how they made him feel… but nothing ever felt quite right about any of it. No words seemed worthy to encompass the magnificent beauty of the other man.

They kissed, more times than he could ever count. An infinite amount, it seemed, yet never enough. They kissed when they awoke, they kissed when they laid to sleep, they kissed before meals, and while they ate, and while the dishes were done. They kissed when Meraki swept the floor and rearranged the furniture between the occasional dance to practice their waltz. They kissed when Lars got frustrated over his scribblings and blushed so darkly at his caught mistakes of the spelling of Meraki’s name (which the wick didn’t mind, for he thought Meraquis was an interesting way to spell it and perhaps he might use such a thing in the future for some purpose). They kissed when Lars held close and insisted he need not attend to his contractual obligations at the Mad Queen. Meraki didn’t know if he believed such a thing, but he would not bring himself to argue otherwise. For he only wished to kiss more. And so, they kissed.

More than willing to lose his job over their time spent together, Meraki would find a new one if necessary. He did send word, though, on the second morning in the form of a hastily scrawled note. While Lars slept through the morning, he’d gone out and found one of the urchin boys, who frequented the street, to deliver it for him. Meraki was, after all, learning the street that Hot House Glass resided on. He watched, often, from the window to recall the routes people took, the habits they had, and the familiar faces among the crowd depending on the hours. The street proved busiest during the midday hours, and in the early afternoon, but not so in the evenings.

Though a peace had settled in the apartment - a contentment that felt most unusual to the turbulent tsat and even odder as he gradually realized how volatile his otherwise demure lover was in turn - Meraki’s mind did not rest in the same way as his body did. Once past the first couple of days, he started to brood. When not in the bed, or attentive to Lars, he could be found at the window. Cigarette against his lips, a couple journals and a pencil on the ledge beside him, and a stern gaze fixed on the street below. On occasion, he’d glance at the reflections in the window instead. Sometimes, he'd open a journal and jot a few notes down.

Conversation relegated to Lars’ guidance and control in their time together. Though he felt so close, and their hours were spent most intimately, Meraki did not talk much anymore. Certainly not about what had happened in Sharkswell, not about himself or about Brunnhold again. He avoided the topic of their mutual home that they’d left behind. Whenever it seemed they might discuss something especially new, or potentially vulnerable, he brusquely stopped talking at all. His focus would drift, and then he’d find something else to busy himself with. Often, he chose to care for Lars as a means of distraction. He often took to the task and cleaned, then bandaged the jagged wounds on the passive’s palms.

Meraki attended to make sure they were both clean as could be, through baths and frequent rinses of washcloths over each other. The wick insisted they eat certain foods, such as garlic and honey, to ward away potential infections. He observed while Lars’ bruises healed, and he paid distinct attention to not cause any further bruising on the pale skin. While he thought to use magic, from time to time, he did not wish such a thing. Already, he’d correlated the collapse of the hovel to his repeated use of healing. It seemed to him that it was most likely that while the mona had granted the spell, other intentions had sent them down into the cellar… and he did not wish to see what the mona aimed for when it came to them. So, the wick avoided healing, though it would have been so simple and quick, and perhaps he also excused it by the fact that the longer Lars needed to heal, the more rational of a choice it was to stay away from the Mad Queen. Regardless, he did not use magic for anything in their four days...

…and he interacted with the gentlest of touches towards Lars. Even when Lars seemed to want him to do otherwise, he only teased the passive by his touches turning lighter and kinder. On the occasions when Meraki sensually embraced Lars, he’d gotten into the habit of staring into the other’s eyes. Not that such embraces were frequent, past the natural progression of their nestled closeness in the comfort of their bed.

What more, Meraki found he not only cultivated an ever-deepening love for the fair man who he shared a bed with – but that he also enjoyed his company past the usual boundaries of a lover. Perhaps he had grown quiet in the days that followed their wild murderous romp, but that was not because he didn’t appreciate what conversations they did have. Perhaps he slipped away, sneaking unnoticed out of the apartment in the aim that Lars would not realize he had done so, but he always returned and quickly so. Meraki helped Lars with his reading, as patient as he could be, though he soon learned to only offer such advice when it was requested from the older man. He set to reading poetry while Lars practiced such things, and the scribblings with chalk. Meraki practiced his own vocabulary, in a small journal where he penned swift notations of terms and their possible meanings from the context in which he found them. It was, he discovered, an impossible task to know every word in existence but he still enjoyed the hunt of them as much as he had when younger. Some words were more valuable than others, and a rare few were treasures indeed.

With Lars, the tsat did not have to pretend to be anything but what he was. He did not have to fulfill some role of guttersnipe, or bumpkin, or gypsy, or servant, or ragamuffin, or any number of varied countenances he offered to the people of the Stacks. Lars had seen him with blood upon his face. He had watched as Meraki had slammed a bound man’s face into the ground – a rather dishonorable and violent act given the prone nature of his opponent – and still, Lars expressed such love for him. He did not have to concern himself with the fear of mockery from the passive, for learning beyond his station or as Doris called it: pretending to be some sort of fancy golly for nothin’.

Meraki didn’t see it that way. He knew of humans who could read, and write, just as well as any golly. He knew it had less to do with blood, and a great deal more to do with wealth. Observations over his chaotic years provided him a heady insight about such matters. Even so, he knew he wasn’t anywhere near the sort of learning that golly students had. He knew there was still so much closed off from him, kept behind walls and locks, in the privacy of homes and institutions. Galdori certainly liked to keep their secrets… and he supposed he could not blame them for disallowing half-breeds such as himself onto the university campus. For Meraki knew if he were able to freely walk through the campus halls, he would seek knowledge as if it were intended for him. He would hunt it down, and devour every book, and he would learn far more than a wick like him should ever know.

So, he helped Lars learn to read and he wondered about what sort of things Lars would’ve liked to learn about through books. He seemed set on fiction, for the time, and Meraki could not fault him for that. He’d also enjoyed fiction thoroughly while he’d first learned to read, before he had delved into poetry, Anaxi news, and whatever scraps he could find of monic theory. He, also, enjoyed reading about history. About how things once were, how things changed, and he liked to imagine what they might be in the future given the accounts in the newspapers and periodicals that he sometimes read.

After his most recent excursion, while Lars slept, he’d brought back with him some fresh tea leaves, a few pouches of spices, a full case of cigarettes, and a bundle of newspapers. It’d hailed the night before, and the temperatures continued to drop. Dense gray clouds textured the sky from horizon to horizon, blown across by the sharp winds that gusted through the harbor.

By late morning, he’d well returned, and it seemed that Lars had not realized he’d ever been gone. Whether the passive entertained such a notion, or truly wasn’t aware, Meraki would not test to see which it was. Surely, Lars did not think he was acquiring all the items, that appeared on the table, from his upstairs apartment… though perhaps he did.

Whatever the case, Lars fed him all the same (and Meraki could not complain. Everything that Lars cooked or prepared for him was absolute perfection. He enjoyed each bite, even if he ate a bit fast at times, and every meal placed him in good spirits no matter what he might’ve been thinking before) and then the passive took to studying another book. Meraki followed without bother, though he brought some things with him. He set a cooling cup of tea on the nightstand. The tsat had gotten quite clever and skilled at maneuvering around the passive, to share the neighboring surface from what had become his spot in the bed.

Dressed in his black trousers (washed clean of all the blood that’d seeped in them days ago), and a white sleeveless undershirt, he still had bandages around his shoulder for the healing injury. He kept bandages around his fingers, palms, and wrists for compression to the bruises as well. Legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles, he sat with his back upright against a pillow. Relaxed but alert, rested at the headboard of the bed’s frame. A cigarette balanced between his lips, smoke drifted lazily around him.

He read one of the newspapers that he’d grabbed while out. A frequently printed serial, the edition was the most recent, and he searched for one thing – and one thing in particular – any mention of homicides. There was, of course, a section for that exact thing but nothing stood out to him. There was far more outcry about a robbery in the wealthier section of the harbor, that requested any witnesses or information to come forward about the matter. Meraki wondered what had been stolen, as that detail had been left out of the article snippet.

While he smoked, and read through the various editorials, his fingers gently caressed Lars’ hand while their bandaged palms held close between their bodies. Other than the muffled sounds of the usual crowd out on the street below, it was pleasantly quiet. He could hear the occasional flip of a page while Lars read, and the slightest noises of suppressed frustration that Lars kept hidden in his throat, but Meraki could hear anyway.

Meraki’s eyes slowly shut, in mid-read of a rather scathing critique of a composer’s newest symphony that’d presented in Vienda. Cleverly disgusting, hideous, it is a wonder about the mysteries of the world as- why the audience redemanded a repeat of the noise- and the tuning of the notes were far lower with a shriek of violi- He fell asleep, fingers drawing still against the other’s hand. His cigarette threatened to fall, embers still aglow with his breath. The ash fell on the edges of the newspaper as the thin paper wilted in his eased grip.

“Hm? Yes?” he woke immediately when he heard his name grumbled. The newspaper crinkled as his grip tightened again. He let go of the paper, then quickly fixed his cigarette and held it between his fingers. Meraki looked over, upon request to help with reading a word. “‘Course, love.”

The freckled Anaxi set aside the newspaper, allowed it to fall to the floor nearby, and then rolled over to lightly lay against Lars. Lying on his side as well, he peered over the passive’s shoulder at the book. His leg carefully entwined with the other’s leg in an affectionate cuddle. Meraki ran his finger along the inked text, then recited in a hushed voice against Lars’ ear while his calloused fingertip traced along each word spoken from the passage, “For all those who witnessed the scene, a crowd of curious faces looked upon the girl in her shameful spec-ta-cle and the ri-di-cule most deserving of her born mal-form-ity that kept her fallen in the mud of the market-place.”

“A deformed cry set forth,” he continued, reading aloud in a low and steady rhythm with care to pause between the words just enough for Lars to hear while he tapped underneath each respective word as he said it. “from young Jenny’s breast and she refused to lay in the muck as if some ugly minstrel per-for-mance to ease the tedium of those neighbors who had little else to forget their own misfortunes that – unlike her own – lay hidden from the stark judgment of the market folk.”

He lowly exhaled, then kissed Lars on the temple before rolling back to his spot. Meraki stared up at the ceiling, finishing his cigarette, then he asked, “Would you like to go out? There's a bookshop I've heard of, but haven’t gotten the chance to visit yet. Perhaps you would like to come with me, and we can find something a bit cheerier to read.”

Meraki reached past, to collect his tea, though he remained in the bed as he sipped the darkened water. The wick nudged the passive’s leg with his bare foot, in an affectionate touch, and glanced at him. Though he knew what he was to say next would be a sensitive matter, he said it anyway. “We can’t truly stay in here, forever, love. The world must delight to see your pretty face among the common rubbish again.”
User avatar
Lars
Posts: 447
Joined: Sun Nov 25, 2018 1:04 pm
Topics: 44
Race: Passive
: nil igitur mors est ad nos
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Sat Apr 04, 2020 5:14 pm

LARS' APARTMENT
IN THE 16th HOUR VORTAS 8th, 2719
L

ars held the book a little higher to better assist Meraki in viewing and reading the page. An excerpt somewhere around the middle of the book, one he had read over plenty of times before, and would read plenty more times in the future, he was certain. The more he read it — the more he read anything at all — the more he seemed to understand, as his mind gradually shifted away from focusing entirely on the formation of words and sounds and onto the meanings behind the words themselves. He settled back comfortably against Meraki, grateful for both the extra warmth provided by the other man's body and the assistance given in regards to his reading. Truly, he thought Meraki an excellent teacher in all things. It did not matter what it was: scheming, dancing, reading, dismembering. Lars could only faintly recall the many lessons he had been subjected to, growing up, but if Aldiron had ever made as wonderful a teacher as Meraki, he had hardly noticed. He felt as though he had learned more (about the world as well as about himself) in the weeks he had known Meraki than he had learned in nearly two decades.

He was patient. He was kind. And though he had been quiet, as of late, though he had taken to dismissing any of the passive's curious, well-meaning questions concerning the wick's former life, he was still honest. Far more open and honest and real than anyone else Lars knew. So he wondered, and he wondered... but he had learned to stop questioning. He searched his mind for things to say, for information to offer, for news or gossip or any other sort of conversation starter if only to hear Meraki's voice... but he had learned, as well, to enjoy the silence. He might have wanted, but he did not press, and was no less enamored for it.

Whatever Meraki had to offer, whatever he wanted for the older man to have, that was exactly what he would take. Rough, chaotic, loud; gentle, calm, in love.

Gray eyes darkened from the shadow of the clouds, half-lidded and sleepy, he followed along on the page. He could listen to Meraki's voice for hours and not grow tired of the sound. Close to his ear, low and steady, with just enough time between each word for the learning passive to make a mental note of the pronunciations. In spite of what he had thought, he did not know the word after all. Malformity. Malformity. He pondered the meaning, and tried to assume from the context in which it was written... Lars thought himself far better with words than he was even just a year ago, but still, there were countless things he did not know. Things he heard but did not understand, letters pushed together in formations he did not recognize. He had heard the word before, or at least something close to it. He just did not know what it meant.

Tedium. Tedium... he did not know that one either. He did not interrupt, but kept both unfamiliar words at the tip of his tongue, ready to ask for their meanings once his lover finished speaking. Lars wondered if Meraki would ever simply continue, if he would ever just stay there, looking over his shoulder, reading from a book until they reached the very last page. It was a pleasant thing to wonder, he found; a warm, comfortable fantasy that he tucked away for safekeeping, along with all the others. A thought to help ground him when he needed it. To keep his hands and fingers still, to help the pale-haired harlot refrain from tapping them against every surface he might find, because when he felt like this... he did not need to. There was no fear of slipping, not in the way he was used to. Not in a way that would not allow him to catch himself and stand back up again.

"....lay hidden from the stark judgement of the market folk."

Meraki pressed a kiss to his temple before he moved away. Reminding himself to keep his eyes open, Lars murmured, "thank you, love," and pushed himself up with his elbow, glancing over the open pages again before resigning himself to a short rest. After a note was made of the page number, the book was closed and set to the side, and Lars turned to face his lover instead. While Meraki finished his cigarette and sipped at his tea, making mention of some bookshop he wanted to go and see, Lars set a bandaged hand on his chest. He would not deny that request, of course. If the wick ever wanted him to accompany him anywhere, all he had to do was say the word. It would mean leaving the apartment... which meant potentially running into people that he would rather not have to see, but it would be alright. He had been dealing with the same for months, after all, it was just... a slightly bigger issue now.

He had been prepared to tell him that, to agree to go and visit this bookshop and whatever else he might have liked, but the words were caught in his mouth as Meraki continued.

Lars' hand caressed gently, smoothing over the white material of Meraki's undershirt, fingertips moving in feather-light little taps. His eyes drifted downward from the tsat's face, to follow instead the looping path of his hand, moving across Meraki's abdomen and stomach. There was the faintest hint of a frown to the Hessean's face, but what for, exactly, was unclear. After a long moment of silence, in which he only watched his fingers and quietly breathed, he said first, "...yes, I know. I know. You're right."

Pushing himself up a little farther, Lars drew his hand back to himself. He moved to sit properly beside Meraki, leg touching his, and his hands came together in his lap for his fingers to tap against each other while he looked across the bedroom.

"You're right," he said again, as if trying to convince himself of it. He frowned, displeased with the tone of his own voice, before the expression was forced away. "A bookshop sounds nice. I've went through all of the books I have far too many times anyway," and yet he still had not learned them, not very well. It seemed that the harlot forgot things as easily as he had taken glass shards to Erik's face. "I'll get dressed, then."

Fingers stilled, he moved again, this time crawling out of bed. As sleepy as he appeared to be, Lars was able to get out of bed and onto his feet easily enough, extending both arms upward in a stretch once he did. "Before I forget — mal-for-mi-ty."

Clearly enunciated, carefully said, Lars pulled open the top drawer of his low dresser and rooted around for a shirt to wear.

"I don't actually know that one. Something... not good. Something formed wrong? And tee... tediuh..." fuck, he had just had it, right there. He grabbed a beige linen shirt from the drawer, and with a nod, added, "tedium. I don't know that one either."

The shirt was pulled over his head, slipped over his arms, and it settled loose on his slender frame. Out of habit, Lars' bandaged hands went to tuck the garment into his dark brown trousers, and he looked to the handsome young tsat with a curious look while he did so. "Maybe we could find some poetry," he offered quietly, before admitting, "I don't know much about that, either." Sometimes it felt as though he never knew much about anything at all, in truth.

Although he had hardly removed any of the golden jewelry from Meraki since he had received it, he carefully took off everything but two bracelets, setting the other pieces into the vanity. It was not exactly wise, after all, to stroll around the harbor with everything on at once, not when he was not trying to make himself a target.

"He —" no, that wasn't right. He had not done that in a while now. He tried again, quieter still. "I know that I still have to figure things out. I don't mean to seem like I'm trying to ignore it."

Even if he was, in fact, trying to do just that.

"It's just been... nice, forgetting it for a while. I know that I can't hide from it forever."

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Meraki
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: neque pertinet hilum
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Sat Apr 04, 2020 9:48 pm

16th Hour
Lars’ Apartment
8th of Vortas, 2719
M
eraki observed the passive closely while Lars’ fingers danced across his slim waist. The suggestion he offered was unfortunate – for he would rather have liked to remain in the apartment longer, perhaps forever even – but there were certain facts about life. Facts like that even if he might be willing to forgo a job, no matter how he might speak or feel, he could not and would not remain holed up for the rest of his days. Lars might have been the love of his life, even a romantic notion such as a soulmate, but he could not allow to completely remove himself (or either of them) from the world. If he wished to do that, then there was other work to be done and he did not wish to follow that path. Not yet.

As harsh, and cold, and brutal as the world was, Meraki had seen what happened to those people who sheltered themselves away from such realities. His neighbor down the hall, Old Lady Bella, had been like that after her husband died. The feeble woman never left her apartment, and she collected whatever she could from those who came to visit her – or more accurately, those who used the apartment (which she left unlocked) however they saw fit. Meraki had used it, himself, from time to time as it proved practical for different things but there had also been times in which he’d entered to find others already there. The things that took place in that apartment rattled around in his head during his darker periods of brooding and in feverish surreal dreams. He thought of the stern prostitute, Lottie, who lived above his flat, who rarely left her apartment as it seemed she was around at all times of the day and night to tell him to shut up and keep it down. Her clients brought her whatever she needed.

Old Lady Bella had died on the floor, in a puddle of blood with the back of her head caved in. Her apartment reeked for months, even after everything had been cleared out – and there’d been so much. Far more stuff, hoarded in piles upon piles of rubbish, than an old lady ever needed. Poor Lottie had died from a poet’s slumber, in a desperate escape from a beating that’d gone too poorly and meant she could not continue work. She’d wasted away in her bed, ruby-painted lips dripping froth and glossy eyes opened wide. Meraki had offered his hand and when she could no longer hold it, he cleaned her lips with a lace handkerchief. Because it was the least he could give the woman who he saw as some warped distortion of what an aunt might be.

Though he thought of these people, in the silence while the Hessean frowned, he did not say anything about them to Lars. He did not open his mouth to share memories which flitted so quick like butterflies in the spring meadow of his mind. He merely nodded when he heard the agreement come after the long stretch of silence between them. Meraki did not mind the silence, as much. Not when he knew that it would eventually break, and he would be able to hear Lars’ again. For the rain would not come, and he had not heard so much as a droplet after the glass had struck the sailor’s eye. Still a wondrous thing, that. He had pondered it much in the past few days. Whatever it might have meant, it remained a thing of astonishment to the wick that Lars had the capability and power to rid him of the storms which drowned and darkened the world around him.

He had taken notice of the way that Lars’ fingers fidgeted and that the other man often tapped things, especially his thighs. He’d started to tie the motions to various hints of what the passive might be thinking or feeling. Not always nervousness, as he’d first thought, and not just vulnerability. It was far more complicated than that. Meraki had begun to realize that Lars was immensely complicated, and not so easy to read, even when he believed the older man to be sincere. He nodded again at the elaborated agreement that came after. Meraki sipped his tea, and watched while Lars crawled out of the bed.

Malformity. He knew that word; from the pieces that made it up, as he often derived meaning from words by analyzing the way in which they’d been spelled. Meraki wished he still had that book which had offered him such foundation, and he supposed he could look for it at the shop. Setting aside his tea, he got out of the bed and grabbed his shirt from the vanity where he liked to leave it hanging along the edge. He pulled on the dark pinstriped fabric, focused on buttoning it up, while he listened to the inquiry of the next word.

Tedium. A word he knew all too well. Enough that he frowned and paused with one of the buttons. He stared at the little round disc between his calloused fingertips.

“Malformity,” he began, though his throat had gone uncomfortably dry. “is a state of evil form, or shape. Often used to describe something terribly undesired to ever possess for oneself.”

Meraki returned to his buttons, but still kept his gaze down and felt a bit distracted. He swallowed, then continued, “Tedium… is… tedious. Tedious is… annoying. Exhausting. Unwanted. A bore. Stupid.”

He turned away to grab his belt, and also hide the discomfort that’d risen in his expression that he found himself unable to suppress.

“Maybe we could find some poetry. I don’t know much about that, either.”

“I have poetry,” he informed the other, then he looked over with a smile far more charming than his attitude had suggested in the seconds leading up to it. In fact, he’d seemed to brighten considerably at the mention of poetry. “But I would never deny acquiring more. It is astounding what can be found within the verses of poems that those of the long form never dare to scrawl upon the page.”

Lars grew quieter, but Meraki simply moved closer to him. He took hold of his lover’s hand, lifted it and circled around one of the bracelets. His smile had faded into a serious expression but one far softer than his usual stern attention (the latter often making itself known whenever he sought to instruct the passive in this or that, in the aim to improve something of Lars’ understanding). He lifted the passive's hand and set a kiss to the back of it.

“I know, love, I know,” he agreed with the sentiment about their time recovering together. He carefully enunciated his speech, a far smoother version of his casual accent. With each word, he took care to fully form the sounds rather than letting them slur together as if he were on the street with just anyone. No, he was with Lars. And Lars deserved proper attempts to be a civilized man, rather than some hard-nosed urchin from the streets or a foolish wick, or grubby-handed thief from the slums… even if he were those things in the cold, harsh world outside their warm, little haven of a flat. “I do not believe you a coward, nor incapable of caring for such matters on your own, if you so desired.”

“It has been a treat, far sweeter than any candy or cake, but… imagine how much nicer it might be, if you find yourself no longer under contract?” he suggested in a hesitant tone, unsure if such a statement might irritate or comfort the other man. He took the other’s hands in his, lifted them, and nuzzled his freckled cheek against the knuckles. “Then we might…”

He didn’t finish the thought aloud. With a deep, heavy sigh, he let go and moved away again. Meraki collected his socks and boots, then settled on the edge of the bed to pull them on.

After a moment of silence on his part, whether Lars spoke more or said something else, he remained quiet. He frowned at the floor with the same contemplative furrow in his brow as before. Picking up the fallen newspaper, he folded it and set it aside. Meraki felt a slight twist in his chest. He got one boot on, then paused and said in a quiet voice, “Lars, I am to be married.”

Meraki glanced once at Lars, then looked down again. He focused on the laces, tightened them, and added, “Back home. In… In the summertime.”
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Lars
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: nil igitur mors est ad nos
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Sun Apr 05, 2020 2:01 am

Lars' apartment
IN THE 16th HOUR VORTAS 8th, 2719
M

eraki looked uncomfortable. Lars watched him as he fiddled with the buttons of his shirt, giving out the meanings of both words, and as he turned away to slip his belt around his waist. The passive remained there at the vanity, removing most of his jewelry and throwing out the suggestion to look for poetry whilst in the bookshop — that seemed to do the trick. The wick turned back to him with a smile, pleased enough with the mention of such literature, and Lars offered the smallest of smiles himself, appearing almost shy. "You'll have to teach me all about it, then," he requested gently, before continuing on, looking down to the jewelry sitting on the vanity as he spoke.

When his bandaged hand was taken into Meraki's, he turned his head, observing the tsat with a somewhat guarded expression. The contact was always appreciated; even when he grew frustrated with himself, or with the world outside of his little apartment, it seemed as though the other man's touch was oftentimes all it took to calm him down. And even when it did not cure, when it did not quell his insistent, scratching thoughts, it made them easier to bear. His thumb brushed against the wick's hand before settling, still, against it. He supposed Meraki sought to reassure him, or comfort him somehow, and though the words did little to ease the growing discomfort with the idea of returning to the Mad Queen... they were appreciated regardless.

Both of his hands were lifted. Though there were various bruises still littering his skin, and covering his body, the majority of them had begun to heal, lightening and lessening as they could. It had been a long time since the harlot had went so long without working, and even longer since his body had had such a chance to get proper rest and heal itself. Meraki nestled his cheek against his knuckles, and Lars' head tilted just a little to the side, light eyes watching him fondly.

"Then we might..." ...he did not finish his sentence. Instead, he pulled away, letting go of Lars' hands to let them fall back to his sides. They did not move, nor did his fingers begin to tap against his thighs.

"...We might what, love?"

Meraki did not answer him. The Anaxi grabbed his socks and shoes instead, moving to sit at the edge of the bed while the Hessean remained standing. He turned away from the vanity, fetching his own socks to pull them on while he waited for some sort of response, and then his shoes were slipped on just as quick. Inquisitive gaze darting over to Meraki, Lars returned to the vanity to lean against it, arms crossing loosely over his chest. If the wick was nervous, he did not know what for. He could say whatever was on his mind, and the passive would not judge him for it. They had already shared so much, after all, and he was not about to cast the other man out. He couldn't, even if he had had the desire to do so.

The wick only put one boot on before he spoke.


Lars, I am to be married.
. . .
Back home. In... in the summertime.

Lars laughed. The sound was rickety and dry, entirely devoid of mirth. It was loud, too, or at least it was when compared to the usual levels one could draw out of him, genuine or not. He was not looking at Meraki anymore, not really, though his light eyes remained fixed on the other man's form at the edge of the bed. Unbelievable. How utterly tragic. He turned, arms uncrossing as he faced the vanity again, hands holding to the edge of the half-opened drawer. Truly, he had not expected this. Not now. If Meraki had ever planned on offering such a confession, he should have done so long before.

"I don't recall you asking for my hand," the joke was lost entirely in his tone, low and unamused. His head lowered as he looked into the drawer, hand crawling over the edge to trail cold, slender fingers through the interior.

"Married in the summertime. Should I expect an invitation, or would you prefer to leave me behind entirely?"

His voice did not raise once, but remained soft, and smooth, as usual. He did not look back at Meraki. He shook his head, the gesture a small one.

He wasn't supposed to say that.

No, because saying it meant acknowledging it. Meraki should have kept it to himself. He should have buried it deep and left it there until it faded from memory. He should have forgotten about Doris. He should have... dismissed it. He should have pretended like she didn't even exist. Because she didn't. She didn't! He wasn't getting married in the spring or in the fucking summertime either, so why the fuck did he have to bring it up? Couldn't he have left it alone? Couldn't he have forgotten about it? It didn't matter anymore, it didn't. Brunnhold didn't matter. Dead Doris didn't matter. Nothing mattered but them.

Lars' gaze finally shifted to the side, sliding over to land on Meraki. In spite of the cool demeanor, his face betrayed his distress, a hint at the chaos that crashed and twisted underneath.

"Meraki—"

A sound. A sudden jerk in the passive's neck, snapping to the side, and he turned as if to leave, looking out into the living room.


Image
Just a knock at the door.

You turn around.


Lars stepped back, leaning back against the vanity as if he'd never moved away from it.

"I'm sorry. That was rude of me." He was looking down, now, down to the wooden floorboards, to his shoes, to the socks that peeked out of them at the top. His eyes were red, and his throat felt tight, but his voice had somehow only grown softer since he had last spoke. "I... married. Right. In the summertime. You. In Brunnhold."

He felt incapable of proper thought. This was not supposed to happen. He was not concerned about the door, for whatever reason; it was likely just Albigence, he figured, setting out more wood for the fire. He doubted that anyone else knew enough to find him, and he did not think that Peregrine would suddenly show up at his door either, even if he was a bit less sure about that one.

"And that makes me... what? Just some fun before you settle down?"
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Meraki
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: neque pertinet hilum
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Sun Apr 05, 2020 9:59 am

16th Hour
Lars’ Apartment
8th of Vortas, 2719
L
aughter. Short, dry, humorless. Flimsy, fragile, and as colorless as the pale features of the waxen passive. Meraki looked at the other man, to see that Lars stared at him but in a distant manner. His gut twisted again with a faint regret that tried to crawl up through his chest and into his throat. He swallowed it down. Of course, the other man turned away then. Meraki’s gaze lingered, uncaring that he only had one boot on, and he stood.

The statement of Lars’ initial response seemed intended to be a joke, though the tone of it fell flat in deadpan. Meraki felt the twist worsen. He recalled that golly men easily married other men, that it wasn’t so unusual or frowned upon in society. Did Lars think he would… that they would ever…??? What would be the point of that, though? There was none. It would be a useless sentimental act of deluded romance, to even consider such a future in which he might marry Lars. He couldn’t allow himself that much impracticality. Marriage wasn’t about love, and it wasn’t meant for people like him and Lars.

“…Should I expect an invitation, or would you prefer to leave me behind entirely?”

Meraki’s eyes narrowed in an observant survey of the other man’s entire body. Vigilant, he paid attention to where Lars touched and what his posture gave away. He took a short but audible breath, then set a hand on his hip to simply steady himself. With his other hand, he rolled his wrist in a gesticulation that accompanied his curt response, “Please. Do not act silly about this, Lars.”

Though he said it, and though he gentled his expression into one of neutrality, he knew enough of what he was doing. He’d been on the other side of it before, in a similar position as Lars, though with far less intimate connection than he believed they shared. Yet, he hadn't known the difference between love and infatuation back then. From that, he understood how it could hurt but only due to unreasonable idealism for dreams that could never be. Once one let go of such romantic notions, it did not hurt so much. He felt confident that Lars would surmount the obstacle. He hoped that it would occur sooner, rather than later. While he could have attempted to keep it all a secret through the winter months, he did not wish to. He wanted the other man to know, to understand, to accept it… and if he did not, then… then… well, Lars had to. He had to accept it. Had to.

No, he doesn’t have to. Meraki swung between the two instincts, while he waited in relative silence. He had considered how Lars might react to such information, but he could not tell which potential path unfolded before them. So, he waited. And he watched. And he listened. And when Lars’ gaze slid over to land on him, Meraki returned the meet of their sight with a steadfast stare. He could see… could see the emotions that roiled just under the surface…

“Meraki-”

An interruptive sound. A knock at the door? Lars jerked his head toward it, but Meraki did similar in his own way. His gaze flitted to look in the direction of the noise. He stared at the spot of origin. It seemed they were both highly alert. The wick sat on the bed again, in the short moment of distraction, and pulled on his other boot.

Meraki didn’t think of who it could be, too far. He suspected it to be the landlord. Regardless of who it was, they could fuck off. Lars was busy…

…and Lars apologized to him.

His jaw tensed, while he gritted what was left of his molar teeth. The shoelaces brushed through the eyelets of his boot while he firmly pulled them. So tightly, that the fibers threatened to fray and snap under his rough grip. His field pulsed around him, then sunk inwardly closer to his body.

“…and that makes me… what? Just some fun before you settle down?”

Meraki exhaled a heavy breath. He closed his eyes, for a few seconds. When he opened them, he stood once again. The tsat was dressed, now. In full, and enough to leave, especially as he grabbed his vest and pulled it on. He prepared himself for the inevitable, swallowed the rot that kept trying to twist in escape out his mouth, and dampened his field.

“How can you ask that?” he retorted, and snaps of his tongue formed the swift words. “Is that what you prefer to believe?”

“Do y’ think that what we have… what we have done together… could ever be called just some fun?” he explained a little more, though he felt his attempt to remain in a neutral countenance already crumbled around him.

Running his fingers along the edges of his vest, he fixed it and then looked at Lars. He wanted to be cold. He wanted to be unwavering. But he looked at the other man’s reddened eyes, and the distress behind them, and he sighed with exasperation. Meraki walked over, closer, within arm’s reach. He held out his bandaged hand, like he always did when guiding Lars into the waltz posture for dance practice.

“Lars, I- It’s quite… I suppose perhaps I should have told you sooner,” he admitted in a reluctant tone of voice. “Or tried to keep it unspoken. I did not want to, though. I want you to know of it. It’s… It’s simply something that is necessary. Please, love, won’t you understand? Even if we were to entertain such dreams for ourselves, there would be no purpose or point to such luxury as…”

Knocking rapped on the front door. It distracted his thoughts, but he ignored the sound otherwise.

“I aim to have children,” he shared, regardless if Lars had taken his hand or scorned the offer. “A family. I must have such a thing. This was the case before I met you, and it remains the case, for there is our love… and then there is good common sense.”

“There are… ways, I believe, in which we need not part due to-”

There had been a couple more knocks against the door while he’d spoken, but now it had gotten incessantly louder. Meraki sharply inhaled, and walked past Lars in the direction of the front door. His field returned, angry in his growing frustrations. “Y’ expectin’ someone? Gonna tell ‘em to tick off.”
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Lars
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: nil igitur mors est ad nos
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Sun Apr 05, 2020 12:42 pm

Lars' apartment
IN THE 16th HOUR
VORTAS 8th, 2719
L

ars glanced up as Meraki stood. The wick had given a big sigh before doing so, as if the passive was just being so exasperating, as if he was frustrated to even deal with it all. As if he wasn't the one getting married. It made him frown, the corners of his mouth down-turned while his gaze followed the other man's movements closely. Healing hands smoothed against the edges of his vest, and the familiar field dampened, leaving the air around them stale and uncomfortable. He tried to remain calm, and still, even as the young tsat questioned how he could ever suggest such a thing. How he could ever believe it.

"What am I supposed to believe, Meraki?"

Really, what the fuck was he supposed to think? Did Meraki expect him to just roll over and say it was fine? That it didn't matter at all, that it was alright, that he understood? Oh sure dear, I understand, that sounds fine! I am so pleased that I got to fall in love with you beforehand! Would you send me a letter, now and then, to keep me updated on your married life? Lars was bewildered, dark brows furrowed and light eyes narrowed, scrutinizing. Another sigh from Meraki. He could reach his throat, from here, and he was only moving closer. He could do it. He could stop the words before they ever left his mouth. He could cut off all those thoughts about Doris and Brunnhold and what his life was meant to be.

Meraki reached out for him, instead. Lars took his hand. It was so hard to look at him. It was so hard to meet his gaze, to look into his eyes and listen to him saying such things. He did it anyway.

"Please, love, won't you understand?"

"Don't call me that," he mumbled, but did not press.

"...there would be no purpose or point to such luxury as..."

Another knock at the door. Lars pulled his hand from Meraki's, letting it drop back to his side, and his eyes averted as the younger man continued. No purpose or point to such luxury. What was the point of any of it? Was there a point to such luxuries of seeing each other at all? What did it do, beyond twist their respective notions of what could be considered pointless and purposeless and what could not? He did not find it such a terrible thought. He could feel an uncomfortable warmth to his face and his shoulders, even as he struggled not to shiver.

"...for there is our love... and then there is good common sense."

"Ah, yes, which makes our love simply tedious. I understand entirely."

Meraki might have said something else, but he hardly heard it above the incessant knocking at the front door and the scratching that his — that the wick could not hear. Said wick was moving away from him anyway, releasing his field in a turbulent wave around him as he walked out of the bedroom and towards the door. Lars followed quickly, walking briskly past him to get there first.

"I've got it," he snapped, twisting the lock and pulling open the door. "What do y—"

"Cailan! Far'ye?"

The passive's face fell. All of that dreadful, sickening heat that had reddened the tips of his ears and dusted his cheekbones was gone now, paled as he stared at the man beyond the door.

"Been a while, eh? Where've ye been?"

It was another wick; he should have felt the glamour before he ever opened the door, but he had been too distracted with Meraki's scratching against him. Although there were far worse people that the Mad Queen could have sent, it bothered him that anyone was sent at all, and that his residence was somehow known to them. They could have sent an enforcer, could have sent another Brother, but instead, it was only Clem. The wick was small, standing an inch or two shorter than the men inside of the apartment, and his dark auburn hair was messed up and shining with grease. He gave a smile. Lars had neglected to reply.

"We've sure missed ye at th' Queen, Cailan," said Clem, "ent a reason why y've been out, is there?"

"I —"

"Lots 'f askin' after ye. Plannin' on comin' in t'night, though, eh?"

Clem looked to be closer to Meraki's age than Lars', though the lines in his face were deep, and the darkness beneath his eyes never lightened.

"Got hurt. I couldn't come in for a bit."

"Ye look fine now, kov."

"Yes. I was sick. Didn't want to spread it."

The two simply stared at each other for a moment, neither willing to call out the lie.

"Got someone in there?" the inquisitive tumble inquired, peeking through the door, "ent been workin' outta here, have ye? Scarlett ent gonna like that, Cailan. Came down here m'self t' talk some sense into ye, 'fore she sends someone herself. That a spoke in there?"

"Neighbor," came Lars' hollow response, and the door was partially closed, obscuring the rest of the apartment from Clem's view. "I'm... I'm busy right now, Clem, and I'm probably still sick. Scarlett doesn't want me getting all the rest of you sick too, does she?"

Clem's bruised arms crossed over his chest.

"Dze. Yer typically a fair good liar, Cailan. Ent so much now. Ye gonna come with me, 'r should I stop coverin' for ye? Sick bird's as good as a dead one, eh?"

Lars blinked.

"Go down and wait outside. I'm not ready."

"Cailan, c'mon kov, I ent got all day t—"

"Wait for me," the door was shut and locked. He stepped away from it, as if to show that he had only intended on keeping Clem out, not keeping Meraki in.

Lars turned around, taking a deep breath as he strode across to the window. It caught in his throat, and his hands were drawn into fists at his sides to keep his fingers from tapping against his legs. He looked down to the street below, and tried to focus on the men and women walking by, but tears obscured his vision. A hand was raised to roughly wipe the offending moisture away.

"Tell me, then," he requested, quiet, as he continued to look down into the street. "Tell me these ways in which we need not part, in which I can just be your own personal harlot while your wife and kids aren't looking. Tell me what you expect me to do."
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Meraki
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: neque pertinet hilum
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Sun Apr 05, 2020 1:56 pm

17th Hour
Lars’ Apartment
8th of Vortas, 2719
W
hat was Lars supposed to believe?

Meraki wasn’t exactly sure. He had considered the best-case scenario, turned it over in his head the previous day along with the many, many worst-case scenarios. The best-case he’d come up with that seemed reasonable had been: that Lars would listen, and nod, and… swallow down the hurt and simply follow along… and… now that he looked at the other man, in the actual moment when Lars mumbled to no longer be called love by him, he felt the inescapable comprehension of the mistake he’d made.

Yet he could not turn back time and fix that mistake. There was no putting anything back in place. One more example for why he never bothered with the unvarnished truth. All the truth ever did was create a nightmarish mess of things. But if he could just have Lars admit to the facts of the matter and acknowledge the practical use of a wife and a family… a use that Lars would never be capable of. Meraki did not hold such a fact against Lars. He was aware that it would be the same in reverse, if Lars wished to pursue such matters. In fact, he had thought of other ideas regarding such things, but he dared not speak them yet.

Of course, Lars proved to know exactly what to say to twist the regret that rose in Meraki’s chest. The passive wrenched in a brutal pull when he quickly responded: “Ah, yes, which makes our love simply tedious. I understand entirely.”

Frustrated, Meraki turned his reactive wave of anger onto the incessant knocking on the door but paused when Lars walked briskly past him. He held still, having only gotten a few steps out of the bedroom, and watched…

…and he thought while he observed. Meraki’s fingers twitched. He took a couple steps closer, then paused when he felt the brush of another aura. Meraki retreated from it, to avoid overlap with the unseen wick. He stepped backward, to hover near the bathroom’s doorframe. While he didn’t hear exactly everything, he heard enough: Lots ‘f askin’ after ye; look fine now, kov; Scarlett ent gonna like that, Cailan; That a spoke in there?; Sick bird’s as good as a dead one, eh?

Merkai felt light-headed and his skull ached. He needed to get himself together and regain his composure. The tsat struck a new cigarette alight. By the time Lars had gone to the window, Meraki had taken a few puffs, but they had not calmed him in the slightest.

He knew Lars cried over it. If not by the simple changes in body language, and the tremor to the quiet voice, then in the way that the passive wiped at his eyes while faced away from him. Meraki tapped his foot against the floor, a nervous bounce that subtly went through his entire lithe body. His fingers continued to twitch, the tender muscles around his joints throbbed painfully. He left the spot at the bathroom and approached.

“I… It’s not like that,” he tried but the attempt failed terribly as it fell from his lips. He couldn’t even convince himself of it. Not anymore. “It’s… Lars, please, look at me?”

He waited, and if needed, he walked around instead to seek the other’s tear-filled gaze. Meraki held his cigarette to the side and with his free hand, he sought to touch the demure blond’s shoulder. “That’s so far away, years, and… you don’t need to think about such things if you don’t want to. I shouldn’t have told you. I’m- I don’t know. I thought maybe…”

Meraki pulled away, took a hefty drag of smoke, and leaned against the windowsill in a seated posture. He glanced out at the street. Foot tapping a quick-paced rhythm in each sound of his boot hitting the floor, he grimaced when he recalled the other wick that waited for Lars. Gods, he didn’t want to think about Lars going back to the Mad Queen. Not after this. He couldn’t let it leave off like this. He had to do something to make it right. And he had to do something fast.

“I’m sorry, Lars. It’s stupid and I’m selfish,” he decided in a forced but declarative statement and he looked over to seek eye contact with those fair gray irises. “Listen, it’s not anything to do with my heart. A lady and children give a certain appearance to others. Like clothing, a mask, a fake name. A man by himself, like y’ are, it’s… it’s questionable.”

“You might not have ever learned it, walled up like you were, but people don’t think of proper fathers and husbands as… well… what we are. People don’t trust lonely men without families.” He tried to explain but felt as if he were failing in all accounts. His gaze lowered, unable to keep up any further eye contact that he might’ve managed to steal. He muttered, “I thought maybe it could be if y’ found yourself a rosh too. Wouldn’t be hard, you’re so charming and handsome and… could get some decent coin out of it, if we found the right mark…”

Meraki sighed again. He was exasperated, but mostly toward himself. Why couldn’t he have kept his damn mouth shut? Maybe they would have headed out to the bookshop and completely missed that other wick. Flicking his cigarette, he stepped on the ember without care for the ashen scuff it left on the floor. He reached for Lars, wherever he was, to try and gather the blond into a hug so he might comfort his distraught lover. His mangled words certainly weren’t doing the trick, but maybe his body could?
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Lars
Posts: 447
Joined: Sun Nov 25, 2018 1:04 pm
Topics: 44
Race: Passive
: nil igitur mors est ad nos
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Sun Apr 05, 2020 4:04 pm

Lars' apartment
IN THE 17th HOUR of VORTAS 8th, 2719
L

ars did not look over. Even as Meraki approached, and touched a bandaged hand to his shoulder, he did not look over. He did not pull away from the contact, not exactly, but his shoulder did lower, as if wordlessly asking for removal. So far away, he said; years, he said. And yet Doris had planned on getting straight to it. She had wanted to marry her dear, sweet Toby even before the summertime, because why wait? Nothing had ever felt as right as marrying her Toby. Lars felt sick. He felt as if he could lower himself to the floor and spill his every emotion from his throat. Let them seep through the floorboards, let the toxic, burning acidity rot through the wood and leave a lingering smell of death. The next tenant's tedium.

The hand was pulled away, and the tsat moved to lean against the window, his boots tapping against the floor. Tap. Lars looked away from the window, if only to keep himself from looking at Meraki. Tap. He could not bear it. Tap. His hand was lifted again, wiping away more tears from reddened gray eyes, a stern frown curving his mouth. Tap. He focused on the hearth as the other man continued. Tap. The darkened center, dirtied with remnants of wood and paper and ash. Tap. It did not look so different from how he imagined his reflection to be.

There's a garden somewhere deep within my chest, he thought, and did not say it. Vibrant and bright. Supplied the air it needs with your every breath, the sun with your every smile, it should sooner disappear entirely than a single flower should think to wilt in your presence. You have your hands around my heart, he thought. Your fingers have slipped between my ribs. You've reached the flowers and you've pulled them by the stem, uprooted them. You seek to stick them in a vase to watch them wilt and die.

"I'm sorry, Lars. It's stupid and I'm selfish."

He still did not look over, did not allow the other man to meet his glassy, reddened gaze. Lars brought both of his hands up this time, covering his face for a few moments while he listened. He did not speak. He did not interrupt Meraki's attempts to explain it all away, even as it became increasingly clear that the passive did not believe a single one of them. What was there to believe? It made no sense to him. Or it did, but not in any reasonable way, not in any way that felt right. Why he had ever believed that the judgemental, thieving wick could ever move beyond his human fallacies in thought, he was not sure. People, he said, people don't trust them, but what he meant was humans. And Lars could not care less about what any fucking human thought about either of them.

Lars might have been locked away in Brunnhold for seventeen years, but Meraki had spent his whole fucking life in the Stacks, surrounded by dirty, worthless fucking humans. Did he really think that the entire world shared their limited, disgusting view? That two men in Brunnhold or Vienda would truly be looked down upon and dismissed? What of Mugroba, or Hox, or anywhere else? Why the fuck was a man so rebellious and free as Meraki so eager to bend and conform to the wishes of those lower than himself?

It made no sense. It was foolish. It was selfish in the strangest of ways, and Lars could hardly contain himself when the younger dared to suggest that the passive find a woman of his own. His eyes darted over to the Anaxi, finally, bewildered. Offended. Upset. Meraki put his cigarette out on the floor, and Lars could have screamed at him for the mark it left behind. The wick came forward to wrap his arms around him, and though it took him a moment to process, Lars was wiggling out of his hold soon enough.

"What, you want to sell me off again?"

He could not even think to maintain the neutral, indistinguishable accent he had forced upon himself for years. Lars did not push away, nor did he move that far, but he stared at Meraki as if the wick had just spat in his face.

"Even if I had any desire whatsoever to do any such thing, I am still a scrap, Meraki. I could not marry anyone, not in Anaxas, and I do not care to sail to Mugroba just to marry some stupid fucking woman, I do not care how much fucking money she has."

His hands were shaking at his sides, and he curled his fingers into fists to stop the movement.

"You claim that I do not deserve you, that I deserve more, and yet I deserve to be your dirty little secret in the dark?"

He did not bother wiping away the moisture on his face, he let the tears fall as they came.

Of course we deserve more. Meraki does too.

And yet he wants to hide forever. None of us could ever be enough to change that.

I told you when Doris arrived. I told you that he would destroy you.

And I still thought I was enough, even so.

You weren't enough for Bennett, or Fionn. That's why they hurt you.

YOU WEREN'T ENOUGH FOR HER. THAT'S WHY SHE RUINED YOU.

Meraki still loves you. Look at him. If he didn't care, he wouldn't even be standing here. You know that.


"I — I know that is not what you meant. I get it. But do not treat me like some toy to put on the shelf and play with when you get bored of the disguise. If you want a wife and children, fine. That is your choice, you are free to have them. You are a lovely teacher, and I am sure you will make a great father. Really. Far better than most."

Lars swallowed, though his throat threatened to convulse, his stomach threatened to spill forth. Was that really what he wanted? A wife? Children? Did he want those things at all, or was it all just the disguise? Lars could not be his wife, even if he could wear a dress and pretend for the rest of the world. He could do that, if it would make him happy. He could not give him children, even if he could find some orphan off the streets to take in. He could do that, too, if it would make him happy. He could not give him a family, as he called it, even if he could give him the idea of one. He turned his head towards the window, and added, "I love you, Meraki, more than I ever thought I could love anyone. I love you, not the mask you put on for the rest of the world. You can go back to Brunnhold and find it again, but I will not watch you wear it for the rest of your life."

His arms crossed over his chest, hugging himself in a weak embrace. He was so fucking cold again, his hands shivered and his shoulders threatened to do the same where he stood.

"I want you to be happy," he said, quieter, "and if that is what will make you happy, then I will not argue any more on it."
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Meraki
Posts: 263
Joined: Sun Feb 09, 2020 2:22 am
Topics: 24
Race: Wick
: neque pertinet hilum
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Sun Apr 05, 2020 8:12 pm

17th Hour
Hot House Glass
8th of Vortas, 2719
N
othing hurt more than Lars’ blatant refusal to make eye contact with him. Meraki would have rather taken a hundred stabs of a knife than experience the way that Lars’ tear-filled eyes, so bloody red around the fair gray irises, hurriedly averted from his frequent attempts to find the man behind them. It made him want to get on his knees and beg forgiveness for what his idiotic confession had caused… but it also made him want to force the other man to look at him. Who did the passive think he was, anyway? Some pure untouched lady? He might have been galdor-born, and handsome, and delicately fine-boned, and so wonderful and magnificent and perfect in so many ways, and yet… he was still just a man. Not like any other man, but Lars was far from an innocent soul. Naïve, perhaps. Unlearned in many accounts, certainly. Innocent? No, no… not even close.

So, what were the tears for? Why was the harlot acting this way about something that was so obviously practical? It wasn’t like he told Lars they couldn’t be together. It wasn’t like he said that he loved Doris. It wasn’t like he lied and said he already had children back home. Or worse, told the truth and mentioned his other lovers... his actual lovers. The other men he’d left behind in Brunnhold. What would Lars have done then? If he couldn’t even handle the simple truth that he was engaged to some broodmare to keep legitimacy in the city that’d been his home until last month… Did Lars understand? Did he? How could he not?! It had nothing to do with the dangerous fact that they were both men. He could handle the pressures of that, though he preferred to avoid it whenever possible. It wasn’t about their queer natures. How could Lars not understand what he meant? Wasn’t it OBVIOUS?!

Finally, Lars looked at him. Finally, he had the chance to see the man behind those eyes as Lars’ gaze darted in offended upset… and he missed the opportunity. Too busy scuffing the cigarette out on the floor and trying to hold himself together, trying to act contrite, trying. He was trying.

He tried to hold Lars too. Wrapped his arms around the other man, and for a few seconds, it seemed like it might work… but then the demure, bleary-eyed blond wiggled out from his hold. It took everything Meraki had in him to not grab the harlot in a grasp that would bruise the pale skin. But what did it matter if he did? It wasn’t like Lars wouldn’t get bruised in the night to come… if he left for the Mad Queen. If… When. When he left for the Mad Queen. To get used by more spokes, more sailors, more dirty men- Meraki didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to. He had to, though.

“What, you want to sell me off again?”

“I did not say that.” He interjected without pause, his voice hardly more than a hissed breath. This time, he caught the other looking at him – staring at him – and he didn’t care how offended or insulted the expression was. He only felt a certain relief that he got to make eye contact again. Meraki gazed back, in a stern and uncompromising expression.

Out of everything he’d said, Lars latched onto the legality of marriage due to being a scrap? From the context, and a vague notion of recollection from the Stacks, he figured this referred to his fieldless constitution. He glanced at the shaking hands that curled into fists. His body tensed, then relaxed in the sort of readiness for a fight – just in case those fists got thrown. Not that he thought Lars would, but for the brawler, it was an automatic assumption. If Lars wanted to fight, literally, about it… then that was just something that would happen.

Instead, despite the fists, Lars kept to words... mere words… but words could mean so much. Words could wound, and harm, and stab into the mind and heart. Bleed his thoughts out, snap apart his beliefs, send him rabid with overwhelmed emotions. Words could be dangerous weapons, whether wielded precisely or messily. Unlike physical weapons, though, sometimes words could injure without the attacker ever being aware of the assault they had launched onto the listener.

“…yet I deserve to be your dirty little secret in the dark?”

More tears rolled down Lars’ cheeks, left alone to spill over the handsome face. The tsat wanted to brush them away. He didn’t want to see Lars cry, especially not because of something he had done wrong. Yet all his attempts to explain seemed to make things worse and all his approaches to touch kept being subtly rejected. Meraki wasn’t wanted, anymore. He could tell. He could always tell. After years of rejections ranging from brutal to insipid, there was no way he couldn’t realize when a lover no longer wanted to accept him as such. Frustrated, angry – and no, he didn’t want to cry – he wanted to punch something. He wanted to punch and punch and hear bones snap and injured shallow breaths and…

His face had gone ruddy with heat, freckles prominent against the blushed color. The thin recent scar along his bottom lip stood out in a purplish-pink line. The scar he wouldn’t have, if it weren’t for all their kisses shared. He listened to what more Lars had to say, but it only worsened his anger. All he could do was manage to keep his mouth shut and not interrupt even though his thoughts spun around. He wanted to demand: stop crying, stop crying, stop crying, ˙פNI⅄ɹƆ ԀO┴S. WHAT ARE YOU CRYING FOR? Nothing has changed except now you know something more. How is this worse than anything else?! How is keeping a wife any worse than dismembering a corpse, you perfect precious moony?!

Confusion incited his anger further, in a feverish exchange between the two states that escalated both, in a destructive turn of his mind. He wasn’t treating Lars like some toy! The opposite! Why would he ever say anything like this with a toy?! Did the naïve harlot even know what a toy was? What it really was? The passive might’ve been a whore for a few months, used like a spot of tea (or a favorite meal by the most voracious of clients), but it wasn’t anywhere close to what a toy was. What did Lars know about any of it? He didn’t. He didn’t know anything about what life was like outside of that fancy, safe golly school – no matter how terribly passives might’ve been treated, it wasn’t anything like his life in the Stacks. Lars didn’t know him. He didn’t know him, and now he didn’t-

“I love you, Meraki,” said the harlot as he looked at the window, away from Meraki. “…I love you, not the mask- but I will not watch you wear it…”

Meraki took a step backward. His boots audibly slid against the floor as he moved further and farther away from Lars.

“I want you to be happy and if that is what will make you happy, then I will not argue any more on it.”

“Oh? You won’t?” snapped Meraki, unable to contain himself any longer. Sarcasm dripped like poison from his tongue. A bitter taste filled his mouth. “Well, gee, Lars. Thank y’ for such thoughtful consideration. As long as you won’t argue! How wonderful of you. So glad you’re looking out for my happiness!”

Volume loud enough, his voice carried through the apartment and likely outside of it, for whoever might be around in the hall to hear. He dropped the sarcasm and spoke bluntly, “Y’ don’t know shit and y’ haven’t heard a fuckin’ word I’ve said if you think this is about somethin’ as clockin’ moony as happiness. Gods, do y’ even hear y’self? How does y’ know what’s a mask or not, huh? Y’ think yer ‘at good at tellin’ what’s what and who I am?!”

“Y’ what- y’ think I wouldn’t- what? Think I want to leave y’ behind? After all… after everythi- godsdammit, y’ fucking drive me wild, Lars. I can’t think right! I don’t know how to- get it through- or- fuck- why can’t y’… I hate- I don’t want- Secrets are- There’s always dark- what’s wrong with the dark!?What’s wrong with secrets?!What’s wrong with being a toy!? It doesn’t make you any DIRTIER THAN YOU ALREADY ARE!” His words bled together, pronunciation slurred, even more angry than he’d been the night he’d practically thrown coins at Lars in the cold night street, before he’d learned the harlot was also from Brunnhold. Adrenaline spiked, his blood pumped through his veins, and his ears rushed with the pounding beat of his heart. He didn’t relent though, even as he glared at the tears on his perfect lover’s face.

Meraki moved away, sharp and angry, field pulsed red and hostile. He strode toward the door, head held rather high and far too proud than any half-breed should dare claim. He unlocked the front door, then looked over and seemed about to shout more… Instead, he tossed a hand in a violent gesture through the air, directed toward Lars, and snarled the purest rage-filled poetry, “Fuck. Fuck fuckfuckfuckfuck.”

With that said, the tsat left. He slammed the door so hard behind him that the frame shook from the impact. Meraki, however, was not done. He might have departed from Lars, but he was far from finished. His rage churned and the storm in his head threatened. He hurried down the stairway, and outside. It only took a single step to the adjacent street before he felt the brush of the other wick’s field.

“Woah,” mentioned Clem from the sudden appearance coupled with the angry field. Instinctively, the dark-haired harlot moved away from the wall. “Is- uh- is Cailan comi-”

Clem might have moved away, but not far enough.

Meraki swiftly closed the distance between them. He grabbed the other wick’s forearm and wrenched him close. Before a word could be said, he had his other hand tightly over the mouth. The door hadn’t even finished closing yet. Meraki shoved it with his shoulder, ignored the slight pain that it caused his healing stab wound, while he forcibly dragged Clem into the back stairway of Hot House Glass.

He heard the muffled confusion against the palm of his hand and held firm against the squirming petite body with his arm around the other’s shoulders. Meraki started backwards up the stairs, but the other wick gave him some trouble. Kicking and trying to elbow his ribs and making a damnable struggle of it. Barely a couple steps, it proved obvious that he couldn’t manage the entire way like this. So, Meraki did what any sane ordinary killer might do. He slammed Clem’s head fiercely against the nearby wall. A cracked thud echoed in the stairwell. The other wick went unconscious with an involuntary twitch that shuddered through his limp body. Blood flooded outward, matting the greasy dark hair. Meraki draped the shorter man over his uninjured shoulder and started on his way up the stairs – headed for the top floor where his own apartment was. Scarlet droplets trailed behind him, on the steps.

Rolls
Grabbing Clem:
SidekickBOTToday at 5:05 PM
@Lazulum: 1d6 = (4) = 4

Dragging Clem Up the Stairs:
SidekickBOTToday at 5:08 PM
@Lazulum: 1d6 = (2) = 2

Knocking Clem Out:
SidekickBOTToday at 5:09 PM
@Lazulum: 1d6 = (5) = 5

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