[Closed] Chance Encounters (Tom)

[Drezda Ecks]

Roalis 67, 2719 | Late Morning
Sub Rosa Hotel, The Stacks

.

You weren't meant to wish ill will on your mother, Drezda was fairly certain. You certainly weren't meant to entertain the notion of smothering the woman with the down pillow during the intervals when she did sleep, leaving her daughter alert in her wake. It was difficult not to hate her when she drew back the curtains, letting the bright Roalis light stream in.

"Wondrous morning, mho!" Ksjta crooned softly in Deftung, a slight upward inflection in her voice that conveyed a simple joy as she lingered on the consonants. She was chirpy - by her standards at least - and it was incredibly irritating. The diplomat groaned, a hand coming up to shield her face, even as she turned it into the yielding softness of the pillow. Everything was sharp and inescapable. Skin hot and dewy, bedclothes sticking to her, leaving crisscrossed marks when she peeled the fabric off. Her mouth horribly dry, feeling as if it had been stuffed with cotton balls, tongue moving languidly, almost painfully as she tried to dredge up some moisture. The light stabbed into her eyeballs like needles and yet she found herself driving the heels of her hands into the sockets, dulling it a little instead of intensifying the stinging.

The first sound that came out of her mouth was a croak, which was fortuitous for her because otherwise she might have said something unseemly. She cleared her throat.

"Clock the Circle, umah!" she groaned in Estuan, reluctantly pulling herself into a sitting position, fingers tugged through disordered hair with a wince as they hit knots and tangles. "Why did you wake me?"

"Why? There is hardly any morning left - it is nearer to noon - and I have let you sleep. I thought it time to rouse you so we can begin. I am eager to meet this acolyte. Cxîl sounds fascinating, this Ezre," Ksjta explained, still prating on in Deftung.

The young woman could only squint at her mother, hating her for the way she moved so effortlessly around the room. She practically glided, feet barely lifting and yet there was never a scuffling sound, never a shuffle. And so quiet! She'd always been able to sneak up behind them as children, silent as the grave was meant to be. The legs of the wide-legged pants swished against each other and her steps were whispers, the only sounds aside from the words that dropped from her mouth.

"You let me- Do you have any idea how many times you woke me up in the night? All because you had to write down poetry. Walking past my bed, muttering to yourself, acting as if it was normal. Really, umah!" Drezda snapped out waspishly in Estuan. The evidence of her mother's nighttime compositions had been tidied into a bundle on table by the empty hearth, a far cry from the disarray that had existed hours before when inked pages had been strewn around the room.

Ksjta retrieved a hairbrush and glided towards her daughter, stretching out a hand so her fingers could put the dark locks into some disarray before she brought the bristles to them. She was already impeccable, unfairly so given her unquiet night but there was no clear evidence that such a thing had occurred. Shoulder-length hair had been bundled up, twisted into an artful knot towards the back of her head that left her neck naked, not an ebony strand out of place, a testament to how carefully it had been styled and clipped and tamed. There were two red and black clips that were visible in her hair, one on each side that seemed to help tug it back but they were just there to draw the eye, decorative and purposefully busy; the real work was done by hair clips that matched her hair colour and were skillfully hidden.

White powder had been dusted across her features, carefully blended in and seeming to flow seamlessly to her hairline. There was subtle colour on her cheekbones, delicate tracing of black along her upper eyelids and lips that were the colour of blood. Only the lining of the eyes and the painting of her lips pointed to obvious artifice, the rest quite natural looking. The politician had never been able to do that. Even the eyeliner was subtle, the lips the true bit of ostentation and her mother wore it as if it was a natural part of herself as readily as she wore the ink that ran across her skin in lines that her daughter had never seen the full extent of and whose meanings were largely unknown to her.

She was achingly exotic from head to toe. Glossy midnight hair, Hoxian features, an upper garment that was sure to cause a scandal as it left her shoulders, the top of her back and part of her chest entirely bare, and trousers that were wide enough to look like a skirt until she moved. The poetess made no attempt to conform to the style of Anaxas and had seemed almost offended when Drezda pointed it out. Now she was sure to tut and sigh over her daughter as she tried to make her presentable, as if anyone would notice how she looked. Any Anaxi worth their salt would have their eyes glued to the obvious foreigner; the diplomat might as well have been a native by comparison.

"Please do not take that tone with me, mho," Ksjta sighed, switching to Estuan at last, a low murmur of disappointment in her voice. "Let us see if we cannot make something good of the rest of the day..."

---

Hair brushed, a quick bath, another brushing of hair and styling and make up and dressing. The whole routine was enough to make the Hoxian want to crawl back into her bed, exhausted by the whole affair. Her mother's hands had moved swiftly, clever fingers teasing Drezda's hair into a simple but fetching style that involved knotting at the back of her head and some twisting involved shining silver pins. The bags beneath her eyes had been all but obliterated although makeup could do nothing for the bloodshotting in her eyes. She had waved off the offer of further cosmetics, certain that the Roalis heat would have them sliding off and disinterested in the need to reset her looks at regular intervals. Beside Ksjta she felt achingly plain, a white skirt flowing to mid-calf and a blue blouse with flounced sleeves completing her simplicity in her own eyes. A slight heel to her shoes gave her an inch or two over her flat-shoed mother but it hardly felt like a victory.

The woman was over twenty years her senior and yet she was utterly upstaged.

Stepping out of the room ahead of the woman, she sighed in exasperation as the Hexxos waved a finger in the air and abandoned all plans of departure to gather some paper, sitting to scribble away with one of those ink-filled pens. Drezda had to resist rolling her eyes as she hovered just outside the open doorway, unwilling to wait for more poetry nonsense.

"Umah, I'm going to go on ahead. I'm sure you can catch up when you... get the..." she trailed off, swallowing spasmodically as she gazed at the figure a little way down the hall from her. Her head had turned to assess the hallway as she prepared for her departure and there he was. Unbelievably. Of all the places they could meet, it seemed so strange that it would occur here, an uncomfortable reunion given how they'd parted last...

It was Tom, the raen who had killed Anatole Vauquelin for his body. Tom who she had called a plowfoot bastard and told to leave her home towards the end of Loshis. Tom who she had been too frightened to meet, even when she'd received her mother's advice by letter. She'd only tried to reach out to him earlier this month when the woman herself arrived from Hox but her letters hadn't reached their recipient, the man away. And yet here he was.

She stood frozen, gazing at him where he stood, clad in a house robe with pajamas peeking out from underneath. His face... well, he looked about as well as she felt, which was like she'd had a date with the erse end of a kenser.

"Tom! I... I didn't expect- I wouldn't have thought- I'm surprised to find you here. Now. I- Good morning. I'm told there isn't much left of it but... it appears to be another lovely Roalis day," she blurted stupidly, falling back on inanities. The diplomat could have kicked herself but she didn't think she had the kind of flexibility needed to give herself a swift, hard kick up the erse.

"I'm surprised," Drezda repeated, her field fluttering nervously.

.

[Tom Cooke]

The Sub Rosa Hotel • The Stacks

Too Godsdamn Early on the 67th of Roalis, 2719

Birdsong.

The door to the balcony was open just a pina, and it was rattling and banging against the frame; the drapes were stirring, ruffling up and ballooning with the breeze. Tom could hear the wind hissing through the leaves in the courtyard, jangling windchimes somewhere. The room’d filled up with light and sound and fresh air. Groaning, he pressed his head deeper into the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut tight. He didn’t know what time it was; he was all tangled up in sheets and cold sweat. A little earlier, he’d tried to raise his head up off the pillow, but it was like somebody’d stuck a spear through it, and it went right back down.

But the breeze was whisking in the smell of fresh-baked bread. His stomach growled. At first, he wasn’t sure whether he was hungry or sick, the way it was roiling and grumbling; he felt the bile rise in his throat, and he grit his teeth against it. Slow, fair slow, the sick ebbed, leaving nothing but empty in its wake. His stomach grumbled again.

He was parched. He didn’t want to try and raise up again, but he didn’t see as he had much choice. He felt like his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. Swallowing a sore lump, he rolled over onto his side gingerly, blocking out the light with a hand. His stomach rolled again, and his jaw tingled, and he thought maybe he’d be sick; but then, again, it passed.

Squinting through the light, he took in the room in bits and pieces, and the dregs of last night started to come back to him. He remembered the Plover’s Song, the glitter of candlelight on gold paint and grimy coins; he remembered Jean de Silver’s pale, handsome face, with its sliver of a grin, with its faint blush. He couldn’t remember much after that. He thought, for a moment, panicked – but ne, ne. His heart was hammering, but he started to relax. He stared at the mostly-empty fifth of Rodriguez on his bedside table, the tumbler on its side, the open wallet, a scattering of coins: tally and ha’penny and a couple of pennies. The light from the balcony and the high, thin windows glinted on the cut glass.

Pressing his palm to his forehead against the spinning, he managed to drag himself to a sitting position. His stomach growled again. “Boemo, Auntie,” he muttered, putting his weight on his feet with a wince. He fumbled the sheet off the bed, wrapping it round his shoulders and shivering. “Boemo.”

He paused by the nightstand, righting the tumbler with a shaky hand and eying the Rodriguez suspiciously. Then, with a shrug, he poured what was left into the glass and knocked it back. Couldn’t hurt.

Tom shut the door to the balcony before he did anything else, drawing the blinds, dragging the drapes to. With it a little dimmer in the hotel room, he tottered over to the washstand. In the half-light, he could barely make sense of what was in the mirror. The incumbent squinted out at him, looking fair confused to be there. His face was drawn and haggard, with a week’s worth of patchy, coppery stubble; his red hair was a mess of cowlicks. A couple of thin, red lines, imprints of wrinkles in the pillow, traced his cheek.

“Flood it.” Wasn’t much he could do to fix that. With a petulant shrug, he fumbled to the closet, found a shirt and trousers. He was still chilly, so he found Anatole’s heavy brocade housecoat still draped over the chair near the desk. He pulled it round his shoulders and tied it at the waist, nestling into it.

He was decent enough, he reckoned, to go down and get some yats. Now that he was up and about, he was damned hungry; he reckoned he’d’ve eaten anything you put in front of him. The smell of baking bread was still in the room, faintly, and he couldn’t seem to think of anything else as he headed for the door.

It was quiet in the hall, so quiet he winced at the click of the door behind him. He hung there a few moments, resisting the temptation to slump against the wall and put his head in his hands. With a grunt, he started down the hall, the hem of his robe swishing round his ankles.

Then froze, stiffening.

Umah, I’m going to go on ahead…

Tom would’ve recognized that voice anywhere, considering the last time he’d heard it. Sounded a hell of a lot more composed this time, if exasperated. Umah? Tom couldn’t make sense of it, and he didn’t think he wanted to, ’til he had something on his belly, leastways. Tea, maybe. Strong black tea. Oes. He kicked himself into motion again, thinking maybe he could get down the hall, get to the stairwell, before –

Tom!

“By Bash’s immovable fuckin’ patience,” he growled under his breath, before he could help it. Shit. He cleared his throat, embarrassed. Hesitantly, he turned, just a pina, squinted over his shoulder. Shit, he thought again, but there was no helping it. So he turned the rest of the way round, mouth pressed to a thin line, and he studied Drezda Ecks with a mixture of confusion and mistrust.

She looked – well, he thought. For what it was worth. He didn’t have a damn clue what she was on about. Another lovely flooding Roalis day. He raised both his eyebrows at her, swallowing thickly. She was all done up, and she looked well, but he didn’t miss the faint touch of red in one eye, even from here. He felt a pang of sympathy.

“Good, uh,” he grunted after a moment, “good morning.” He adjusted the tie on his housecoat, pulling it closer about him.

He shot a cursory glance down at his bare feet, shuffling, then looked back up at Drezda. His face was still grim, reserved. What, he found himself thinking, with a cruel twist in his heart, the Sub Rosa a little above my station? You expect to see me shining shoes in the Stacks? It was too early for this. Blinking, he pushed it down, but his face was still reserved.

He cleared his throat again. “You’re well, then?” he asked, his tone more than a little clipped.

[Drezda Ecks]

Roalis 67, 2719 | Late Morning
Sub Rosa Hotel, The Stacks

.

He... didn't look well pleased to see her. She couldn't blame him, she really couldn't. Given the terms they'd parted on during their last encounter, she wouldn't have been surprised if he'd decided to carry on down the corridor and ignore her. If she was in his position she would have.

No. No, she wouldn't have. Her pride wouldn't have let her, she wouldn't have wanted it to be so obvious just how it had affected her. She clasped her hands in front of her, trying not to wring them and all too aware that her posture had grown too stiff. She was the galdor, wasn't she meant to-

No, don't start that again. Umah wouldn't-

Her own thoughts had her gaze flickering to the woman she could see hunched over the table by the hearth. Her mother had told her all manner of things, scolded her no end for being so closed minded and for hurling such slurs his way. But when had she ever met a human? When had her mother who had never left Hox before this trip and had lived in the lap of galdori self-sufficiency far from human bodies possibly understand? Hadn't she been peering at Cora like she was some fascinating specimen in a lab? Asking her questions about her life and watching her at every opportunity. To her, humans were a curiosity, even if she had commented that she had possibly known some once-humans.

Given how sheltered she'd been, how could she make such an assessment? Of course, Ksjta had asked Drezda the same question. After all, how often had she been around humans and not treated them as lesser during the fleeting moments that they were in her presence? The woman had been making her think progressively more disturbing thoughts, forcing her to second guess herself and now-

Was it any wonder that she was self-conscious? Now she had the opportunity to make an erse of herself in front of two people instead of just one. Oh the Hexxos might not seem entirely with it as she muttered to herself but it was amazing what she managed to be aware of, even when she paused in her writing to stare around her with eyes that looked beyond you. She was doing that very thing as her daughter glanced in and she wasn't sure if she'd heard the man's name drop from her lips, if she'd sensed her look or if it was simply an unsettling coincidence.

The diplomat turned her attention back to Tom, licking her lips nervously, certain that she could feel the prickle of eyes fixed upon her back. "I'm well... enough. Better than I was. Better than when you-" she broke off, gaze dropping. Now was not the time to mention the hatcher in the room, even if she could feel it breathing down her throat. There would be no blood drawn here today, she wouldn't let it happen. She wasn't going to lash him with her tongue this time, had no intention of oozing poisoned syllables.

The galdor had found the sight of his bare feet, blinking rapidly at the unexpected view. Everyone had feet obviously but they were usually clad, not naked on some strange bit of carpet. Perhaps she would have been less perturbed if she hadn't had that slur in her head.

Plowfoot.

But they weren't human feet, were they? Of course not, they were Anatole's and while they weren't as dainty as hers, they certainly weren't those massive dragging things that humans had.

The Hoxian felt her cheeks colour, easy to see on her wan skin that was free of any protection. There was nothing to mask her shame and while it shouldn't be possible, Drezda had an odd feeling that he'd know what she'd been thinking.

"Tom, I wanted to apologise! What I said the last time was- it was shockingly ungrateful a-a-and cruel and-"

"Your rhakor, Drezda. Did you say Tom?" came the soft Deftung-tinged Estuan of her mother. If she hadn't felt the ramscott field practically crash against her own, she might have screamed from fright. As it was, she jolted, startled by the rapid expanse of the Clairvoyant-laden field, which had so recently been hushed and unobstrusive, almost dampened except it had never actually gone away. Now, it was all but impossible for her to ignore it, especially given the bastly thrill that flew threw it.

It was as if all the St. Grumble's feasts of the woman's life had come at once and all the presents with them; she was happy!

The politician found her own field growing doetoed, Drezda almost cringing as she stepped swiftly sideways so that her mother could step out of the room. The door was tugged shut behind her, slowed at the last so that the latch settled into its cradle with a soft click. There was a beatific smile on Ksjta's face - why wasn't she minding her rhakor? as she stepped closer to Tom, not a flinch from her as she touched off his porven field. If anything, it seemed to delight her further although her emotions were still restrained, not a show of teeth as her lips curved up further.

"Tom. It is an honour," Ksjta greeted, clasping a hand to her breast as she bowed deeply, torso damn near perpendicular to the floor. As she straightened, Drezda noticed that she had paper with her and a pen, new ink blotting her fingertips although she doubted anyone else would notice; there were far more things to be staring at.

"I am Ksjta Tzacks. I have anticipated meeting you from the moment I left Hox. My daughter has told me much about you but I would have known you for who you are at once."

Drezda's lips twitched at the corners, a nervous tic as her dark gaze darted from her mother to Tom. Clock the Circle, why had she said that? Heavens only knew what he'd think she'd said about him. The fact that she'd been talking about him probably wouldn't go over well either.

And yet it was a special sort of agony to gaze at her mother's face and to feel her emotions in her field. She was so... happy, really and truly euphoric to see Tom. Never had she known such instant and pure joy to gush from the woman because of her daughter. Not... not this daughter at least. Tsia had managed to elicit such happiness but Drezda... no, she could not remember it ever-

The Hoxian breathed quietly. In. Out. Calm. Calm.

"A wondrous morning indeed. I see that we have been guided to this encounter," Ksjta murmured, an edge of fervour to her voice albeit she was calmer than before, her field quieter, her face less expressive. Drezda found that her clasped hands had curled into tight fists, black eyes darting from the Hexxos to Tom to the floor and back again as if following a bouncing ball.

"We are going to break our fast. You will join us, we have so much we can discuss," the elder woman added, her gentle words sufficiently airy to not sound like a command and yet so... persuasive.

"Umah, I'm sure that Tom has his own plans. He doesn't need-"

"Foolishness. I will not condone your prejudices this morning," Ksjta shot out, the syllables hard and crisp, incredibly cold before she settled back into her customary lilt as she turned her attention back to the raen. "Come, Tom. There is much we can discuss."

Evidently expecting nothing less than cooperation, the Hexxos turned her gliding steps down the corridor, heading for the stairs. Drezda stared after her for a moment before turning a pained gaze to Tom. "My mother," she murmured unnecessarily, waving a trembling hand in her direction. "I'd suggest running the other way but she might hunt you down. Not to mention she'll decide that I scared you off with my... my prejudices."

Her voice caught unexpectedly on the last word, the diplomat biting her lip hard enough to make the blood rush to the surface. Gosh, she wasn't going to cry. Her eyes were just stinging because she was so tired and they just wanted to spill their moisture now because... because...

Shaky hands smoothed her skirt and then she was moving away from him, only to pause again, turning to him. "I am sorry for what I said, Tom. And I know that no apology can... take my words back but I..."

Her eyes darted to where her mother had vanished, expecting Ksjta to have made a reappearance because of their slowness. When she looked back, she couldn't look at his face and found herself intently studying the carpet instead.

.

[Tom Cooke]

The Sub Rosa Hotel • The Stacks

Too Godsdamn Early on the 67th of Roalis, 2719

Drezda was looking down at his feet. He didn’t understand, at first, and when he did, he felt something in his gut tighten into a knot. She didn’t say a word; she didn’t have to. Her cheeks colored, just a little, with no powder to hide it. He pulled his robe even tighter around his skinny frame, shivering into it. He kept the fingers of one hand curled protectively round the hem right over his collarbone, his knuckles white. He stared at Drezda, because he couldn’t seem to look away, and the thin pale line of his mouth twisted. His heart beat like a hammer underneath his hand.

The apology fell on him like so much chroveshit. Maybe it was the hungry ache in his stomach, but his mood was getting fouler by the second.

A third voice struck him, then, like an arrow. He’d heard her say “umah”, and he’d seen her eyes flick, nervous-like, toward the open door of the room she’d come from, but he hadn’t put the pieces together. Not ’til another figure swept out of the opening behind Drezda, wafting past her on the summer breeze. He couldn’t make sense of it, at first: he saw the light glint on a neat pile of dark hair like a bundle of black silk; he saw the flash of white shoulders, a map of inked lines. He saw Drezda shift back and away, looking strangely cowed.

And then he felt the caprise of a field. He recognized the mona for clairvoyant, but he’d never felt a clairvoyant ramscott; the strength of the field, along with its bastliness, took him aback. He blinked as it washed across him, staring at the older woman’s face with its wide, red-painted smile. As he drank in the sight of her, his eyes flicked down to her hands. He saw a book; he saw fingertips smudged with ink. Then he glanced back up, meeting her dark eyes.

Ksjta Tzacks bowed to him, and he bowed back, suppressing a groan at a stab of his headache as he rose. “I, ah,” he stammered at first, blinking, squinting at her through what felt like a dozen panes of glass. “She – she has, has she?” His eyes narrowed slightly, moving to Drezda and then back to the Hexx.

It took him a few seconds to remember his manners. Such as they were, ’course. Such of them as could be salvaged, standing cowlick-headed and barefoot in a robe, across from – that. Even her bow’d been perfect. And, to throw salt in the wound, she was acting like she hadn’t even noticed his frazzled state. He wondered if he still looked like his face’d just been pressed to a pillow.

“I’m – flattered. What a – what a pleasant surprise, Tzacks-vumein,” Tom managed, enunciating carefully, pouring his words back into Anatole’s cultured accent. He tried a thin, pleasant smile; one of his eyelids fluttered.

But then she was off, half quicker than he could follow, something about a wondrous morning and then – breakfast. Hell, Tom thought. Hell, clocking hell, flooding fuck. He caught Drezda’s look, caught her attempt to save him, with a surge of gratefulness; he felt sure she’d see the relief in his face. But Tzacks parried her with the deft hand of experience, leaving no room for refusal. Then, just as quick as she’d come, the poetess was moving past him, down the hall. She was at the stairs before Tom could turn, and gone before he could say a word.

He was left with the strange impression he’d been struck by a waking dream. He’d’ve thought that, too, if it hadn’t been for Drezda, still standing with him in the hallway. Alone with her now, he turned back. She took a step closer to him, and he watched her, his brow furrowing.

He licked his lips, frowning deeply. He hadn’t missed the white-knuckled clasp of her hands when Tzacks’d turned that beaming smile on him – flooding Hexx’en and their raen – he hadn’t missed the sharpness in the Hexx’s voice when she’d said rhakor. And despite everything, looking at the faint shadows underneath Drezda’s eyes, covered up with powder, the creep of red veins in one of them, the shake in her hand, he felt a rush of relief.

He took a step toward Drezda, feeling the brush of the perceptive mona against his porven.

It wasn’t even close to a caprise, what he did. But he could hardly help it. He felt a funny tug in his gut, like the knot was tightening, and those little clairvoyant mona that’d stuck around after the first time he’d cast – whyever they’d done it – he felt them stir, just a little, mingling with the edges of her field. It wasn’t even a blue-shift; there weren’t enough of them for that. But it was something – something small, something subtle. Something sad.

He offered her a wry little fox’s smile as she started to move past. “Well,” he said with a sigh, “we can’t have her thinking that, can we?” He hesitated, glancing back toward the shut door to his room, before moving back toward it. He paused with it half-open, glancing over his shoulder. Drezda still wasn’t looking at him; she was looking at the floor. Not at his feet this time, he thought wryly.

“Listen, I’m in no shape for breakfast with Ksjta Tzacks. Let a man have his dignity, hey? She can wait a minute while I freshen up.” He studied her face. “You’re welcome to wait out there, but, uh – you can – come in, if you want. In case you want to make a plan of attack.” He let out a soft, frayed laugh. He was still uncomfortable, oes, and still a fair manna pissed, but that apology’d touched him, and this was his way of accepting it. He slipped through the door, but left it open behind him, giving out on the dim, tidy apartment with its unmade bed and its bare little desk and its drawn drapes.

He made for the washstand first. It was a little lighter in the room, now, and the sight of Anatole’s haggard face in the mirror didn’t please him any more than it had before. Cursing under his breath, he splashed his face in the basin, fumbled around for a razor. He couldn’t help a feeling of deja vu in reverse: he kept thinking of Drezda, perched in front of her mirror. Well, he wouldn’t be putting on any rouge.

“So that’s the poetess herself,” he called, shooting the doorway a sideways glance.

[Drezda Ecks]

Roalis 67, 2719 | Late Morning
Sub Rosa Hotel, The Stacks

.

Tom seemed to be in a state of shock. Ksjta had just blasted into his life unexpectedly, whirling him about and drifting off before he had a chance to work out what was going on. Honestly, she was impressed that he managed to say words, quite effective words in fact, right down to a perfect pronunciation of her name and the Deftung honorific. Of course, he'd pronounced it correctly - vumein - but it wasn't technically right. Ksjta was actually supposed to be agender, the same way that she spoke about Ezre but the Hexx had always been 'she' to her, everything feminine. In truth, Drezda had never questioned it and the use of cxîl was bizarre to her but then Deftung didn't come naturally to her. She wouldn't correct him, Ksjta wouldn't either but if he was keen on slipping Deftung out then perhaps she should mention it to him.

Maybe he'd had more than enough shock for one day, especially if he chose to accompany them to breakfast; he'd need as much nerve as he could muster. It wasn't that she was bad, she was just- Ksjta was simply- The woman could be a lot and honestly, he looked hungover, which wouldn't help matters.

Not that she could judge. The diplomat was in no place to point the finger or turn her nose up at him for such behaviour. They both knew that she wasn't lacking in transgressions but he didn't know the half of them. He had no notion of the things that she'd done to herself, the abuse of alcohol the latest in a long list of self-abuse. If they managed to be... whatever they'd been before then maybe she'd share such things with him. They might even discover that they had more in common, which might be... odd.

She couldn't look at him and struggled to talk to him now, which was a great beginning but the diplomat could hear the touch of humour in his voice so perhaps their... friendship thing wasn't entirely beyond salvage.

"Well, it wouldn't take a great stretch of the imagination for her. She uh... she knows what I'm like. Or rather... she's heard. I've explained," Drezda admitted, not yet capable of employing the sort of humour that he did. Now that she thought about it, it seemed to be a shield for him, humour something that he could hide behind. His method was better honestly; she just became a greater bitch.

Still, when she looked up at the mention of dignity, finding him hovering before what must have been the door to his room - so close to their own - her expression wasn't quite as solemn although she regarded his face with as much scrutiny as he did with hers. "That sounds reasonable. Mind you, I don't even think that she noticed, she's a bit focused. You could possibly go downstairs without clothes and she wouldn't bat an eyelid," she commented wryly then winced at the image, unable to stop her expression from curdling at the mere thought.

"Clock the Circle, don't do that. I'm sure you wouldn't but... please no. No offence. You could be considered the epitome of male attractiveness and I still wouldn't-" the Hoxian broke off with a titter of laughter and shuddered dramatically for effect. The woman didn't think that he'd take offence at that - hoped he wouldn't - given that he knew her inclinations. It wasn't him personally. Gods, she hoped that he knew that and that he wasn't going to get angry at her again. This time she hadn't meant it.

She wasn't denying that she'd meant it the first time, the plowfoot comment but then it had been... strangely empty. Just a word, something to be flung casually in the direction of perceived inferiors. Regardless of what she had and hadn't said, Tom had left his door open, offering her a chance to mend things rather than leaving her out in the cold - figuratively speaking. Even so, she didn't follow him readily, chewing on her lip as she remained outside. Oh she drifted down the hall, drawing nearer to his room but she didn't have any intention of going inside. Alioe only knew what he needed to do for the sake of dignity and she didn't want to intrude on his toilette. Then again, he'd watched her getting ready after throwing up on herself and it wasn't like he'd be doing anything obscene; he'd left his door open after all and that meant that anyone could peep in.

The raen appeared to be keen to chat though and so she drifted in reluctantly, awkward and skittish as she glanced around the room, quite like the one herself and her mother had stayed in although much dimmer. Her gaze took in the unmade bed and she chose to avoid it, moving to the desk instead and leaning against it, crossing her ankles.

"Yes, my mother the poetess. I assure you, she could only be herself; I don't think anyone else could be like her, not even close. You might have gathered that she's... quite something," Ksjta's daughter admitted with a humourless laugh, shaking her head. Something indeed. Beside her, Drezda probably looked like a pale imitation of the Hexx and it wasn't as if she needed to point that out; the man had eyes.

"I never actually asked if you um... enjoyed her poetry. She was pleased to hear that you'd read it but I couldn't give her an opinion. Actually, enjoy is the wrong word. Enjoyment sounds so... shallow and, I don't know, frivolous. It's more important that it touches you," she explained, a dreaminess entering her voice. She shook her head as if to clear it, laughing again, breathy and more genuine this time. "Sweet Lady! Forgive me, you don't want to listen to me prating the most Hoxian nonsense. It's not like discussing her poetry with her will stop her asking questions. I'm sorry in advance. She... she means well. I think."

Her brows pulled together in thought, gaze moving over the paraphernalia of a drunken night, the toppled glass, the scattered coins, the dregs of whiskey.

"I should be grateful that I haven't had to deal with her hungover. I haven't- I've been trying- I can't be like that again," she blurted, cheeks burning, eyes shutting. She wasn't condemning his own actions, she wasn't but maybe it sounded like that. All she knew was that she couldn't end up in that state again. It'd be the death of her. Honestly, it was probably a miracle that it hadn't been the death of her already.

.

[Tom Cooke]

The Sub Rosa Hotel • The Stacks

Too Godsdamn Early on the 67th of Roalis, 2719

Drezda’s comment about jaunting downstairs in the nude elicited a snort from Tom. Deep, genuine laughter drifted out into the hall; there was a funny clattering sound, like he’d had something in his hand and fumbled it, and then a quiet thump like he’d banged his knee on the washstand. By the time she drifted into the hotel room, he’d started lathering up his shaving soap, but there was still a smile twitching on his lips. He glanced between Drezda and the basin, but he was avoiding looking in the mirror.

“I promise I’ll be decent,” he pronounced, mock-serious. “Nobody wants to see that, Drez, least of all me.” His tone was still light, but the last word wavered. For a few moments, there was nothing but the scratch of the brush on the soap, the splatter-splash of cold water.

’Course, he had to look up, eventually. It was dim in the room, but even his poor eyes’d adjusted to the dark. The Anatole in the mirror looked a little more alert, if equally confused; Tom glanced over his face, watching his grey eyes flick up and down, one iris caught by the light from the window.

He felt a familiar tightening in his stomach, so he glanced down at the basin again. Matter-of-factly, he spread the lather on his face, then took up the razor. He could see Drezda in his periphery, a lean shadow with the faint light through the drapes coming in around her. There was something comforting about the distraction. There was nothing rallying about being alone with that reflection.

So while she spoke, he busied himself about shaving. When she broke off, the only sound was the delicate, rhythmic scrape. Then: “She's one of a kind,” he murmured, squinting at a foamy patch of mustache, leaning in close. “Not sure enjoyment’s the word. Her poetry was the first thing I ever read that helped me make sense of my – condition. It frightened me. But I was touched, yes. I’ll see if I can distract her with some poetry talk at breakfast.” In the mirror, Anatole smiled faintly.

He didn’t know what he thought of Ksjta, being honest. He didn’t know he could’ve pictured the woman, just from reading her poetry, like he could Brellos pez Hirtka. Ksjta spoke of death and souls; her poetry seemed to him to be at an arm’s length away from her, and half too lofty for him to understand. And now, seeing her brush past her daughter and berate her rhakor, seeing her invite him to breakfast without paying him the courtesy of leaving him room to refuse – he wasn’t sure he much liked her. He wasn’t sure he much liked any of these Hexxos, being honest.

But, contrasted with Ksjta’s impeccable grace, in spite of her daughter’s “prejudices”, he found he still had a mant manna fondness for Drezda. He'd missed her. Tom had a funny suspicion he’d like Drezda’s poetry a hell of a lot better than Ksjta’s.

He wouldn’t say that. At Drezda’s next words, he turned, face still splotched with shaving soap. He followed her eyes to the bedside table, then looked back at her. “No,” he said, studying her face. “I hope you keep it up. I know it’s not easy. I’ve been – trying, too.” He smiled sadly, blinked, then turned back.

He finished up hastily, splashing his face again and then grabbing a nearby handtowel to dry it off. He buried his face there for a few moments, just letting himself feel the hammer of his pulse through his skull in the dark. When he raised up, it was a clean-shaven Anatole that met his eye in the mirror. His lip twitched; Anatole’s followed suit. He couldn’t read the incumbent’s expression.

Leaving a clutter on the washstand, he drifted over to the closet. It didn't take much rustling around to find a waistcoat; with a bundle over his arm, he bustled into the bathroom. There was some shuffling, and then he came clattering out, still fumbling with the laces on one shoe. His hair was still a tousled mess, and he looked sick as a kenser, but he wasn’t in a housecoat anymore. Running a hand through his hair, he puffed a sigh.

“This is as dignified as I’m going to get, this morning.” Raising his brows, he looked at Drezda; then, he gestured toward the door. “Shall we?” I'll try not to embarrass you by being too much of a plowfoot, he had the urge to say, then thought better of it. Put it away, he thought. Put it away, for now.

[Drezda Ecks]

Roalis 67, 2719 | Late Morning
Sub Rosa Hotel, The Stacks

.

She had worried about offending him but she needn't have done so. The laughter that came out of him was probably shocked out, the man perhaps surprised by the unexpected humour of her comment. She was glad that he'd been amused by it as well, the sheer ridiculousness of the idea. It wasn't as if the raen would ever have taken her seriously. Drezda didn't think that he would ever be so scandalous, so uncivilised as to parade himself in public in such a fashion, even in his old body. And in his current one... gosh, no. She didn't think that he was under any illusions that Anatole's body was attractive but even so, he'd have to know that there were certain... parts that shouldn't be put on display. Men might be used to such things but there was really nothing attractive about- She'd done Living Conversation, she knew what bodies were like, had studied them and honestly, it was a mercy that men wore trousers. She didn't even want to remember and the notion of what they possessed-

Just thinking about that was enough to make her shudder.

Thus when she drifted in and he made that comment, mock-serious though it may have been, she had an alarming moment where she thought that he had read her mind right down to its scandalous and rather depraved depths of imagination. Her face flamed and it took her a moment to realise that he meant that he didn't want to see Anatole naked. Presumably he wasn't adverse to the idea of exposed men in general given that he liked them. There was an awkward little throat clear, her gaze avoiding his own as she hoped that her true musings didn't somehow show on her face although there was a flicker of an uncertain smile at the diminutive form of her name. He'd called her Drez. She couldn't explain why that pleased her so but there was an almost secret delight bubbling within her, something a little embarrassing about it..

When she felt that she had some command over herself, the diplomat turned her focus to his face, dimly reflected in the mirror. He was light and shade, the lather itself showing up better in the dimmer light but also obscuring whereas what she could see of his actual face was less clear, more vague. It was strange that he scraped layers off to reveal himself whereas she added them to hers.

She'd heard some say that beards hid things, that by hiding their face, men were more likely to be deceitful by nature. She'd heard disagreements on that point. However, she'd never heard disagreements about how women who slathered themselves in cosmetics were prone to lying. Oh, a little make-up to accentuate the features was fine but to coat the face entirely, that was to hide what you truly were. Was a woman ugly under it or ugly under it all - inside? But honestly, wasn't it worse that those men who shaved and removed the marks of dishonesty, could be the most dishonest of all? That they could hide so much while seeming to present a pleasant, virtuous face? After all, hadn't Anatole been one? How many men did she know who hid more behind their naked smiles than she hid behind all her layers of make-up?

It made her feel uneasy. After all, Tom had done it too. He'd presented Anatole's acceptable face and hidden the truth behind it. She thought that she'd seen more of the real man that now inhabited the Incumbent's body when he'd been standing out in the hall, bare-footed and dishevelled as he took in her unanticipated presence. The make-up she donned was a mask, one that let her cope but what did it mean for a man to shave? What did it mean for Tom?

The Hoxian had an urge to ask him about it, shaving. What was it like, how did he feel about it? She knew that facial hair wasn't favoured in Hox but at the same time, no one would tell you that you couldn't have it. Her father often wore stubble and he seemed more comfortable that way. Honestly, she didn't know what to make of it but to ask the former human... it felt too intrusive, as if she'd be crossing a line. Of course, she didn't want to attach her mistrust to any of her questions and statements because he might take that as a personal affront.

"Mmhm, touched," she murmured distractedly, simply parroting him as she frowned briefly in his direction. Maybe he'd take her mood as something prompted by talk of her mother. He wouldn't be entirely incorrect in thinking so; the woman's presence hadn't exactly left her humour in a stellar condition.

The young woman had to resist nibbling on her nails, a nasty habit that she thought that she'd kicked years ago. She only realised what she was on the verge of doing when she found her fingers tipping her lips. She started, drawing them away and examining them to check that she hadn't stained them with the subtle pink lipstick she wore.

When Tom spoke next, she looked up to meet his gaze, noting the disarray of his appearance, the messy spotting of foam on his face where the blade had just missed them. He seemed so genuine but also there was pain there, sadness because he had the same hopes as her, the same wish to avoid the bottle. Obviously he hadn't succeeded. Was he ashamed for his failure? Did he feel as if the endeavour was hopeless?

There should have been a way to comfort him, something that she could do. In truth, there was probably something that could be done but she wasn't the person to do it. She hadn't learned intimacies involved in friendship, not just the things that should or shouldn't be said but the contact as well. People hugged, she knew it. Hugged, clasped hands, men patted each other's backs. She'd tried being comforting before and even if her heart was in it, she knew that she was too wooden, lacking confidence in her actions so that they seemed awkward, possibly even insincere because they appeared to be done out of duty. It wasn't the Hoxian's fault, having spent more than half of her life living in a kingdom where public displays of affection were a hard no. Instead, the woman clasped her hands and watched him, thinking what she could say or do.

While he disappeared into the bathroom to add to his decency, the diplomat found herself drifting to the washstand, wanting to do something while she waited but also thinking that there might be some little gesture she could make because sometimes actions spoke louder than words. And so she began working to tidy the clutter that he had left, washing the brush and the blade, wiping away the errant foam that had escaped the confines of the basin.

Items were dried and neatly packed away, the woman drying her hands carefully as Tom reappeared. Drezda smiled in a way that she would have been shocked to learn was sheepish and moved away from the basin towards him, smoothing her skirt self-consciously.

"You're impressively decent under the circumstances. You've cleaned up quite well. I'd offer to help with the hangover but I've been led to understand that the mona won't allow magic to be cast on you," she admitted with an apologetic twist of her lips. "Food... might help. If you haven't thrown up then you're probably in good shape."

Gosh, she was using her matter-of-fact voice, full of practicality and detachment. It didn't matter that she sympathised with his situation because the diplomat was painfully aware that it didn't sound that way. The woman allowed herself a moment to pause, inhaling and exhaling with care before she straightened and focused a solemn look in his direction.

"Tom, I... understand if I'm overstepping and you're well within your rights to... to tell me to just... fuck off but..." Drezda paused, biting her lip. This wasn't about her so how did she phrase it without mistakenly making it sound as if it was? "Do you mind me asking if there's something... particularly triggering for you? Something that drives you to drink, I mean. I'd hope that I'm not a contributing factor but I'm also aware that you have far more on your mind than me."

Strangely the same couldn't be said on her end. She had been considering him a lot lately. The fact that she'd had discussions with her mother about him and his nature probably hadn't helped but he did have a tendency of creeping into her thoughts, more than Khymarah did these days. Possibly the wounds from him were fresher. The Bastian redhead certainly wasn't a distant memory but she was a dulled one. She was also irrecoverably out of reach so it was easier to let go of her, easier to think that things wouldn't have worked out and that they hadn't even known each other that well in any case.

All in all, she probably knew Tom more than she had ever known the artist and that included the things that she'd picked up on before that she knew that he wasn't Anatole. There had been trust between them even when there wasn't really, at least not from him. She had admitted things though and she could do so again.

"If there's anything I can do, anything that could be done to minimise your... struggle then I'd be happy to do it although I doubt that I can be of much use. I know that for me, I've found I've needed it to... take the edge off. Sometimes you need to sharpen yourself and I-I-I've always had ways of doing that but even then, I sometimes do those things so I don't have to feel what's going on in my head. I understand that sometimes you need things dulled so you don't have to feel, so it... doesn't hurt as much."

Her voice was a whisper now, the gaze that had been intent on his face now having drifted off to the side but she couldn't remember moving it. The shame of her admissions also made her face feel as if it was aflame. He didn't know obviously and couldn't know from her words but she felt as if she might as well have stripped off. He'd realise what she did to sharpen herself, he'd be able to tell how weak and damaged she was, Drezda was certain of it.

"I found that I drank because I... didn't have anything else. At least if I poured it down my throat, I didn't have to think about how I didn't have... anything."

She could feel the prick of tears and she moved her hand swiftly, hastily dabbing them away with the side of her fingers before they bled through the cosmetics that hid the bags under her eyes.

Already she was bracing herself for a laugh or a scoff, some snide remark about how she had everything and how she was merely talking chroveshit. That she was a spoiled and privileged bitch. If he said it well... she probably deserved it. Besides, it wasn't about her. Even if he shot her words down as ridiculous, he might be willing to open up to her. He might tell her what real problems were rather than crippling loneliness and a feeling of pointlessness. Such unimportant, golly world problems.

.

[Tom Cooke]

The Sub Rosa Hotel • The Stacks

Too Godsdamn Early on the 67th of Roalis, 2719

When Tom came out, still fumbling with the laces on his shoes, he saw her moving away from his washstand in the corner of his eye. He didn’t say anything about it, ’course, but he couldn’t help shooting the washstand a curious – if suspicious – glance, and the sight struck him in his heart. His razor and strop and the shaving-soap and the brush all lined up in their places, clean; the foam mopped up from round the bowl. For a flicker of a second, nothing more, something sad and tender and scared all at once came into his expression.

It felt like an answer to a question he hadn’t asked – in words, at least. It warmed him, but it weighed heavy on him, too. He wasn’t sure it was a bad kind of weight, but he felt it nonetheless. He wanted to thank her, but he didn’t think she’d appreciate drawing attention to it.

She came closer, and he blinked at her, and his lip twitched in something like a smile. He hoped it was a gentle smile, but he didn’t know; this face was better suited to a sneer, and he knew it. He let out another little laugh when she spoke, shaking his head.

Impressively decent. Oes, he reckoned he could live with that, and so, he reckoned, could Ksjta Tzacks. “Thanks,” he said wryly, turning away toward the door. “No, you can’t tell the mona to do much around me, if you’re expecting them to act – predictably. Not that I’d ask that of you, being honest. I’m no stranger to a hangover, hey? I’ll be fine.”

He’d half-turned when he heard her voice again, and he felt another stab of anxiety. Whatever it was he’d felt when he looked at that cleaned-up washstand, it was weighing on him heavier. He froze, feeling something chilly prickle down his back. He forced himself to listen through the thump of his head, and, as she went on, the words tumbling out of her – a rush of them, like she’d been keeping them inside, waiting for a moment – a space – like this – he turned back, and he blinked at her again.

“Something that drives me to drink,” he repeated numbly, swallowing.

Fuck off, he wanted to say, all of a sudden. Wouldn’t’ve been hard. The gnawing in his gut, the aching in his head – he felt it all like a knot, a swollen, stabbing ache, and it sent a current of sharp, hot anger through him, and he was at a loss for words. His lip twitched again; he blinked again, mouth moving impotently.

He swallowed again, more tightly. His throat was sore. She stammered over her words a little; he didn’t half know how to read it. He didn’t half know how to process what she was saying, neither. It’d started out about him, he reckoned, and it’d turned into her telling him what she found in the bottle, and he couldn’t figure out if she was trying to help him or if she was asking him for help or both. His brow furrowed.

Tom couldn’t help the way his shoulders came up a little, defensive, but if there was anything on his face, it was confusion. Drezda was staring at him, now; she’d fallen silent. He thought about maybe – oes, that would’ve been the way. Play it off somehow, smooth-like, pretend she hadn’t said half the shit she’d just said. We got to get downstairs; your ma’s waiting, after all. Not in so many plowfoot words, of course.

Clearing his throat awkwardly, Tom looked down and away. He couldn’t seem to meet her eye. The light that came in behind her limned her hair, made her face shadowy, but he could still make out enough – too much – of her expression. “I don’t, uh…”

Tom kept going over it in his head. He could respond, he thought, to what she’d said about her; that wouldn’t be hard. Easier than responding to what she’d said about him, leastways.

(What was he to say? Being – this – made him want to drink? That how flooding strange it was, how strange and awful, being in another man’s body, feeling it as your own, seeing his face in the mirror – she could figure that out herself, couldn’t she? But the drinking had started before that, he knew. So what? He’d inherited it from his ma? He’d used it to get through the kind of days the Rose threw at him? She didn’t want to hear about the Rose, he thought bitterly; he’d do well not to remind her how much of a plowfoot he was. So what? What was there to say?)

Clearing his throat again, he took a step toward her. “I, ah – I’m no stranger to sharpening yourself, Drezda.” He looked up at her, meeting her eye. “It’s however you get yourself through the day, huh? Make yourself ready for – whatever it is you’ve got to do, whether you like doing it or not. I suppose the drink dulls you so the sharpening’s not so hard, or something like that. But then, you do it long enough, you start to need it. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t –”

Tom broke off. He felt like he’d said too much; he didn’t know how he was to twist it round, now. This kind of talk, it didn’t toughen you up. Getting soft, he kept thinking, over and over, getting soft, getting soft. His lip twisted bitterly.

“I don’t know,” he fumbled without knowing why, wincing and glancing down and away. He got the urge to apologize, but he didn’t know about that, either.

[Drezda Ecks]

Roalis 67, 2719 | Late Morning
Sub Rosa Hotel, The Stacks

.

Drezda should have just left things. They could have gone downstairs and seen her mother and Tom would have been swept away in conversation while the diplomat sat there like she didn't really exist because in Ksjta's mind, she might as well not. When there was a raen to talk to and gain enlightenment from, one who could be a true source of interest, why would her daughter be necessary really? The young woman knew it with certainty that she would end up ignored when they went down to breakfast. But she'd chosen to open a can of worms and not because she was putting off the inevitable, trying to extend the time where she was visible but because she had truly wanted to help Tom. She'd truly wanted to understand.

He repeated her phrase flatly, stating it rather than questioning and she worried that he was going to blow up. There was something in his eye, albeit for just a moment, where she felt that she had indeed overstepped the mark and he was about to rip her head off. If he had, she wouldn't have blamed him - couldn't have blamed him. But he said nothing more so she offered her own heart, revealed her own vulnerabilities in the hope that he'd understand. The Hoxian wasn't trying to be cruel but rather to sympathise, empathise because she knew what it was to crawl into a bottle in search of some elusive sanctuary.

But his silence stretched on, the woodenness of his demeanour persisted and she regretted everything. She heard her own feeble reasons and cringed at how she sounded. How could she dare to say such things to him when he- The man had real problems and she-

"I don't know why I just told you that. I thought if I admitted it then you'd know that you weren't alone b-b-but it... it probably sounds so- I must sound so- That's all I have to worry about. How spoiled and privileged I am to w-w-worry about that when I have s-so much and you have... you have s-s-so much more to worry about, so m-m-much more to want to forget," she struggled to get out, aware of the lump forming in her throat, the difficulty she had with getting the words out without her voice cracking.

She was on the verge of tears and she was so tired and her eyes already stung and it was so hard to hold it back. How could she not cry like some spoiled golly bitch when there was a dead man in front of her who had probably suffered in his last life as well as in this new, half-life?

Every inch of the woman was an apology, contrition practically oozing from her pores, shining from overly bright black eyes. Her gaze dropped at last because if she looked anymore, she was afraid that she'd start to sob and what a mess that would be. Rhakor indeed...

Her hands came together, clasped too tightly so that she wouldn't wring them, wouldn't fidget. Even so, she did twist them slightly, the fidget not wholly contained. Things were still shaky between them and she shouldn't have said anything. It wasn't her place, especially given that they were on such uncertain ground. She should have approached things in a more tentative fashion, offering simple niceties and easier topics of conversation. He probably hated her for asking, detested her for prying because it was none of her damned business. It wasn't possible to brush it aside now though; she couldn't take back her words now that they'd been said.

As soon as he mentioned that he was no stranger to sharpening himself, the woman's response was automatic. Her hands unclasped, one hand pressed automatically to her abdomen protectively. There was a spike of fear, the feeling lancing through the monic particles around her so that he'd be able to feel it too. For a horrifying moment, she thought he knew, or at least suspected what her 'sharpening' method was. Drezda was quick to realise that he was talking more generally or maybe he was talking specifically about himself, and her protective grasp dropped away. Sharpening and dulling.

If alcohol was his means of dulling... what on Vita did he do to sharpen himself? No, she wouldn't ask, she shouldn't know.

"I'm sorry, Tom. I... shouldn't have asked. It's not my place to- I wasn't trying to make it sound as if it was about me but I'm not very... very... I'm not good at this sort of thing, I'm sorry," she explained in a low voice, dark eyes flicking to the ground before she took hesitant steps towards the door.

"We should probably go down to meet my mother. She won't act as if she's impatient but she probably is at this point," she explained, reaching a hand up to her neck, questing fingers moving around her hair, anxiously seeking loose strands. The young woman felt horribly out of sorts, internally disordered, her thinking untidy and she found herself feeling as if it was visible outside. Her field, what was that like? Was she bleeding her upset and confusion and guilt or was it her imagination?

The diplomat pulled it all in, trying to make her field as calm as a pond but it didn't feel as if that was achievable. The Hoxian was tempted to dampen her field entirely, to make the mona go quiet around her but if she did that she'd have to deal with their ire later. Furthermore, if she dampened her field then her mother would know of her weakness. Why suppress the mona unless you were terrified what they'd reveal about you?

The woman had no idea how to remedy things and she was worried that all of her distress would come oozing out while she was in front of her mother, in front of Tom. She was too tired for this, too upset. She had no notion how to handle any of this. She wished that Ksjta wasn't here, she wished that she knew how to handle Tom. Drezda had a lot of wishes.

.

[Tom Cooke]

The Sub Rosa Hotel • The Stacks

Too Godsdamn Early on the 67th of Roalis, 2719

Tom swallowed a lump, his frown deepening. “I don’t know about — spoiled,” he started. It felt like his headache was narrowing to a point, aligning itself like the edge of a knife against a whetstone; he could feel the jabbing ridge of it behind his eyes, and he knew, somehow, knew it was kin to the sticky dryness of his throat — and he cast a look, half-helpless, half-angry, at the night-stand beside the bed. Except it couldn’t help him: the fifth was empty, cause he’d drunk the rest of it just that morning. But it hadn’t been enough.

What’d she mean, spoiled and privileged? He felt like he ought to know; he felt like he already knew, and he didn’t want to look at it head-on. It made him think of the way she’d looked at his feet in the hallway, like it hurt her worse that she’d hurt him than that he’d been a natt in the first place. Like she cared about him, the him that’d been human.

Maybe if he was drunk, he’d know how to deal with this. He’d’ve felt soft where he needed to be soft, strong where he needed to be strong. He would’ve been able to pierce right through the tangle of his thoughts, and he thought he would’ve been able to read Drezda better, too. Would’ve been able to know what she needed. What they both needed. What word, what combination of words, what tone of voice or gesture would make all this laoso mess go away, what’d get his leg out of this snare so he didn’t have to chew it off.

Leastways, he thought so.

Sober Tom just kept staring at Drezda, a frown written deeply into the lines of Anatole’s face. She was about to cry, he thought numbly. She was twisting her hands fit to break the bones. This was all so sudden. He caught it, the way her hand moved to her middle; his eyes followed it, before he could figure out she wouldn’t want him looking. He felt fear streak through her field, sharp against his ley lines, like a scratching against his nerves; he glanced away sharply.

Even then, he didn’t know why, and an image flashed into his head, unbidden, of Niccolette at the party, fitting her hand along the scar Uzoji’d left her. It was funny, seeing Drezda do that. He didn’t think she had any scars there. He didn’t understand it. He felt scrambled, and he didn’t have long to think of it.

She took a couple steps toward the door, skittish-like, and Tom shook his head. “No,” he said, sharper than he’d meant to. Wincing, he shut his eyes, tried to think of a better way to say it. When he opened them, he moved toward Drezda, hesitant himself. “Listen, I don’t give a flooding fuck what she thinks. Excuse my Heshath. Godsdamn, I’m bad at this, too.”

Tom hung there a moment, lips a thin twist. He blinked.

Just as hesitantly as she’d moved, he closed the distance between them. He reached out to touch one of her shoulder; it was a careful motion, and the hand was as shaky as ever. If she didn’t pull it away, he’d rest it there. “You take your time, all right? I’m following your lead. We don’t have to go down at all, if you don’t want to. I’m raen, but I’m sure as tocks not Hexxos, and I’d rather be in your corner than hers.” He studied her face. “I don’t, uh — I do appreciate it. And I’m shit at this, this — I don’t like to admit it, or talk about it — I’m ashamed,” he said softly, looking down at their feet, “but we’ve both got a lot driving us to the bottle, and I reckon such as us should stick together.”

Gently, he squeezed her shoulder.