My Least Favorite Life
Posted: Sat Aug 17, 2019 2:08 pm
The Bérangers’ Ballroom • Uptown
Afternoon of the 12th of Roalis, 2719
He reached for it, but he couldn’t find it.
A burst of laughter took his attention away from him. The room was soft, whirling with its phosphor lights; he felt soft. There was a hand on his shoulder, a hand with a ring. Pushing. He breathed in the scent of brandy, brandy on the breath, brandy swirled in a glass. More laughter. A laugh like a bird’s trill, high and clear – and mingling with it a deep hum of a laugh, a giggle he could feel all the way down in his diaphragm. Just like he’d been taught. He laughed, the brandy jumping just to the lip of the glass but not over.
He took another long sip of Twemlaugh. “That must have been... interesting,” he said, laughter guttering out. He kept himself from slapping the hand off his shoulder.
“Yes. Francoise certainly thought so.” Incumbent Rochambeaux looked thoughtful, eyes wandering out over the ballroom. “I’m sure he meant well, of course.”
For such a boring kov, Aurelien had nice eyes. He was a towhead, a little taller than Anatole, more than a little younger. His eyes looked brown, ’til the light hit them a certain way; then they turned gold like the sun striking a mirror, like cats’ eyes. Or maybe the light’d catch his face just so, and one eye’d be bright amber and the other dark like steeping kofi. A lot of galdori had eyes like that, but he’d never noticed them much.
He was already thinning at the temples. The soft light licked a little coppery red into his tight blond curls.
“They often do.” He let the edge of a sneer enter his voice; he took a sip of brandy, swirling it. “It was a creative response. You must allow him that, at least.”
It went like this; he could recite this much in his mind:
“Look over there.” Again, Aurelien’s voice clawed his concentration apart.
He was forced to follow the other galdor’s subtle half-nod. Across the room, a man much older than both of them – in his seventies, at least, with only a thin dusting of grey hair on his scalp – was chatting with a middle-aged Mugrobi official.
Aurelien shook his head. “Lemieux.”
“On his way out, I would say,” he replied, instinctively.
The other incumbent laughed. “After that incident with pez Emeka.” He laughed, and took a drink of brandy. “I remember that – that story you would tell when I was interning with Incumbent Rousseau – do you remember?”
“Mmm.”
“Your office was just down the hall,” Aurelien said; “you’d just been appointed. And you said Rousseau and Lemieux had both given you –”
“– hell,” he tried, and Aurelien’s laugh let him know he had the right of it. He thought for a moment, trying to piece the situation together. It took his mind further away from pez Hirtka, and he was getting more and more irritated. He tried to mold that irritation into a different shape, focus it on Lemieux’s bald head. “And now look at him,” he added, drawling. It was becoming effortless, that drawl. He took another drink. “Not that you can look at Rousseau.”
Another laugh. “Anatole! Enough, enough. Please,” said Aurelien, putting that hand on his arm again, just for a couple of seconds, “tell me how you’ve been. I can’t say what a fine thing it is to see you up and about again. For such a long time, you weren’t yourself.”
“Alioe has refilled my cup, I must say,” he replied. “I haven’t felt this good in months.”
“Well, it’s a fine thing to see. We’ve missed your unfailing wit.”
He tried to think. Stirring dark between us, he thought, the fire that burns the heart – but no, that was later. He was getting all mixed up. All night, he had tried to cradle the words, to hold them close to his breast. To tell them to himself over and over again. He was scrambled; he was losing bits of the poem.
How much had he had to drink? Being honest, he wasn’t sure. Wasn’t sure he cared, either. It was like this: the weight on his heart was heavy enough that a little guilt didn’t matter. He’d determined to get shit-faced tonight; it’d been planned. But that didn’t stop him wondering, didn’t stop a certain pain from singing in him with its small, frail voice — why are you doing this? And then he’d think, what if Ava could see you right now, sliding backwards?
(What if Ava could see you right now?)
He laughed again, long and hard, deep in himself; he laughed Anatole’s deep laugh. He drained his snifter and then, bouncing on his heels, cast about for more. Wasn’t long til he waved over a servant, a natt a few heads taller than both of them, and got himself another drink. And then drank deeply of it, drained near half the glass.
He caught a look of slight concern on the other incumbent’s face, a covert glance at the glass in his hand, a hesitant motion to do nothing in particular.
He cleared his throat. “It has been a harrowing rainy season,” he intoned, mock-sternly, “and I am determined to celebrate. We’ve passed the torch to Mugroba alive and well, eh? Whatever they choose to do with it.” This time, his own hand found Aurelien’s shoulder, a little firm. “Tell me: how is Francoise?”
The incumbent brightened. “Well, perhaps she can tell you herself,” he said, gesturing. “Here she comes. Francoise! You’ve met Anatole. And, ah, perhaps you’ve met…”
On the edge of my beloved’s eyelash… He felt as if he were losing time. Something was going to drag him away again. On the…
Aurelien’s eyes were on something over his shoulder. He could feel a field caprising his, and then another brushing its porven edges. The second one was familiar. Couldn’t’ve placed it, though. Something bright about it, something strange. Itched at his memory.
He turned, arranging his face into its customary thin, sharp smile. But then he froze, swallowing a sore lump. The surprise didn’t register on his face, and neither did the sinking, laoso feeling in his gut, thank the gods – and he just managed to bow, low and graceful, without spilling his brandy.
“Good evening, ladies,” he said. “I think we have met.”
A burst of laughter took his attention away from him. The room was soft, whirling with its phosphor lights; he felt soft. There was a hand on his shoulder, a hand with a ring. Pushing. He breathed in the scent of brandy, brandy on the breath, brandy swirled in a glass. More laughter. A laugh like a bird’s trill, high and clear – and mingling with it a deep hum of a laugh, a giggle he could feel all the way down in his diaphragm. Just like he’d been taught. He laughed, the brandy jumping just to the lip of the glass but not over.
He took another long sip of Twemlaugh. “That must have been... interesting,” he said, laughter guttering out. He kept himself from slapping the hand off his shoulder.
“Yes. Francoise certainly thought so.” Incumbent Rochambeaux looked thoughtful, eyes wandering out over the ballroom. “I’m sure he meant well, of course.”
For such a boring kov, Aurelien had nice eyes. He was a towhead, a little taller than Anatole, more than a little younger. His eyes looked brown, ’til the light hit them a certain way; then they turned gold like the sun striking a mirror, like cats’ eyes. Or maybe the light’d catch his face just so, and one eye’d be bright amber and the other dark like steeping kofi. A lot of galdori had eyes like that, but he’d never noticed them much.
He was already thinning at the temples. The soft light licked a little coppery red into his tight blond curls.
“They often do.” He let the edge of a sneer enter his voice; he took a sip of brandy, swirling it. “It was a creative response. You must allow him that, at least.”
It went like this; he could recite this much in his mind:
And I have loved him: the shape of him
Carved into my breast; the wings of
His breath, stirring dark between us…
Carved into my breast; the wings of
His breath, stirring dark between us…
“Look over there.” Again, Aurelien’s voice clawed his concentration apart.
He was forced to follow the other galdor’s subtle half-nod. Across the room, a man much older than both of them – in his seventies, at least, with only a thin dusting of grey hair on his scalp – was chatting with a middle-aged Mugrobi official.
Aurelien shook his head. “Lemieux.”
“On his way out, I would say,” he replied, instinctively.
The other incumbent laughed. “After that incident with pez Emeka.” He laughed, and took a drink of brandy. “I remember that – that story you would tell when I was interning with Incumbent Rousseau – do you remember?”
“Mmm.”
“Your office was just down the hall,” Aurelien said; “you’d just been appointed. And you said Rousseau and Lemieux had both given you –”
“– hell,” he tried, and Aurelien’s laugh let him know he had the right of it. He thought for a moment, trying to piece the situation together. It took his mind further away from pez Hirtka, and he was getting more and more irritated. He tried to mold that irritation into a different shape, focus it on Lemieux’s bald head. “And now look at him,” he added, drawling. It was becoming effortless, that drawl. He took another drink. “Not that you can look at Rousseau.”
Another laugh. “Anatole! Enough, enough. Please,” said Aurelien, putting that hand on his arm again, just for a couple of seconds, “tell me how you’ve been. I can’t say what a fine thing it is to see you up and about again. For such a long time, you weren’t yourself.”
“Alioe has refilled my cup, I must say,” he replied. “I haven’t felt this good in months.”
“Well, it’s a fine thing to see. We’ve missed your unfailing wit.”
He tried to think. Stirring dark between us, he thought, the fire that burns the heart – but no, that was later. He was getting all mixed up. All night, he had tried to cradle the words, to hold them close to his breast. To tell them to himself over and over again. He was scrambled; he was losing bits of the poem.
How much had he had to drink? Being honest, he wasn’t sure. Wasn’t sure he cared, either. It was like this: the weight on his heart was heavy enough that a little guilt didn’t matter. He’d determined to get shit-faced tonight; it’d been planned. But that didn’t stop him wondering, didn’t stop a certain pain from singing in him with its small, frail voice — why are you doing this? And then he’d think, what if Ava could see you right now, sliding backwards?
(What if Ava could see you right now?)
He laughed again, long and hard, deep in himself; he laughed Anatole’s deep laugh. He drained his snifter and then, bouncing on his heels, cast about for more. Wasn’t long til he waved over a servant, a natt a few heads taller than both of them, and got himself another drink. And then drank deeply of it, drained near half the glass.
He caught a look of slight concern on the other incumbent’s face, a covert glance at the glass in his hand, a hesitant motion to do nothing in particular.
He cleared his throat. “It has been a harrowing rainy season,” he intoned, mock-sternly, “and I am determined to celebrate. We’ve passed the torch to Mugroba alive and well, eh? Whatever they choose to do with it.” This time, his own hand found Aurelien’s shoulder, a little firm. “Tell me: how is Francoise?”
The incumbent brightened. “Well, perhaps she can tell you herself,” he said, gesturing. “Here she comes. Francoise! You’ve met Anatole. And, ah, perhaps you’ve met…”
On the edge of my beloved’s eyelash… He felt as if he were losing time. Something was going to drag him away again. On the…
Aurelien’s eyes were on something over his shoulder. He could feel a field caprising his, and then another brushing its porven edges. The second one was familiar. Couldn’t’ve placed it, though. Something bright about it, something strange. Itched at his memory.
He turned, arranging his face into its customary thin, sharp smile. But then he froze, swallowing a sore lump. The surprise didn’t register on his face, and neither did the sinking, laoso feeling in his gut, thank the gods – and he just managed to bow, low and graceful, without spilling his brandy.
“Good evening, ladies,” he said. “I think we have met.”