TheAmishPirate

Return to Thellamie

Oh blessed break room couch. Hazel lets himself flop onto its plush cushions with a muted pomf! He breathes out the rush and the excitement, and in its place fatigue steals over him.

The last few hours are a blur. A sparkly, dizzying blur of lights, faces, food, and laughter.

Who knew waiting tables could be so much fun? For that matter, who knew a cafe could be so shiny? He would’ve thought they’d go for a forest theme but, well. Vespergift. And really, Thellamie sees deer more as an Outside thing rather than a forest thing, you know? So instead, everything is gold and shining. Fixtures of brilliant Crevas glass hang from the ceiling, casting everyone in dreamy faux-starlight. Gold trim on the tables, gold trim on the menus, everything shines beautifully without crossing the line into excess. Where there is not gold, there are antlers, twisting, branching, adorned with ribbons and bells. The Hunt can’t be more than a few weeks old, but somehow the walls are covered with art of deerboys; leaping, prancing, free and wild.

It is a magical place. And the staff complete the spell. Not just the hosts! In the corner, a duet of musicians strum a lovely ambiance. Sometimes a lively hunting song, other times a soft midnight dream. In the kitchen, chefs cook up a storm, turning out an endless stream of fancy, tasty-looking dishes. All Golden Faun-themed, of course. Every now and then, they sneak tasty little morsels to the hosts. For testing, you see. They need some brave soul to make sure this is good enough for their guests, won’t you help them out? And of course, they are only too happy to help. What are hosts for?

The hosts. Gosh. They’re all so talented? And so much fun to work with? Alcideo had hardly finished introducing him, and already they’d happily welcomed him to the front lines of Cafe la Faune. Good luck out there! Let’s give them a meal to remember! Watch out for that table, it always wobbles a bit more than the rest. Then to see them work, just. Wow. They were so fancy and polished and skillful and smooth and they gave their all to their performances, each and every table, each and every guest. Everyone was having such a great time with it, he couldn’t not join in on the fun.

And that’s the secret, right? If the hosts are obviously having a great time, then the guests feel invited to have a great time with them too. They feel welcomed into this magical place, where they can be waited on hand and foot by otherworldly fauns, prized and special and lovely. For a meal, everything can be a little silly and special. When he kindly asked his guests to save the hunting until after the meal, every single time they laughed, or solemnly swore to put down their blades and bows, or joked along with him. (And one wolfish guest asked if she could have the hunting as the meal, which. Ha ha h a was not. Was not ready for that one. Thank goodness for his antler-adorned notepad and the good sense to hide behind it.) Sure, it’s hard work, but for a place like this, it’s so, so worth it.

What an adventure.

He’s lucky, you know? To be working in a place like this. He still can’t really figure out how it happened, much less how it’s still happening. Every new table feels like it’s going to be the table where things go wrong. Surely this group is going to be the one that requests one of the other hosts. Which, okay, that would be a wild thing to say, but it wouldn’t be the wildest thing he’s heard waiting a table before. Still, maybe this’ll be the table that’s just a little disappointed they got him instead of anyone else. But, well, people seem like they’re having a good time? He’s giving them the best service he can. He greets every table warmly with his best smile. He performs the magical spell of deliciousness with all due seriousness, pouring all his heart into the hand motions. He hasn’t dropped a single dish, and carefully delivers each one to its delighted guest.

Come to think of it, if they’re here to be waited on by a Golden Faun, then, technically, he’s giving them the authentic experience!

…not that they’d have any way to know that. Right.

Still, no matter how confusing it may be, people smile to see him approach their table. People ask him for pictures. People call him. People. Um. People.

(Cutie.

Cutie.

Cutie.

He can see Alcideo writing it out on a nametag. Dotting the i with a heart. Hazel held so, so still when he told him do. While he pinned it to his shirt. Clasp clicking like a lock.

His hand reaches up on its own accord to run a finger across the edge of it. To feel the slight weight, the gentle nudging against his chest. Cutie. Cutie. Him. Cutie…)

H-he should review his lines. Just to be safe. He’s been falling back on “Welcome to Cafe La Faune, hunters and dreamers! Let me and the stars show you to your destiny!” a lot. If he keeps it up, it might start to sound too rehearsed. They might think he wasn’t actually happy to serve them. He’s been keeping his ears open, plucking out lines and words from the other hosts that sounded particularly good. Yes, he’s probably not going to greet a table by bowing, clasping a girl’s hand in his, and thanking such a catch for braving the hunt??!!? (Even the chefs could hear the squeals from that one.) But he’d picked up a few good pointers. For instance, he could-

Hazel’s brain turns to soup.

Ohhhhhh gosh. Oh gosh. It’s just like, like, when someone wakes you up via scritchies in your hair, and you’re gently rising from the depths of sleep, floating on the edge of waking up, and the only thing you know is scritchie scritchie scritchie aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

(Nobody’s here? Nobody’s here. Just Alcideo. Then. He’s safe to…)

“Mrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr,” he says, long and slow and so, so contented. He simultaneously melts into the couch while stretching his neck up for all he’s worth, pushing his curly hair into those wonderful, scritchieful claws of his. Yes, oh yes, that’s the spot. No, wait, hold on, that’s the spot. Forget everything, those Hazels can’t be trusted, that’s the spot.

(It’s just waiting tables. Anybody could do that.)

He’s doing great. Alcideo can’t believe how great he’s doing. He said so. He’s beaming. Yes! Yes! Yes! He wasn’t sure about half of it and he could’ve sworn he was flailing but, but! Good! Great! Him! He did a good job! He’s such a big help! He’s helping! Eeeeeeeeee!

“Aww, thank youuuu.” Hazel beams in his general direction. It’s hard to tell exactly, his eyes have almost fluttered shut. “I did help out for a summer or three at a local diner back home, so I do have a little experience here and there. We didn’t set so many things on fire though. Not nearly as good magical spells. Uniforms only slightly less sparkly.” You know, professional business talk, between professionals. (Hee!) “Oh! And I did spend half my childhood on skates. Got a pretty good sense of balance and all that. Good for keeping my footing.”

(He was Aware of every table assigned to him. He saw each of them, every pass through the restaurant. He tracked how long it had been since he’d visited them, and how long he’d spent there. He remembered who had ordered what. He remembered who he had spoken directly to, and roughly for how long. No one was getting neglected. No one was going to have to wait for him. Everyone was going to have as good a time as he could give them.

He doesn’t realize why his mind so eagerly melts under Alcideo’s careful touch.)

“Gonna keep trying my best.” He tries to nod. He really does. (Alcideo liked it when his ears flopped around like a sillyhead.) “I. Uh. Still don’t really understand the Pants Money thing. I mean, folks seem to like it? So, I just say ‘thank you so much’ and I think that’s been good enough?”

(His hands find his shorts. His fingers curl around the cuffs, idly tugging. As if that could somehow make them cover up more of his long legs. Ugh, his thighs squish out so terribly when he sits down. Muscle? Fat? A little of both? Whatever, they shouldn’t look like that. He could forget when he was rushing from table to table but now that he’s sitting here. Now that the show’s out there and it’s just him here, he remembers…

He’s no acrobat. He’s no model. He’s no pretty girl presenting as a pretty boy.

Should he really be showing this much of himself?)

[Activating Friendly Benefits on Alcideo.]

Breathless Dead

Dyssia!

Tap tap tap. Three times, in sequence, on your scales.

You hardly have to think about it, right? Even as you orbit about, you have not squished your sheep the slightest bit. Well. Not any more than is comfortable. At the given signal your tail unfurls as if on its own, and places Dolce gently on the floor.

“I think,” he says, straightening out his lightly-coiled vest. “The first thing you could do is to help me get some tea ready. Bella would not stand for you starving yourself on her account. Ember would run and fetch you a snack herself. She might pause to grab you and drag you with her, for efficiency.”

And he evidently doesn’t need the help, as he seems to have had the foresight to set in motion complex culinary workings such that cups, tea, and the makings of cheeses, meats, and cracker-y things were close to hand. But he asks if you could fetch him this or that, and how do you take your tea (or drink of choice, he would not dare presume), and would you slice these for him while he’s got his hands full? Little tasks. Simple tasks. A beachhead of small wins, from which to wage a broader campaign.

Can you tell that he’s as sick as you are stressed?

He covers his tracks admirably as he works. He pours the correct amount of water. The tea steeps for precisely the time it should. His smile is as soft as his voice. You’d never know he was remembering a Manor he had to escape because he was never content. You wouldn’t think he had the time to imagine, in detail, a life where he would never find a home. Where someone chose to make him wander forever. He sees and hears you far too well to be replaying conversations with 20022. With the other chefs. With the generation that came before. With the generation he grew up with. Supposing somebody did that to an entire species. Deliberately.

No, you won’t find clues as he works. But when the tea is ready, when you have delicious plates of food to try in all sorts of exciting sandwich combinations, Dolce does not even glance at the available seating.

Tap tap tap.

Back into your coils. Where you can feel him rest his cheek against your scales. Feel the long, long breath out. Count the seconds, before he finds his words again. They are many.

“It is not your fault the Ceronians are this way. Nor is it your fault that they are causing problems for us. If it was not the Summerkind, then it would have been something else. At some point, at some time, they would have made a move. It.” He is quiet. Still. Worms a hand free to manage a sip of tea. “It is not their fault either.”

Silence. He has no more words adequate to the purpose. So he returns to her question.

“Bella is sharp. I’m sure that she knew they would not simply do as they were told forever. She may be angry. But I think the most of it will be directed elsewhere. Ember has already chosen her over her pack, and I have full faith she will do so as many times as necessary, no matter how much it pains her. She may be hurt. But I think she will persevere.”

“I think what we can do to help is ensure that everyone they entrusted to us is safe and well until their return, to the best of our ability. I think they would appreciate that most of all.”

Return to Thellamie

Wait. Um. his legs. His mouth. He can’t. They’re not. Oh dear. He didn’t mean to. This wasn’t. He should’ve been more careful. This was a mistake. He shouldn’t have. He can’t. He’s falling. He’s falling. He’s falling.

He’s caught.

He’s rising.

Slowly rising. Up to her. Into the haze. Where the room vanishes around them. His chest rises and falls and rises and falls and rises and falls and each frightened breath fills him to the brim with sweet, sweet smoke. Coils, rivers of liquid muscle, mold to his back and legs and neck and head. Holding him. Firm. Gentle. So gentle. She sways him, softly, and he doesn’t have to move to follow those gorgeous, glittering eyes. He doesn’t have to move. He’s sitting down.

He’s listening.

Her words are his thoughts. His thoughts are her words. How does she do that? How does she say everything while saying so little? He would sit so neatly. He would squirm until it was time to leave. He’s trying, so hard, to be polite and helpful, and it makes him so happy to hear that he’s doing okay at it. There’s not a single bit she’s gotten wrong. She understands. He doesn’t need to explain anything. He’s not talking.

He’s sighing.

His head weighs nothing. A little nudge at his chin, and up it goes. And there it flops. And there it lolls, useless, nuzzling into just one finger on his cheek. A job. A job to do. A job for him. A…a pretty little outfit? For him? Pretty? For him?!

He’s aching.

Yes. Yes. Yes. He wants to serve. Please. Won’t you let him? He’ll do such a good job. He’ll do his best. Just tell him what you want him to do. Tell him he’s doing a good job at it. Look at him like you’re so happy with him, just like that. His mouth’s falling open and, oh! Oh! But! You said not to talk! And! He’s not gonna! But! Nghhh! He’s still not gonna! You haven’t said so yet, so, he’s just. Gonna nod. A lot. Against your fingers. You’re right. You’re so right. Please. Please. Please.

Let him help. Let him help all of Thellamie. Let him help anyone and everyone who comes through these doors. He’ll do his best. He promises. Let him say yes. Yes. Yes.

”Abjdtpf.”

Oops. Um. Hold on. Give him a minute. Blinking. Hazy. Hazy. Wow.

”I. I. Ah…” Deep breaths, Hazy. Deeeeep, sweet breaths. “I. You’d…tell me what to do?” Promise? Promise you will? Every shift, every job? You already did, so, um, sorry, he just. Really, wanted to hear it again. Sorry. He’s being a little silly, yes, you did say that. That’s. Good. Yes, that you said that. Um. Let’s see. What did you ask, again?

He thinks. He gives it a good think. He has to give it a good think. Because.

”Yes. Yes, Yaz ma’am. I’d like that very much. Though. I’d be happy enough with just the first two.”

Because he doesn’t want her to take it personally when nobody looks at him. When nobody wants him.

It’s okay. You can let him fold laundry. Serve drinks. Give him all the jobs behind the scenes. No matter how much he might want things to be different. He knows. He knows how it is.

No sense in asking someone to make a promise they can’t keep.

Return to Thellamie

I! What! You! Amali!!!

A bat gets stuck in the steaming kettle’s spout and lets out a panicked squeak. And it’s all poor Hazel can do to bury his blushing face in both hands as he is mercilessly assaulted by cunning grannies and catboys.

(Oh gosh oh gosh oh gosh oh gosh aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

Cutie! Him! Cutie! Wow wow wow wow wow! He was hoping maybe Alcideo would, but then also Amali? Wow??? And then Alcideo! Picks it up and runs with it?!

He’s so nice? He’s so nice. Lookit how he properly deflects a compliment. Hazel couldn’t do better himself. Lookit how he says such nice things about Hazel’s chest. As if he could know what it looks like. But. Still. It’s nice. It’s really nice, for him to say that. And let him feel like it could be true.

…are horns actually considered cute here? Purnima did seem to like them. Hrm. Maybe? No, no, it’s a silly thought. How would he even ask? Maybe there’s a book on the subject? Shoot, how would he even find that? There’s probably not a dewey decimal system here, there’s definitely not a wiki here-)

Hold on, he’s being handed a note…

AMALI!!!

The dutiful office workers at the Chrysthanamum are in for a treat. It’s not often performances are done this side of the bathhouse. Watch in awe as a lanky deerboy taps an intricate dance across the smooth tiles; slipping, sliding, scrabbling, but never once falling over or falling behind. See how he cleverly balances his own weight against the pull of his assistants. See how his face is frozen in a tight mask of alarm. What showmanship! Why, if you didn’t know any better, you might think this poor boy was actually so gobsmacked he could hardly walk! But how could that be? How could he reach the inner sanctums of the Chrysthanamum and not realize what he was walking into? Surely, by now, somebody would have told him what he was here for.

Right, Amali?!

Dancing?! Drinks?! Impractical outfits?!?! You gotta! You oughta! Were you going to warn him about that? Ever?! Because that is a LOT different from relaxing in a nice spa for, for, for however long he needs to lie low! And that is a LOT to take in! I mean. Him?! Entertaining!? That’s! Augh!!!

I mean, okay, it is a good cover. Is it a good cover? It might be a good cover. If he stops and thinks about it, it might be a better cover than staying in a room indefinitely. That doesn’t usually happen…anywhere. You don’t check into a hotel for “until further notice.” That’s kind of suspicious. And he just assumed that was the plan, but he should’ve thought about it some more, because then he’d realize it was a stupid plan. Now that he sees at least one fake fawn running around, working here seems like a much better idea, right? Idiot. It’s a good cover.

But why didn’t she tell him? Because he didn’t ask, for one. He just made a dumb assumption. Not her fault. How long did it take him to ask what the Chrysthanamum even was? He should’ve asked earlier. He should’ve asked earlier. But. Still. It does feel like the sort of thing she should mention beforehand. Maybe. Did she think he couldn’t keep a secret? Because he can. He totally can. He thought, or, well, maybe, they haven’t known each other that long, really. Did she know he could keep a secret? He really should’ve asked her earlier.

So. Drinks, right? Serving up drinks, maybe in a dapper little vest? And a whole bar in between him and the world? That doesn’t sound so bad. Would’ve sounded better with some time to get used to the idea and you stop that right now mister, you’re not actually talking to Amali, you’re having an imaginary argument in your head and that’s not fair to anyone. Drinks. Or something. Maybe tidying up? Folding laundry? He could fold laundry. He was good at folding laundry. He was

g

good at

folding

“a-ah.”

The bat whimpers. In a voice so small the room gobbles up the sound in one bite.

There’s not catboys and grannies holding him anymore, as it turns out. Not quite sure when they stopped. He finds out when he takes a tiny step forward and nobody stops him. Not even himself.

What is he doing? Why is he moving? What? What? What??? He shouldn’t. This. Her. This isn’t. He. Him. Her. Good. Him?

Step. Step. Step by tiny step. She’s bigger with each step. Closer with each step. So far to go. So far. Hands flat by his side. Ears flopped. Shoulders tight. Hunched in. Small. He’s so small. Little scuff of a tail stands straight up. On alert. Twitching. He’s looking around the room. It’s all her. Everywhere he looks. It’s her. And he always. Looks back up.

To her eyes.

He stops. Paws from foot to foot. Does he stand here? There? Is this close enough?

“Is,” he swallows. “Is it okay to talk now?”

It’s the only sentence he can pluck out of the swirling mess in his head.

[Activating Friendly Benefits. Yaz takes a string on Cutie.]

Breathless Dead

It’s rather hard to see it, hidden away within a soft, squishy lump of wool. But a tension ebbs from Dolce, dissipating into the scaled depths. One by one he drops potential conversational openers, times when he might catch her relatively alone, brief lists of counterpoints to common objections, and a handful of phrases worn smooth by rehearsal. All gone. None of them needed. Odd, feeling so relieved to talk about such a difficult subject.

He wiggles, just a bit. That may even be too violent a word for the slow turn in place he makes, back and forth, back and forth. Cloud-soft wool brushes reassuringly against smooth scales. “I have been thinking much the same thing,” he admits. Back and forth. “If we were to make a slight adjustment to our messaging around the games, to say they are to welcome our Summerkind guests, I think that would go a long way to reducing tensions, even in the short term. The Ceronians, the Pix, and the Summerkind would have a clearer understanding of where they stand with each other, and that they aren’t competing for the same space. I am no expert - and we ought to consult one, to be sure - but I think that would be a weight off their minds.”

“But we do have to talk to the Summerkind about it first.”

Back and forth. And stop.

“Not right away, I don’t think. They are lost enough as it is, we cannot ask them to also learn an entire galaxy and figure out a plan for their own survival. We can at least work at the problem ourselves. Provide them with some ideas. Something to start with and work from.”

Return to Thellamie

He shouldn’t be here.

Not in a modesty sense, no. When you go to the office at school, there’s a front desk where a receptionist signs you in, takes your papers, etc. Beyond the desk, though? That’s where the real office is. That is the realm of principals, vice-principals, and…hrm, you know, he’s not actually thought it through beyond that. Whoever else you need to run a school! You can exist in front of the desk, that’s okay. That’s allowed. The realm beyond is where no student ought to tread. Whatever goes on back there, that’s not a place for students.

This is, however, a place for Amalis. She knows everyone. Everyone knows her. Everyone’s happy to see her. This place is a maze, and she hasn’t put a foot wrong. She seems more at home here than her little apartment in Crevas. Hazel follows close behind her, huddling in her bubble of authority for safety.

The Crysthanamum whirrs around them like fancy-dressed clockwork. Somehow, all of this? All these people, all these mechanisms, all this everything turns into spas, shows, eateries, lodgings, and he’s not quite clear how all of that fits under one roof but that doesn’t stop him from sneaking little wondering glances all around him any chance he gets.

Unfortunately for him, the view looks back. Unfortunatelier for him, the view does not bother with being sneaky.

Cute???!!?

“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” is the noise he makes, and it’s not speaking, because that’s not a real word, it’s just a sound, and it can mean all sorts of things, and anyway he’s going to stop making it now just to be safe. He takes Alcideo’s hand and shakes it, to be even more safe, and to let him know he’s not being rude, and he casts a frantic, pleading to Amali. Then back to Alcideo. Then back to Amali. Alcideo. Amali. Alcideo. Amali. Alcideo. Amali!!!

A sound like steam escaping a rapidly-boiling kettle fills the lift as the pressure of competing demands mercilessly squish him.

(He makes the turns faster and faster as he goes. Back home, his hair would lag behind a second or two if he turned fast enough, and here he has the double benefit of big, silly ears. And he’s had a good week or two to get to know them. They bap him about the head, and it takes him another few turns to “realize” it, stop, and sputter as an ear baps his snout one last time. Hapless. Helpless. Maybe blushing? Hopefully blushing. He never could tell.

Cute, hopefully?

Maybe cute enough for Alcideo to keep going?)

Breathless Dead

They reach an agreeable compromise.

Vasilia will boil the water, fetch a teapot and cups and plates, make a whole tray of tea cookies, remain perfectly composed when she has to make them again, set the table, hold Dolce on her lap, feed him one dainty nibble at a time, run her claws through his wool, snack on his ears, and tell him absolutely every piece of news, gossip, and goings-on that she has somehow managed to collect and retain in-between praying for his safe return.

Dolce will steep and pour the tea. He knows just how she likes it. And he will give her every excuse to keep talking.

What did she say dear Ember wore to the festival? Quite impressive, to be able to slip off into the night with Mosaic while looking so radiant. She was always so talented at sneakery.

And the fireworks were quiet? Really! Oh, do tell…

Return to Thellamie

Hazel Valentine Fletcher has a rickshaw to drive through the busy streets of Vespergift. It doesn’t matter how easy or hard something or other is to notice, he’s got to keep his eyes squarely on the road.

Of course he notices the murals, and the girls (the girls) and he keeps right on noticing. Notices right past them, off the building, and back onto the street. They are there. They exist. He is looking around a normal amount. Hopefully. What is a normal amount to look around anyway? Is he focusing too much straight ahead? Better take another look. But start on the other side of the street this time, so as not to arouse suspicion. Otherwise Amali might think he was ogling.

But with all this driving, and normal amount of looking around, there’s no time to really see anything, is there? On the other side of the street is the Vesper Victoria. The Vesper Victoria! On the same street! He hadn’t even heard of the Chrysanthemum before, and it’s also! Wow! It’s so tall and fancy at the same time! They both are! They’re huge, but somebody took the time to carefully shape every inch of these towers, so that no matter what you’re looking at it’ll take your breath away.

They’re beautiful.

He might not’ve realized that before, about the Chrysanthemum. Before, it would’ve been a giant building of things not to look at or think about. Which makes it rather difficult to see what it actually was. But besides that, it’s like when you go to a museum and see the exhibits, and you hear a tour guide explain to you that this was painted by the artist’s wife, as he wrestled with a terrible illness. And you take another look and it clicks. And you have to sit down because all of a sudden the grief is so overwhelming you don’t know what to do with yourself, and you don’t regret coming here for even a moment.

He might not’ve seen it, without Amali’s story. This was a memorial to Heron and the good she had done for this city. It was a tradition stretching back generations, an unbroken chain of good service passed forward. It was a place where warmth, food, and comfort could be found on the coldest night of winter. Here, a cup of tea or a soft towel could heal a weary heart. This was a place of help. Refuge. Hospitality.

And he has a rickshaw to drive through the busy streets of Vespergift, so he has to keep his eyes on the road.

But hey! No need to fuss about missing the outside, because soon they’ll see the inside! He’ll have to remember to slip out and see the building himself. At last a gap in the traffic opens up, and with a bounding step he pulls them into a side street.

**********************************************

So. Turns out. He is still not used to a world where girls people are regularly so much taller than him. And bigger than him. Goodness.

Anyway ha ha ha ha wow that’s so cool she knows Amali! She must come here all the time then. Which makes sense! An older fox must have all kinds of well-established hideaways.

He would speak up and correct her, but Amali told him not to talk twice over. So he just coughs in a way that emphasizes the depth, the not-niece-ness of his voice. Just coughs. Casually. And focuses on parking the rickshaw instead of the. Intent. Way the Serigalamu was looking at them. And she was looking at them. Not him. Not him specifically. No sir.

Anyway! He wedges the wheels still, and takes up his post by the seat. Here, Amali, here’s a hand to help you climb down and steady you in all this slush. Here’s a hand to take your bags, or whatever it is he’s supposed to carry in for her. He’ll let you take the lead, and do all the talking, just like you asked.

Return to Thellamie

Vespergift. City of Towers. Last gift of the Conqueror. Where even the walkways are tied in knots.

Is it bigger than Crevas? Hard to say. It’s difficult to compare tall up with tall half-down. They’re different sorts of tall, and they’re different sorts of cities. Every person makes less than half the noise they ought to, like the throngs of people crowding in are a thick blanket of fresh snow. There’s a dismal air at first, warring with the sheer joy of seeing proper snow. But it melts away the further they travel. This is a city of hard stone carved into graceful gargoyles. Of thick mufflers unwrapped to reveal rosy cheeks. Of streets thick with friend visiting friend, family visiting family, and close meetings beneath stone arches.

The walls are out of necessity. The posters are out of love.

Still. He’s glad for the dedicated lane. The people may not be quite as foreboding as he first thought. Still a lot of them. Everywhere. He’s glad for the just-finished mittens as the cold sinks into the rickshaw. He’s glad for the spare scarf wrapped tight around nose and mouth, keeping his breath and cheeks warm. There’s nothing to be done for the ears, unfortunately; Amali can only knit so fast. Just one step in front of the other, Hazel. You’ll be inside soon, maybe with a nice hot drink. It’s just sore ears.

Finally, it seems like they’re getting closer. He takes one hand off the rickshaw and flashes Amali a thumbs up, giving a dutiful nodnod. Don’t say anything. Carry her bags. Don’t talk to the

girls

His heart gives a curious flutter.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” he calls over his shoulder, a question finally bubbling up out of him. “What sort of place is the Chrysanthemum exactly?” Not that he’s doubting her! He’s sure it’s a safe and luxurious hideaway. But, you know, there are a lot of places that could be safe and luxurious hideaways. Hotels, spas, amusement parks, cruises, um, theaters, maybe? Was there such a thing as a theater resort? In any case, it’s nice to know what to expect when he gets there. What it’ll be like. What they’ll be doing. What’s expected of him. That sort of thing.

Breathless Dead

Sanalessa goes to the bridge to give them some space. Iskarot wanders to a quiet corner to ensure all his tools and supplies are intact. When the door to the shuttle slams shut, they are alone.

Dolce runs and clings to her without another word. Without needing another word. He wraps his arms around her as far as they will go and buries his face against her. How could he not have noticed how much he was carrying, until she volunteered to remove the slightest bit of it? How could he keep away any longer?

Vasilia picks him up like he weighs nothing. Here, love; isn’t this shoulder where your head should rest? Don’t these fingers belong in your curls? Feel this low, murmuring purr all through your poor, tired body. “There, there. It’s okay. I’m here. I’m here. I’m-”

He pulls back. Just a bit. To tell her how he’s missed her. To tell her thank you for saving him. To tell her he’s so, so sorry for making her worry.

She pulls back. Just a bit. Her mouth half-open. To tell him he needs to lay still. To tell him it’s alright. To tell him she’s never, ever going to let go of him again.

They are close. Close enough to share breath.

They both find something better to stay.

Her lips press gently into his, her breath hitches against his face. She can’t believe this is real, that she gets to hold you again. His mouth is not enough. She claims his cheeks. His nose. His jaw. His neck. His neck. His neck. You are lovely. You are so handsome. You are perfect, perfect, perfect. Her arms bind him tight to her chest, squeezing this warm, soft lump flush against her, and tighter still. She missed you. She needed you. Her fingers sink into his wool. Her claws trace tingling paths along his skin. Mine. Mine. Mine.

He presses up into her lips, welcoming her eagerly. He’s alright. He’s safe. He wants her. His head lolls against her shoulder, baring his face and neck to her hungry mouth. You have all of him. All his heart is yours, and yours alone. He shivers. He nuzzles. He wiggles helplessly in her grasp, soft wool against golden fur. He has been lost, so lost, and now he is safe. He is safe with you. The chef who worked the silent kitchens opens his mouth, and out spills a litany of dazed, joyful bleating, all for her. He is happy. It is your fault. This much, you have already set right.

Behind them, the viewport fills with the blossoming flower of an anti-Boarpedo battery catching light and discharging all of its munitions in one glorious display. The whole shuttle shakes, throwing anything unfortunate enough to be improperly secured rattling to the deck.

All Vasilia hears is

don’t stop