[Mature] Palisades/Storm
Posted: Fri Apr 03, 2020 9:52 pm
LARS' APARTMENT
IN THE 16th HOUR ⁎ VORTAS 8th, 2719
IN THE 16th HOUR ⁎ VORTAS 8th, 2719
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 —
And sometimes he switched hands, tossing the chalk into his left hand instead —
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.
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
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
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.