TheAmishPirate

Return to Thellamie

What does Cutie do about that?

Cutie flits from table to table, starting with the guests who’ve been waiting the longest. He greets them warmly, he welcomes them into this magical, starlit dream, he takes their orders and requests with earnest joy, because he would love to make their adventure that little bit more memorable. A picture? Of course! He’s quite good at the heart hands, if you would like. A drink? Ah, of course you’re thirsty! You’ve had a long journey. Please, stay a while, refresh yourselves. The extra waters are on the house, don’t you worry. A snack? Oh! Oh!!! Terribly sorry, but you know the rules of the Road, see, and it would be very unlucky to eat the fellow you’ve just met. Might he suggest the Hoofprints instead? Wonderful! He’ll be right back with those, and the stars will surely light your way shortly!

What does Cutie feel about that?

He keeps forgetting to breathe.

He spares a glance at the table, whenever he’s going to and fro, but when he’s talking he can’t spare the attention. She could’ve seen him already. She could be seeing him right now. But even if he did catch her eye, did he have a plan? No! Of course not! He’d, well, he’d do something. A nod. A frantic shake of the head. Does mouthing something across the room ever work? Mouthing something across the room never works.

He can’t blow his cover. Miss Yaz has done so much to shield him. Amali gave him a place to sleep and safe travel. Keli and Seli and their fox wizard friend risked themselves to give him a chance to escape. He could ruin it all. Right now. The wrong word. Pausing too long in his work. Somebody could see. Somebody could put two and two together. He saw what happened at the Festival. What could happen in the Crysthanamum?

(He ran the streets until his voice was hoarse. The city was so large. He couldn’t have warned everyone.)

He wants to grip his tray until his knuckles turn white and all his fingers ache. He wants to thwack it against his horns, not hard enough to really hurt, but, but, stupid, stupid, stupid. All this time having fun in a fancy cafe. Chatting into the night with everyone after work. Getting Encouragement. More than enough time to text Yuki back. And he’d meant to. He’d really meant to. But the trip didn’t leave any time for it, not when someone in their burrow might see. Then he got here. And.

Would’ve been nice to get her into the loop. Would’ve been nice to ask how she was doing after he ruined the festival. And burned down half of Crevas for all he knew. Not like he showed much care about that.

Lazy, stupid, useless Cutie.

He had nothing. All because he couldn’t send one, stupid text. All he could do was his job, and make his way closer, and closer. Table by table. Until, eventually, she’d see him, and he had to hope she wouldn’t react. At all. To meeting him…l-like this…

(His legs feel so exposed. He can’t reach down and tug at them. That just draws attention.

Should he be here? Should Hazel be here? Is this too much? He’s not being overt or anything. The shorts are short but he’s not flicking his tail in people’s faces. He’s just. He’s being a waiter. Sort of. A waiter who takes pictures sometimes. The acting, it’s like Disneyworld, right? He’s heard Disneyworld is very similar. Everybody’s welcome at Disneyworld. He’s not done anything more. More than this. And, it wasn’t, 100% his idea to come here - but he didn’t object either. And he did tell Miss Yaz he wanted to. And he keeps going up for Encouragement. But, he’s still just a waiter, honest. This is all he’s done. If you got to know the other hosts, you’d see, it’s not really that much.

He can’t explain any of it to her before she sees him. You know. Because he didn’t text her.

Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.)

Well. He did have a little he could do. And he still had a job to do…

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

“Welcome, brave adventurers!”

A new voice dashes through the tension. The smell of cinnamon sugar dances with the lady’s perfume.

Cutie greets one and all with a big, warm smile, as warm as the tray of Cinnamoon Starlight Rolls he sets on the table. “Be you hunters, wanderers, dreamers, or anything in-between, I’m so happy the stars have taken your journey here. And a chance meeting on the road deserves a proper snack.” His bow is polite. His sweep of the hands is gracious. His walk is as chaste as can be in these shorts. “Please, accept this blessing from a humble Faun.”

(When he makes it through this. If he makes it through this. He will explain to Miss Yaz why his tip money is so light today.

He walked by the other tables on the way here. They could’ve noticed him. They could’ve noticed this is his first time at this table. Which means this table couldn’t have ordered those snacks. Imagine how they must feel, seeing how this table is getting such nice treatment and they’re not.

He’ll count his bills. He might need to run to his locker.)

And what a blessing it is! Swirls of cinnamon form a perfect crescent moon on each roll, and through a glaze of icing dance a sea of sparkling sweet stars. The rolls are warm, fresh from the oven. Soft, chewy, with little sweet starry crunches to add variety to the texture. In his humble opinion, one of the best treats here. Also in his humble opinion, very difficult to maintain a tense disagreement when your mouth is contending with a big cinnamon roll and your hands are sticky with icing.

(He doesn’t look at Yuki, because his job is to see to the whole table, and he’s never met Yuki before in his life. But out of the corner of his eye he watches her face.

Does she like the gift? Are the rolls good? Is she smiling? Enjoying herself?

She’s not fed up with him if she’s smiling. If she’s looking happy, after seeing him like this.

His bow doesn’t falter. His smile doesn’t waver. His heart never stops begging. Please. Please. Just a little smile.

Tell him you don't hate him.)

Breathless Dead

It is a little different, for him. If it hadn’t been leaving on a passing ship, it would’ve been a life on the farms. Not the Manor. Life on Beri didn’t offer much of a choice either. Work, or slavery, or jump on the Plousious and-

Well. Hrm. You know. Actually, maybe he did have a choice? Did he have to join a Princess on a doomed voyage? Of course not. Many, many, many people chose not to join. He and Vasilia could’ve been two of them. They could’ve-

No. No, that may not be true either. There was…a wish, yes? A wish was on the line. Like how everyone on Beri was on the line. Like how his heart was on the line.

Could he have chosen differently, and still been Dolce? Did he do the difficult thing only because the alternative was worse?

Is he…never going to be able to stop? Until whatever he’s set out to do is finished?

”The Diodekoi did not know that she was an engine of murder until she was activated. No scans or tests I did could discover this about her.”

He. Didn’t know what he didn’t know. His memory appeared whole, until it didn’t. He.

-crik-

ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

He did not know his shoulders were that tight, until they weren’t.

Her coils could read his mind. Or his body. Or both? Or both. They could read sheep, and that’s how they knew exactly where to press in and work and work and force the strain from his muscles.

He regards the pile of tangled, sharp thoughts.

He regards the plate of tasty looking cracker sandwiches he’d made.

”...would you mind? I don’t think I can reach. Or move my arms. For a while.”

A shuttle of deliciousness takes flight, and gently glides to its destination.

”Ah, yes, perfect. Thank you.”

There are many who wouldn’t stand for him to starve himself.

He’s not alone, after all.

Return to Thellamie

Encouragement

“Twen…ty…three…”

-flip-

“Twent…went…y….f…fffour…”

-flip-

“Tw-mghhhh…uhhh…tw…twentyfive…mrrrr…”

-flip-

“T…t…tttttt…ha…haaaa…g…one…I, almmmmosssttt…”

“You can’t count anymore, Cutie. Let go.”

“Bwaaaaaaaaaaaa…”

“Well done. You counted so many tips, and yet, there’s still so many to go. You made so many people happy you can’t even count the number. Not to worry; I will count the rest for you. All you have to do is feel how good you did.”

-flip-

“Mgghhhhh!!!”

“Numbers aren’t your job. You can’t remember numbers that high. You’re too silly for that. And a silly boy might do something so foolish as compare today’s number to yesterday. He’d worry so much if the number was lower. When all he needs to know is it’s so, so much. How much is it, Cutie?”

-flip-

“S-sooo…soooo much…”

“That’s right. A number so big you can’t say it. Can’t remember it. Try it. Once more. Tell me how much it is.”

-flip-

“Ss…so…thrrrrrrrrrmmmm……”

“Good boy. Good Cutie. Trying so hard for me.”

-flip-

“Heeeeeeeeeeeee”

“You’re tired, Cutie. You’ve given me so much. You’ve done such a good job.”

-flip-

“Haaaa…?”

“Your body wants to rest. Your legs are so tired. You cannot move them. Go ahead and squirm. You cannot resist. You cannot hold all this tension any longer.”

-flip-

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh~”

“Your arms want to be held. They have made so many people happy. You have nothing more to do with them. You want to give them to me. You want to let go.”

-flip-

“H-haaa…aaaa…”

“You cannot fight anymore. You cannot try anymore. You’ve done so much. You feel snug. Trapped. Helpless. Nod with me.”

-flip-

“Uh…….huh…..”

“You’re going to sit still for me.”

-flip-

“Uhhuh”

“You’re going to listen to me.”

-flip-

“Uhhuh”

“You’re going to feel good for me.”

-flip-

-flip-

-flip-

“Uhhh…uhhuh…....”

“There we go. There’s my good Cutie, counting up so much. Now. I will let you talk. But I will not let you speak.”

-fwump-

“Mmph!”

“We still have Alcideo’s notes to go over. In detail.”

“M…mmmrrr…”

“I will not let you contradict him. You’re going to pay attention. And you will not. Miss. A word”

"I will?!"

His hands fly to his mouth. Too slow to contain the squeak.

"Um. I mean. No, no, you’re good, it’s, that, ah, that’s, that is a good spot, you didn’t. It’s just. That. It’s. Very nice of her. T-to. Be so, concerned, about my. Um. Work. And. Yes."

His detailed explanation finished, he buries his face in Alcideo’s shoulder. Flustered. Embarrassed. A silly little deer, hardly able to think about the perils of Yaz’s Encouragement without falling to pieces where he stood. Alcideo must already see him, at the end of his shift, muddling through his good-byes and good-job-today’s before obediently trot-trot-trotting his silly little butt up to the clutches of Miss Yaz. Just like he was told.

(It’s a little easier? It’s a little easier with Encouragement being a sometimes food. There’s no schedule to it, Miss Yaz must be busy. She can’t spare a half hour every day. And it’s not like he’s doing that good of a job every single day. He..

Well, he has a little trouble remembering exactly how good he does day-to-day. How did Miss Yaz know he was counting his tip money that closely?

Anyway! Point is, a good bit of the surprise is real every time, and so’s the melting into his seat. He’s not. He’s not asking for encouragement. Yaz just. Knows that it helps. And she enjoys. Um. Encouraging sillyheads who can hardly talk straight. Which is all to say, Alcideo laughs at shy, useless sillyheads too.)

“Drink service!” He says, totally composed. “Yes! I mean! No! I mean, we served drinks, but just soda and juice and things like that. Not a lot of mixing going on. Though I did learn how to mix up a mean hot chocolate.” That’s right; this is the silly grin of an expert cocoa brewer! Took him weeks and weeks of experimenting to nail it down. The tricky bit was, when you’re making cocoa for somebody else, you can’t sip it partway through to see if it’s come out right.

Mmm. A hot cocoa would be so good right now. A quiet lounge. A hard day’s work. A good couch to sink into. A better friend to hug you close and work magic on your poor ears. Distant music, sneaking in softly from the cafe. Yes. Two mugs of cocoa would make everything perfect. Warm bellies, to match their hearts.

(He hasn’t really thought of the Hunt in days. There’s danger Outside. Inside, there is warmth, and laughter, and friends, and good days ending in cozy nights.

He could stay here forever.)

“Thank you,” and he curls up, nestling into Alcideo’s side, as if he’s trying to smile with his whole body. As if the scrunched-up face pressed into Alcideo’s soft fur is nowhere close to good enough. “I couldn’t be doing any of this without your help. You’re looking out for me, showing me the ropes, and knocking it out of the park at six tables at once. I just. You’re so good at this, it means a lot to hear you say that.” As if somebody could look at someone like him and say, yeah, we’ll start that cat on coats. On coats! Unless he’s been working here for so long he was too young to do anything but coats. Hrm. “I’ll let you know if I need anything. Thanks. Again.”

“...but seriously, why put the tip money in our pants?”

Breathless Dead

A noise. A tiny hum. A faint bleat, in rhythm with each breath. Breaking, cracking, crinkling at the command of the muscles enveloping him. A sound allowed just a little bit of slack, a little room to play.

He may as well have shouted.

Savor the sounds you gently coax from him, Dyssa, Knight of the Publica, Savior of Beri, Friend to Sheep. There are a deceptive many tucked away in those endless wooly depths. Tangles in a soft heart. No word will pass until the way is clear. Gently. Carefully. Surround him on all sides, but leave an opening for the retreat. Let him speak, when he is ready.

”It is.” Which surely isn’t it. “It has been a while.” Obviously. Not it either. “This is…better. I.” Quiet. The tightening rhythm continues. Patient. A tail snakes gently through fluffy curls.

”Forgot.”

“I just wanted to see everyone again. I just wanted to be out.” There’s a lot of days packed into that word. Out. Perhaps it is best if it stays that way, for now. “And I’m glad to be here. Believe me. I am. So grateful. It is better.” He feels the squeeze of reassurance. He is understood. “But we’re still in the Skies, aren’t we? We’re still going to be here. Even if we go to the Shogunate, or beyond. Someone still chose to make the Ceronians restless, forever.”

And someone chose to make countless people sick and anxious in the void of space. And someone chose to make Assassins who were doomed to die under the weight of a curse. And someone chose sheep to staff a Manor.

How dare they. How dare they.

He doesn’t make her think of an answer. That’s not a question meant for answering. ”I am lucky that I can do something for them. The Ceronians deserve better.” There is a perilous uncertainty in the rest of that thought. Mercy, that he did not speak it as a prayer. “There is much that I cannot do. I am just a chef with some bureaucratic training.”

He stops.

”Thank you, by the way. For arriving in Beri when you did. I wish I could have been there to see it.”

He considers.

”...I was stationed on board the Slitted at the time. We. Could not see much, from that height.”

How much has he really helped? And how much has he let happen?

The Summerkind needed so much. The Summerkind needed to eat.

A nice meal feels so small, now. So does he, compared to the Knight encircling him.

The coils of the Crystal Knight crushed. Smothered. Squeezed until there was no room left for him, and then squeezed harder. Until she was the only thing that was left. Whatever resembled a sheep was full of her. Belonged to her. Consumed by her.

The coils of Dyssia, Knight of the Publica, squeeze tight. Tight enough for a small, small sheep to fall apart, and yet remain whole. And not one step tighter than that.

“We ought to think of a prize the Ceronians would value in the short-term.” His mouth is the only part of him still moving. His tea sits unfinished. “I think,” and he is thinking of the Knight. Not of his untouched plate. “That could give us the leverage necessary to…”

Both coils, he resists.

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?)