[Mature] Hardest of Hearts

[Rhys Valentin]

home sweet home

early evening on the 10th of Yaris, 2719

He was wrung dry—still very drunk but thirsty all over again. Eyes puffy with too many worthless tears shed, uniform soaked with sweat and streaked just lightly with Niccollette Ibutatu's mascara, Rhys Valentin had spent longer than was at all necessary in that cab, requesting the hapless driver take a few wrong turns while he wept, alone. Yaris' golden light was stretching thin, honeyed shadows growing longer and longer until the last of the light was snuffed out by the tall tenements in the Dives by the time the Painted Ladies came into the blond Sergeant's bleary view.

Fuck! He'd never fucking walked home in his Seventen greens before.

Oh gods. What a mistake—

skipping out of duty,

getting drunk,

and now this—

Over half a years' time since Charity'd dragged his broken, useless body out of his favorite flat and into the crusty old house too big for them both and he'd not once revealed to his neighbors what he did for a living. While folks on their street had to know the couple were gollies by now—didn't they? weren't they fooled!—he'd never wanted anyone to know what his employment was, if only because patrolling the Dives and arresting their relatives on occasion was probably not the best way to get in anyone else's good graces. So, he left earlier than any of his patrol shifts required, changing at Headquarters, and hoping no one on his street was ever in his paperwork.

Panic welled in his chest, hot and furious like the sweltering temperatures outside, like the whiskey that still ran through his veins despite how much he'd cried. Not that he'd cried over the death of a friend, either. Usoji Ibutatu'd never been his fucking friend, but that sort of death was too close, the edge of that same blade too sharp against his own half-bred bastard throat not to feel the sting of it, not to anticipate the cut of it through flesh that'd already been bruised and broken but not knit back together the same way it'd once been. Charity'd already wept like that over a body that breathed for fuck's sake (his!), but she'd also already drowned it all in King's Crop by now.

Did she remember that day in Vortas as clearly as he did?

What an ersehole thought—Rhys' scarred lip curled in disgust at his guttered self, handing out coins to the driver with some slurred, mumbled thanks. He sniffed, ignoring the burn at the edges of his eyes, and stared at the rowhouses of the Painted Ladies, finding the one that he'd worked so damn hard at restoring all winter long. Just like his marriage, that old house was damn prettier on the inside than it used to be. Mostly. Some parts, though? Still needed a bit more sweat and nails. He shrugged off his coat, tossing it over his shoulder, suspenders dangling alongside his belt, laden as it was with his equipment. He attempted to saunter, to swagger like he meant to be here all along, like he fit right in with the lower races that scraped and saved to live here—

Oh wait, he was one of them.

Just not one of them.

He was the same, beneath it all, only he wore the lie like the starched lines of his Seventen uniform.

The tall blond didn't hide his face, didn't disguise a thing as he slipped through the old metal gate and staggered up his steps—gods, he really needed to get to fixing this clocking front porch with its rotting wood and crooked stairs, but it was too damn hot and too much work to do alone. He didn't care who saw him right now, too plumb wasted and too damn deliriously sad. He knocked on the door, rapping knuckles in the pattern that his petite Bastian wife would recognize—hopefully, if she wasn't half out of her mind—and let himself in,

"By Alioe's good graces, I'm home early!"

He sloshed a little while he shouted, wobbling with half a sob and half a giggle, trying not to let his voice break so obviously over the words. Slipping out of his boots and fumbling to hang his coat by the door, he dumped his belt with a heavy thunk just right there on the floor without a second thought, shaking fingers already reaching for the buttons of his shirt collar, eager to open the thick green fabric and free himself from it with a desperate need to no longer be a drunk, sweaty mess.

He didn't wait for a reply, breezing toward the sitting room, drifting toward the quaint antique bar he'd waxed himself months ago, glittering with alcohol both found and purchased, fully stocked and ready to stoke the fires of his already inebriated state. It wasn't as though he needed to be sober all the time at home, did he?

Rhys glanced down when he missed a button, blue eyes catching a hint of mascara, and he scowled, shrugging the fabric open enough to bare tanned, freckled skin while he pressed teeth against the scar that split his bottom lip. Shaking hands reached for whatever bottle struck his fancy and a glass, and the blond not-galdor attempted to steady himself enough to pour a fresh drink,

"Where's my beautiful wife?" The words tumbled easy enough from his mouth, even if they soured on his tongue. He didn't deserve any of this, not by birth and not by behavior. He'd been a bastard all along—fresh from his human mother's womb all the way until testing day on Brunnhold's campus, that first day he and Charity shared a class together until that day he clocking cowered in front of that chroveserse she called father.

Gods, he'd wasted so much time. Fucking around out of fear, convincing himself he'd ever love someone else while her own house fell apart, while her own family poisoned her and held her captive.

It was his fault, he knew.

And while he could've died that day in Achtus, while it would've been what he deserved, the Circle saw fit to give him another chance, even if he had no fucking clue how to heal what was broken in the petite pianist's life, for it wasn't anything that could be mended like smashed bones or cut flesh.

[Charity Valentin]

10th Yaris, 2719
PAINTED LADIES | EARLY EVENING

"Just one more small glass. One more small glass won’t hurt.

Charity drew her lip between her teeth, arms crossed over each other as she sat on the seat of her piano, one leg bouncing rapidly and violet eyes on the empty glass sitting on the black top. She brought her thumb to her teeth, biting the nail delicately, before running her hand through her hair and sighing heavily. Beside the glass sat a bottle of Percival Armstrong's Tonic To Soothe What Ails You, the medicinal green bottle sitting squat and accusing like some silent judge. The directions suggested one night cap was enough to help soothe the mind, but the pianist found it did nothing but take off an edge. Two was better, making things feel less…difficult. Less…stressful.

A third would just help to quell the nasty voice that whispered in her ear.

Standing rapidly, the blonde moved away from the laudanum laced drink, as though physical distance would help. She smoothed the dark indigo fabric of the summer day dress she wore, platinum hair loose around her face and shoulders, makeup swept too deeply for a daytime look. Charity didn’t care. She wasn’t a daytime sort of woman anyway. Her feet were bare, enjoying the cool of the painstakingly smoothed wooden flooring.

“I don’t need it.” She muttered, shaking her head and lifting her chin. From the soft sheer curtains that underlay the thick velvety ones, the afternoon sun spread a warm orange glow through the parlor, like fire filled the room and burned all it touched. Rhys was at work—he was seemingly always at work thanks to her father—and there was far too much spare time on her hands. After that spell, that strange curious exciting spell from the book in the library the Valentin had taken a keen interest in finding more.

And she had. She’d found quite a few. Unpublished and unstable. And very clocking dangerous.

And you still haven’t told him.

Turning away from Damen’s voice in head, Charity curled her hands around her arms again, shrugging her ear against her shoulder with a small sound.

“I shall, when it’s appropriate.” The woman replied to no one, turning on her heel to return to the piano and uncork the bottle with slightly trembling hands. She poured two fingers of the ugly green syrup, shoving the top on again and shooting back the drink with a gag and a shiver.

Weak.

"Shut up." Inhaling deeply, Charity left everything on the piano and fled from the room, finding her way down the hall and into the library. She lit the wall lanterns and approached the soft green padded chair that sat in the corner next to a small table, picking up the book that sat there. Its cover was blue, faded and worn at the corners, with a simple bookmark sticking out of the top. Flicking to the page, the blonde let her eyes and her fingers dance over the strange combination of monite within. Around her, Charity’s field hummed warmly with Perceptive mona, as though curious about the contents within. As though begging for her to read out loud.

The sun was setting, and with it came the bodily high she’d been chasing from the laudanum, easing the voice in her head and the heaviness in her chest. Words became to hard to focus on properly, and with a languid hum Charity placed the book back on the table open and upside down. She let her head fall back against the soft fabric and giggled a little, giddy and floating soothingly in chemical bliss. Why had she stopped doing this? It was so much better, to just let everything go. Everything was so numb and so...nothing. Nothing mattered.

It was better.

Eventually, she dragged herself up the stairs to crawl into bed fully dressed, intending to sleep off the intoxication until Rhys made it home. Tilting her head to one side, Charity lifted an arm to rest it over her head and drew her lower lip between her teeth again as she looked at his side of the bed.

Gods, she did love that man.

There was a sudden knock at the door downstairs, echoing through the empty house and causing the warmly inebriated young woman to sit up sharply, heart rattling in her chest. It was familiar, the same knock that herself and the Seventen had agreed upon since the events of Vortas.

The thought stirred a chill up her spine, goosebumps across her arms.

But no, it couldn’t be. It was too early, the sun had only just gone to bed.

Pushing herself to her feet, Charity crept across the room, drawing her yellow-swathed field closely to her and trying to shove back the high that made it impossible to remember the right words for casting. Clocks. Pausing near the door frame, she instead reached for a nearby candlestick, gripping it tightly and almost holding her breath.

"By Alioe's good graces, I'm home early!"

The blonde man’s familiar voice wafted up the stairs, unfamiliar in its tone and accompanied by a thud of something heavy. Charity put down the candlestick and moved to stand at the top of the staircase, missing the figure of her husband by a moment. Was she hearing things?

Probably. It’s not out of character. Damen’s voice sneered back.

"Where's my beautiful wife?"

The pale skinned creature broke out into a delighted smile, quickly disappearing back into the bedroom to look in the vanity there. She ran her fingers through her hair and grabbing for the glossy balm that sat there for her lips, missing and knocking over a bottle of something fragrant and expensive. It smashed across the floor in a spray of fine glass shards.

“Clocks!” She hissed, grabbing again for the balm and sweeping a finger tip across her lips, leaving the perfume to evaporate there on the floor and stepping carefully over broken glass. Grasping the railing, she made her way down the staircase quickly, pausing at the bottom to let her vision clear up. The laudanum was definitely in her now, playing tricks on her judgement, but not on her ability to walk. Not calling out to the wick, Charity moved quietly down the hall, following the sound of clinking glass and the sounds of occupation. She caught him there, in the sitting room, making use of their lovingly refurbished bar. Not that she was much of a drinker, nor he usually, but it made sense to have a bar in a sitting room.

Well, at least it was all she’d ever known sitting rooms to be good for.

Trying to dampen her wavering field, the one-D’Arthe closed the distance between them to reach from behind and place her hands over her husbands eyes with a giggle, reaching up on tiptoe to get close enough.

“Guess who?” She said near his ear in what could only be called a very poor gruff voice, finally catching a whiff of the man with a moment of surprise. He reeked of alcohol, strong in the air. Something in her stomach turned slightly, though it was brief. Perhaps there’d been an arrest, or a reason to celebrate.

Maybe Damen was face down in an aquaduct somewhere. That would be a good reason to be home early and smelling of whisky.

“Careful though. You only get two guesses.” Charity said in the same put-on voice, unable to help the intoxicated giggle that escaped.

[Rhys Valentin]

Painted Ladies

afternoon on the 20th of Loshis, 2719

He didn't need another drink. He shouldn't be drunk at home. He shouldn't have come home yet. When his call into the cavernous spaces of this old-boned house was met with silence, Rhys knew what was waiting for him. He heard the tinkling of glass, frowning as he fumbled with the bottle he'd chosen, swallowing the molten hot lump of anticipation that rose against the back of his throat, an uncomfortable awareness that the beautiful pale creature he'd shouted for was most likely no less wasted than himself—

He stared for a moment at the dark liquid as it sloshed glass, distorting the view of his palm. Gods, he'd missed her once, he'd missed Charity D'Arthe far more than he'd been willing to admit. He'd made so many desperate attempts to wash that awareness away, years ago—drinking, getting in trouble, starting fights, chasing any kind of gratification he was actually allowed in the hopes of erasing the one thing he'd wanted from his memory. But he couldn't. He never did.

He missed Charity Valentin now, even waking up next to her every morning before crawling away to work.

They'd had a few good months, just a handful of fleeting, almost-normal moments. He'd tasted what could be, and now he was left once again wishing for what could have been. The tall blond's hand shook, filling that little glass, and he heard the stairs creak, the sound of the petite pianist drifting unsteadily down the stairs.

He stood still, setting the bottle down, looking down at the dark shadow of his reflection in the rippling alcohol and the puddle he'd made on the bar. He felt the frayed edges of Charity's field, the belike particles giving too much of her state of mind away, mingling without apology with his frazzled, far too powerful for his own good glamour. Too belike right now, both of them guttered in their own way. Rhys waited, hesitant to turn, only to feel her delicate fingers trail toward his face, forced to lean a little to give her the illusion that she could reach such height from behind him without effort.

Quite aware he smelled like a pub floor left to swelter in the Yaris sun, having chased down some actual criminals before getting drunk with another, he waited for a comment, for some kind of hesitance that didn't come. Perhaps the petite blonde was just high enough not to care.

Attempting to keep his eyes closed, surely she felt the moisture that clung to his eyelashes against her fingertips, the light, teasing pressure of her hands sending tears he'd held back trickling down his cheeks. He should've been drunk enough to laugh, but instead he just snorted, reaching upward to trace the lightest of touches over her shoulders, up toward her wrists, though he didn't push her hands away, holding them there. He tilted his head, her breath tickling his ear while she attempted some mockery of a deeper voice, choosing to distract himself with the press of her body against his,

"Well, jus'two? I'm pretty sure I can get it right th' first guess." Rhys hummed, slurring a little, slowly tugging her arms downward toward his half-bared chest so he could make an attempt to turn around, smirking at the giggle that clearly gave her away, "Considering uninvited guests aren't allowed, I'm going to say you're—ah—oh—I was right. My lovely wife. Lemme make sure, though—"

She'd have questions, he knew. He wasn't sober. He'd not been working for at least a few hours now. Instead of looking for any glimmer of concern, however, Rhys caught that shine on her lips, that effort to present a face he wanted to see but couldn't know when to expect anymore. He didn't even know where to begin, and he didn't know the right words to express how good it was to see her, to feel her warm—perhaps too warm—in his hands. Even if she didn't understand, the weight of what could've been, the weight of someone else's loss, was so heavy in his inebriated thoughts that without wanting to even attempt explanations just yet, if at all, he bent swiftly for an expressive, needful kiss,

"The surprise 's on you, Charity. I snuck off an' we've got the whole evening to ourselves. It was a bit of a rough day—"

Guiding her hands up to rest around his neck, he let his own brush hair from her face, grinning at her in some mockery of victoriousness with red-rimmed eyes from his tears and a flushed face from all that whiskey,

"—I'm not interrupting any plans, am I?"

[Charity Valentin]

10th Yaris, 2719
PAINTED LADIES | EARLY EVENING

The pianist bit her lip to stifle another giggle, delighted to see her husband and quite impressed with herself. A clever game, ridiculously stupid because of course there was no one else here, especially no one else her size or with her voice. At first, she was excited when Rhys seemed to play along, allowing her hands to trail against half-bared skin for a second before he turned around.

Charity’s violet gaze looked the wick over, as much as he took in her put on appearance she took in his broken one. Her mischievous grin fell, brow drawing slightly as she swept over red-rimmed tearful eyes and wet cheeks and the smell—clocking hell that was a smell—tongue thick in her mouth and too late to protest the needful capture of her mouth by intoxicated lips.

“Rhys I—” She started, cut short by the Seventen’s whiskey laden kiss, not pulling away but very much shifting in her demeanor. The playfulness of her inebriation slipped, replaced by the time he pulled away by concern and confusion.

“I don’t—are you drunk?” The blonde asked as she allowed her arms to be placed around the taller mans neck, feeling his fingers brush the hair from her face and shaking her head.

“Snuck off? Rough day? Plans, I—”

Unless getting high and falling asleep count as plans. The voice scoffed in her head. Charity winced and drew back a little to fix her gaze on her husband.

“Rhys, did something happen? Is it Damen? Oh Gods, did he do something to you? I swear—” She growled, field flaring with an unsteady swathe of rage filled red, before her eyes widened and her hand drifted from his neck to his cheek. Standing on her toes, Charity pressed her forehead to his, speaking quietly with her lips lightly brushing his.

“Don’t worry love, don’t worry. I have his comeuppance, in time. Yes, in time he will see his words don’t hurt me. He won’t hurt us anymore.” She almost whispered, nibbling small kisses against the wick’s mouth and letting a private laugh escape her.

“His words don’t hurt me.” The blonde muttered again, pushing her hand into the damp dirty blonde of his hair and hugging him closer, wrapping the arm back around his neck and making a shushing sound.

“I miss you, you know? You’re always gone, and I shouldn’t be so selfish, but to have you home early is a blessing regardless of why. I wish you could stay, forever and always. Never leaving again.” Charity said quietly, drawing her hands back again and wiping her thumbs over his cheeks. Holding his face, the pale creature blinked back the strange fish-eyed waver in her vision, and tilted her head a little.

“The only plans I had were all waiting on you, Rhys Valentin.” She whispered, offering a return kiss to his own, tasting whiskey and sorrow on his lips. Inhaling deeply through her nose, the laudanum soaked galdor attempted to chase them away with her mouth, pressing close to the man and letting trailing fingertips brush over the remaining fastened buttons on his shirt.

She knew there were ways to chase away the sadness that hung there over her husband, that were far more effective than words.

Whore.

Charity pressed her teeth against his lower lip a little harder than expected, tugging against pliant flesh to chase the voice away from her mind, burying it beneath intoxicated desire and concern for her Seventen lover.

[Rhys Valentin]

Painted Ladies

afternoon on the 20th of Loshis, 2719

"Fuckin' guttered, yeah." Rhys chuckled against her cheek, attempting to kiss her ear, her neck, only to feel the sudden concern ripple like cold water through their mingled, achingly similar fields. He hummed at her first question, gentle though it was, teeth against her pulse, feeling it pick up beneath his lips with a different kind of excitement than he wanted,

"N-no. Nothin' happened. Damen? No, godsdamnit—just ran into a friend after an arrest. From—from school." He slurred a bit, but mostly attempted to cover his stuttering, unsure as to whether or not Charity would at all want to hear who he ran into if it wasn't her ersehole father driving him to drink, "Clockin' hell, we just needed to catch up an'—"

She'd pulled away and he sighed, dizzy and frustrated by the sudden anger that swelled, bright and hot, in what little space he'd allowed there to be between them. It wasn't directed at him, he could tell. She seemed confused, sure, and he knew by her body language, by how dilated her pupils were, that she was as high as he was drunk,

"—what? I'm not worried. Fuck. Words? Can we jus' not—"

He'd have begged her not to say his name again, not to even mention the bastard he let Captain him around on chroveback, the criminal he longed to destroy as thoroughly as he was convinced the man had destroyed his own daughter—the woman he loved. Still, she kissed him again and he felt like he'd been spun a little, the room tilting more than he'd already leaned to meet her, reaching out to shove a palm against the wall behind them both, attempting to find some sense of equilibrium when he knew it didn't exist at all in their lives, not one bit. Some needy noise escaped him instead of more words when her fingers curled into his hair, and he sighed at her words,

"I miss you, too—I worry about you, you know? When I'm gone, workin', and I jus' think about what you're doin' alone, Charity. I get scared, but—"

He'd been rambling against her palms, frowning at her whisper only for the expression to be stolen from his face by the petite blonde's eager mouth. That was more like, it really. This was the conversation he wanted to have after thinking too much about death, about dwelling for too long on just how close he'd come to never being hers again. This was all he'd wanted, walking home, longing for the comfort of her body as a reminder that they were both alive, regardless of how clockin' wasted they were.

"—good." He managed to exhale, his own hands wandering over the light cotton of her dress, reaching to guide her toward those buttons she teased at, inviting her to actually work at unfastening them while he shifted his hips, pressing them both toward the wall. Unsteady on his feet, he dragged along the bar a little, clattering bottles, chuckling into the depths of her kiss with just a rumble in his chest. He thought he surprised her in the motion, whining more in pleasure than in pain at the sharp sensation of her teeth,

"Well, what a treat to not have to wait." He taunted her, dragging away from her lips with reluctance and whispering in her ear, nibbling the soft lobe there in rough retaliation before his palms dragged from her lower back to her hips, moving a little lower until he could curl fingers into dark blue fabric and pale skin, gathering it higher as if he had every intention of tugging it over her head. He hardly fought the invitation of distraction, too drunk and too damaged not to give into an excuse not to have to talk about everything that hurt.

He wasn't sober enough to say everything properly that weighed him down, that threatened to drown him, that had practically bled from him to pool at Niccolette's feet while she shared the real depths of her hurt and loss. Charity couldn't possibly understand how easy it had been for the tall blond to put himself into some situation of leaving her alone, unprotected, and the delicate pianist wasn't even capable of hearing him right had he tried, anyway.

Rhys wasn't even sure if it mattered, really. He was too drunk to fight back, quite aware of how good things could be, unwilling to let this moment be soured by how out of their minds both of them were. Their bodies were in the right place—weren't their hearts, too?

"If I was home all day, darling, what would we do?" He couldn't help but whisper his teasing words into the enticing curve of where her neck met her shoulder, straightening slowly to punctuate his rhetorical, purposeful question to which he attempted to learn the answer to from her lips.

[Charity Valentin]

10th Yaris, 2719
PAINTED LADIES | EARLY EVENING

“From school? Good Lady that is a lifetime ago. Was it anyone I knew?” The half-Bastian hummed distractingly, as her rage moved to ineffable desire as rapidly as the changing winds in a summer storm. She indulged his mouth, pressed closly in all her petite glory, nipping against scarred skin to defy the voice that snarled in her head. His hands guided her fingers, helping her to find the simplest of fastenings without admitting out loud he knew the truth of her current state of mind.
​​
​​A small iota of guilt stabbed at her, though she pushed it aside with an unsteady giggle as Rhys moved them, bottles clinking and thunking on the bar where he trailed it. Fortunate favored the brave however, none of the precarious glass containers taking a dive to the floor.
​​
​​They met the wall, it's freshly papered design almost begging to be touched after years of neglect—look at me, look at me it seemed to scream—and Charity exhaled a needful sound, lashes closing over violet eyes as the wick complimented her own nipping against her ear. She'd managed a button—two more in fact than what the man had already achieved himself—by the time seeking hands curled into the fabric of her dress.
​​
​​ “Mmm…what would we do? Well, the fireplace could do with cleaning. And there’s loose shingles on the roof. Or we might finish the…uh…the storage room walls.” The blonde muttered things she very well knew weren't at all what the taller Valentin meant, tilting her head and sighing at the ticklish brush of lips on her neck, eyes opening briefly as she lifted her face to meet the press of his mouth on hers. A breathless, hungry kiss, stealing any other words for her tongue and leaving the galdor’s head spinning. She gasped for air when it finally came, buttons abandoned to instead cling to the olive green fabric like it was keeping her grounded.
​​
​​ “Somehow I get the impression that isn’t quite what you’d have in mind though.” The once-D'Arthe said with another chuckle, looking up through thick lashes to met his own crystalline gaze, following the edges of the shirt to finish the last of the buttons, pushing warm hands under work-soiled fabric. She traced around Rhys’ ribs, down over his spine to rest against the small of his back, comfortable in familiarity to tuck her fingers under the waistband of his pants just so.
​​
​​ “For starters, we wouldn’t need so much clothing.” The pale creature chuckled, looking down as she allowed her hands to brush back over tanned skin and push aside the uniform shirt, letting herself enjoy the slow reveal that it afforded over his not-galdori-issued arms. A smudge on the olive green fabric caught her eye briefly, and she pouted a little.
​​
​​What was that?
​​
​​Whatever it was, it reminded her of something she was familiar with, though she couldn't focus to think of what.
​​
​​Distracted by her husbands inebriated attention, and her own unfocused state of mind, Charity knitted her inelegant field naturally with the wicks glamour. It was effortless, even in their state's. Like two jigs of a puzzle. She let the shirt drop to the floor, for now, fingertips reaching for Rhys’ belt buckle.
​​
​​ “And we’d absolutely have to keep the lights out, lest company deem it necessary to disturb us.” Smirking, gold flecks in her eyes catching the low light, the galdor shrugged casually.
​​
​​ “Then well, I don’t know if it is proper for a lady to speak of such intimate details, even with her husband.” Charity tilted her head to look at him again, eyelids heavy with intoxication and desire. It was so easy to play this game, so much easier than talking about—
​​
​​ Me.

[Rhys Valentin]

Painted Ladies

afternoon on the 20th of Loshis, 2719

"M-maybe. Yeah." He murmured, quietly, just to answer Charity's distracted question, wanting to tug her attention further from who he'd talked to and more toward who he was with now—her. Them. Together. It was much better to just indulge her delicious mouth than it was to engage in any more conversation. She fumbled at his buttons, and while he was far too intoxicated to really consider the consequences of the choices he was making, the choices she was agreeing to in her own way, he wasn't sure he really wanted things any other way.

There'd been a time, long ago, when they'd been less of a mess. He vaguely remembered all those years ago in Brunnhold, in different green uniforms, smiling and laughing with so much less care—

Or so he'd thought at the time.

Now, he knew better. Now, he knew too much. Now, he was haunted by the thoughts that he could have changed everything had he made different choices, but also the fear that, no matter what he'd tried, things would've turned out the same. Or worse.

"Y'want me on the roof now?" He slurred the words in some inebriated imitation of a sultry purr, making sure to distract her from any further demands of house repairs by occupying her mouth with his. He felt Charity's delicate, pianist fingers wander over his skin, curling into the too-hot-for-Yaris fabric of his uniform. By the time he gave her space to speak again, his breath was ragged, wanting, and Rhys made sure not to waver too much on his feet while her hands slid under his shirt—

Ah, did her eyes wander? The tall blond was far too drunkenly committed to the moment to entirely remember any other reason he was so eager to get out of his clothes other than to make very sloppy, emotional love to his wife, but there was something about the shift in her expression that brought back a cold tingle of memory. Oh, he didn't want to explain that right now, that right there, no matter how innocent it might have been.

That smudge of Nicco's mascara—

Fuck, he just didn't want to explain just yet—

The real depth of all that hurt—

—hands were on his belt, dragging him away from how he'd spent his time drinking this afternoon instead of working, dragging him back into this moment that he'd wanted just to forget about death and failure. Meeting the violet, opiate-glazed gaze of the petite creature to mirror her smirk,

"You can talk 's intimately as y' want with me." Rhys managed to grunt.

A blond eyebrow arched roguishly and his smirk became some wicked grin, leaning just so to further encourage her in the unbuckling of his belt, making sure she could feel how eager he was now to be out of the rest of his clothes, out of his damn uniform, and as far away from his upstanding citizen exterior as possible. Even if he was a decent Seventen, even if he'd made his career with some modicum of respect for the law he represented, he knew all the lies he hid behind the green-dyed symbolism. The truth weighed him down, and the sensation wasn't so different from practically drowning in his own blood,

"Or, we don't have to talk 't all. You can jus' show me what you're thinkin'."

[Charity Valentin]

10th Yaris, 2719
PAINTED LADIES | EARLY EVENING

The pale blonde giggled as the Seventen teased her back, delighted at his mischievous desire, too high to hold onto the concern of her husband being so drunk by the time he’d made it home. He leaned, brow arched and smile something far more devious, and Charity sighed a needful sound as she tugged on leather and brass. Unthreading the tongue from the buckle, she grabbed the cool metal and pulled roughly, the belt snaking through fabric loops in a rapid escape before being tossed aside with his shirt.
​​
​​ “I don’t think I could show you all of what’s inside my head, it’s—terrifying.” The violet eyed woman uttered distractedly, her intoxication and instability twisting her thoughts to the vile voice that snapped and rallied against the bars of her mind. Meeting her husbands gaze, her smirk faded as seeking fingers unfastened the darker fabric of Rhy’s uniform pants, pulling them open almost violently as cool fingers sought the warmth that taunted her beneath layers.
​​
​​She searched the blondes face as her hand moved in a slow, firm rhythm, brow creasing slightly as though the half-Gioran was considering saying more. Saying other things about the thoughts in her head. The voice. Her lips parted, voice catching on a breath, before gold-flecked eyes looked away with a quiet curse.
​​
​​Giving no further room for discussion or questions, Charity smoothly dropped to kneel, revealing the warm arousal in her palm to the Loshis air and brushing satin skin with the swell of her dusky pink lips.
​​
​​A whore on her knees, that's all you are. That’s all you were ever going to be. The snarling voice echoed in her mind, and with a defiant move, the pianist let soft lips flow over the tall wick’s familiar arousal. She moved with purpose, free hand wandering to push away more fabric and free the man from the rest of his clothing.
​​
​​It was easy, like this, to let the voice within be distracted by the delicious sounds that she could drag from her husband, her love from before the mess that lay around her. She’d loved him, clocking hell, she’d loved him for eons. They were as eternal as the Gods, as tumultuous as the Loshis storms. Nothing—not time or distance or her clocking father—nothing could keep them apart. Magnetised by some unknown force, it was laced in their fields and etched in their souls. There was never another for her, never another to want or need. Not when her soul mate was always just waiting for her, just waiting to save her.
​​
​​Dragging herself away to gasp for a breath, the galdor looked up at Rhys with a predatory glance, before lowering a hand to the floor to help herself up. Her hand hit the pale olive shirt, and she looked down to move it.
​​
​​She frowned, releasing the Seventen to instead pick the garment up in both hands, bringing the strangely familiar mark closer to her face. Charity was sure she had seen this before, it just had a sense of something she had seen...on her own clothing in fact. Something that stirred a sensation in the depth of her stomach.
​​
​​Tilting the shirt closer, she smelt it.
​​
​​ “Rhys I—what is this?!” The pianist asked in a slightly higher than usual voice, all warmth and desire draining away as she stumbled to her feet. Holding the shirt firmly between both hands, the blonde looked at him with a fearful gaze.
​​
​​ “This is mascara, and it’s…this smells…this isn’t—Rhys, who did you meet before coming home? Who was your old school friend?” Something wavered in her voice, heart rattling in her chest and field swelling with concern, streaked with hints of jewel green.
​​

[Rhys Valentin]

Painted Ladies

afternoon on the 20th of Loshis, 2719

"Don't say shit like that, Charity—" Rhys growled, breath raggedly coming to a pause when her delicate fingers succeeded in making short work of his green wool trouser's fastenings. Her touch was cold and he inhaled sharply, resolve to make anymore serious syllables string together in words faltering as thick fabric pooled with a husky sort of whisper at his ankles and he felt the thrum of his pulse against the taunting slow movement of her palm,

"—gods—" The tall blond managed, meeting her violet gaze and remembering to exhale, slurring his words, "—I want t' know. Th' good. Th' terrible. I married you because I wanted it all—everythingggg—ah—" Blue eyes widened, watching her slide downward with a whine, guttered but not unaware, drunk and wanting wherever this was going without question. There was some sharp prickle of lucidity for a heartbeat, the not-galdor fully conscious of the fact that he'd withheld the truth to drag them both here because of his selfish—self-serving—need for comfort after this afternoon,

"—please, I—"

Rhys' fair eyelashes fluttered heavily when warm lips replaced her chilly palm and he wavered on already unsteady feet, toes curling against the well-worn rug and knees immediately weak with the brush of a tongue that wouldn't share her innermost thoughts but so willingly teased along aroused flesh. Which did he want more, right now? Why couldn't he have both—the truth and—

"—shit—"

He grunted, heat burning the edges of his already tear-weary eyes just as it coiled its way down his spine while the petite pianist played to his pleasures with undeniable talent. He couldn't focus, shoving a hand against the papered wall in front of him to steady himself, looming over his pale, high wife, losing any resolve to drag on heartfelt conversation as needful pressure grew with unfair swiftness, clouding his hurt, blurring his thoughts.

Free hand tangling in platinum locks as if he was desperate to ground himself, he hissed, unsure whether he just wanted to keep going, panting now, or if he actually wanted to say more,

"—wait, Charity—"

Blinking, he felt the sudden shift in temperature as her lips dragged away, swaying when one of her hands slid from his hips toward the floor and the other curled fingers into flushed skin. Maybe he forgot, just a little, very drunk on whiskey and very intoxicated on his wife's attentions, what had been so urgent about getting his shirt off other than for her to touch him, but the motion of her violet eyes reminded him.

"What's what?" He groaned, knees weak, body wanting more, frowning as he leaned heavily against the wall and she smelled his shirt as if somehow there was any other scent but sweat and alcohol still lingering there.

Was there?

Her expression was a hot knife, sterilized over the raging fire of truths presented in the wrong order. It cut deep.

"Niccolette."

He murmured without hesitation, heart stopped in his chest and dizzy, "I ran into Niccolette Ibutatu on th' corner 'f Dunwood an' Burr Station, after makin' an arrest, right before th' end 'f th' Dives. Usoji—her husband—died an' I jus'—I thought about us—I thought about dyin'—gods, she was just so sad—what if, y'know? What if—"

Rhys' frown deepened into a sloppy sort of scowl, all that heat that had pooled so deliciously in his core clawing its way back up his spine, unbearably burning like shame against the base of his skull. He'd not betrayed his wife. He'd never gotten over her, anyway. Even Nicco knew that, no matter how they'd maybe tried to make something work all those years ago, the tall blond had never really let go.

He'd had too much to drink. He'd said too much he shouldn't have. He'd offered comfort, but—

"Oh, godsdamnit, nothin' happened, Charity—not like that—we talked—I—" Did he need to gesture for emphasis? Did he really need to highlight his uniform tangled at his ankles, his swiftly draining state of arousal? Did he really?

"—I'm fuckin' drunk, but I'm not stupid—I came home t' you, right?"

[Charity Valentin]

10th Yaris, 2719
PAINTED LADIES | EARLY EVENING

Standing with a stagger, shirt gripped between both hands, lips full and slightly parted and hair tussled from the desperate grip of eager fingers, Charity could almost taste the scent that was ingrained in the fibers. A floral aroma, faint but there between the smell of stale alcohol and her husbands own scent, a perfume that was not her own. It was warm, like summer blossoms, and faded like the colors of the city at dusk but Gods she couldn’t avoid it now she noticed it.

Who was your old school friend?

The words escaped her, unbridled in her intoxication and immediately something she didn’t want the answer to. There could be many, many reasons for the perfume. And the mark, it could be mascara, or it could just be a trick of her mind. Her own stupid imagination, being bloated by the laudanum in her system. The blonde felt the sting of tears which she pushed back, already absolutely sure she was about to hear a perfectly good explanation and planning her plea for forgiveness. How dare she doubt Rhys?! How dare she even consider there be reason for doubt. Her fearful gaze began to shift, to become apologetic. Oh, Good Lady, she was a horrible wife. An awful person. Of all times, this was so inappr—

”Niccolette.”

The name was a hot streak of magma burning its way into her chest, searing through her heart and up her throat, shock rippling through the lithe pianist as she stood there with shirt clenched in hands. Her eyes had widened, and tears welled unbidden, falling in a heavy drop from one set of lashes before the other, not even running down cheeks at first. She felt cold, as though the blood had drained from her face.

“Nicco—” The word itself stole her breath, unable to finish it, freeing a hand to clutch it to her chest as the wick muttered things. Consoling a bereft widow—gods, she was just so sad—having a few drinks whilst chatting with an old flame. No, not just an old flame.

Niccolette.

Charity’s shocked features shifted, furious anger and old hurts playing out in vivid detail as the taller man dismissed it all with his last words. I came home to you, right? Scowling, even if the hot tears of her crimson rage now blurred her vision, the petite woman hurled the olive green shirt at her husband with force, letting a small sound of anguish escape her.

“What if? What if? What if what, Rhys? What if you’d had the chance to be with Niccolette instead? Is that what?” Gathering her skirts, the violet eyed galdor stormed past her school sweetheart, moving out of the parlor and into the library. Her side ached, and she pressed her hands against the silvery-pink scar under her ribs with a gasping sob. It was a phantom ache, but it hurt all the way through her, like the pain in her heart was dragging the memory of the injury into the light.

“Niccolette fucking Ibutatu, of course Niccolette. Of all the people, in all of Anaxas, why wouldn’t it be her.” Charity wept with things she’d not had to think about for a long, long time.

Now you see the truth! Once a rutting farmboy, always a rutting farmboy.

“Shut! Up! Just shut up!” She shouted, burying her hands in her hair for a moment, before shaking her head and wiping away the tears. Throwing open the glass pane door of one of the shelves, the galdor ran her fingers over the spines of books, looking for something in particular. If Rhys followed her into the room, she would round on him with a rust red leather bound tome, shaking it at him like an accusatory finger.

“I was laid up in that hospital bed for weeks, a-and I know Damen had…I know we weren’t together b-but I waited. I thought y-you…I thought you would come and see me after the attack b-but then you never came. A-and you’d already moved on, you’d already moved on to Niccolette Villamarzana! I th-thought…I thought you’d come but you didn’t. You…she…I…” Lifting the book hand to her face, to use the back of it against her cheek with a sniff and a hiccup, Charity threw the tome at him with a sob.

“You kissed her, when you should have been kissing me.” She cried uselessly, makeup streaked and smudged, hands wringing together and field a conflicted flex of fading anger and pointless hurts confused by drugs and misunderstanding.

“And now, you’d rather talk to her, than to me. A-and I know why but—but Rhys why her? Why her?” The blonde said in a strained voice, wishing she could be better. She knew why. Because Niccolette was everything she wasn’t. Niccolette was always so together, and so pretty, and so powerful. Charity had met the man, Uzoji, and he was just like her. They were a perfect picture. Now, the woman was a widower, and the pianist could imagine her honey touched eyes and dark hair so lost and sad and so much better than herself.

You are a failure. You will always be a failure. I could have made you great. I could have made you someone better. You did this to yourself Charity.

Charity knew that she was a disappointment. Rhys would see that, and he would leave her for someone else.

Someone better.
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