♉ [PROSE | DAY SIX]

[activatingaggro]

SIPARA NZINGA | eight sweeps / 19 years old
HMS GLORY, ORBITING NUWA, DAY SIX OF SEVEN

You can't stop peeking at Hap's fucking fins.

Because he doesn't bother to put on the scarf. He walks out, smug as a peacock, and when Dorset flinches at the sight of them, he just /sneers/. You're left trailing after him like - someone who doesn't want to be culled, honestly, because right now, you're not sure you trust anyone on this station.

If Mah Jie wasn't useful to them, you wouldn't trust even letting her alone. But she is, and that's something you keep in mind as Hap wanders through the halls. He knows the station better than you do. You don't /like/ new things, not particularly, not the way that Pheres and Hadean do. They've always been explorers. You.. have been hiding in your room, when you can, and when you haven't been going after Gwydyn's throat.

Given that's evidently your latest hobby.

You could find Maidel. But cowering behind an oliveblood's never been your style, no matter how weak-willed they might be, and there's something strange going on here. So when Hap exits the high-slung ceilings of the courtyard, past the trolls playing Go and into a series of tightly wound corridors, you're content enough to follow. And when the halls widen into a new courtyard, empty of people and with doors that clearly haven't been touched in perigees, you're content enough to fling yourself down into a chair at one of the abandoned tables.

"Not even going to wait until I say sit?" he sniffs, but he takes the one across from you, settling his elbows onto the table and placing his chin in his palms. "You're not even going to ask about the fins?"

"What's there to ask? We're in space. I'm a fighter, not a mediculler," you lie, and for the first time, you let yourself take in his new additions. "So what, you've got add-ons? I don't give a shit. You're still, like, the same person." His fins aren't as long as Gwydyn's, and they look more familiar on his face: more frilly, in a way that matches the markings on his face.

On a whim, you lick your thumb, then lean forward and drag it across his forehead. He blinks, but the colours don't blur. ".. are /those/ natural/?"

"Yeah, no shit, they're fake," he says, watching you. If he was Hadean, he'd have bit you for that. If he'd done that, you'd have bit /him/. But Hap seems more endeared than bothered, in a way you can't place. "So they're not going to come off, but my descendants aren't going to pop out sporting them, no. Did you really have to start a fight with the Overseer? Again? I mean, kudos for managing it in public, but come on, girl, I'm trying to make sure you're not spaced."

There's a lot of things you can't place about him.

"Yeah, 'bout that~! Not like I don't appreciate it, but.. I've got a moirail, dude. Maybe you've, like, met him? Since you're writing his /checks/."

Hap laughs, wrinkling his nose. "Uh. Yeah. No, sorry, not pale."

"Good, 'cause I'd have to kick your ass." A beat. "And I've got an ash-court," you add. "So he'd probs kick /yours/."

"I hate to inform you, but it does not, actually, have to be quadrant related. Have you considered I just like you? Maybe you grow on a dude, like a mysterious fungal infection that I might have gotten from the gym, but now that it's here, glowing on my skin, one that I can't really object to. I mean, is it glowing and disgusting? Yeah. Is it probably going to kill me? Indubitably. But in the meanwhile, it's sort of cute, in a bloodsucking, parasitical kind of way. That's what on your arms, right?" A beat. "Parasites?"

"I read your wiki article," he clarifies, and when he grins at you, it clicks.

Oh. Right. You forget people do flush, sometimes, but that's fine. If it was pitch, you'd have understood it. How many times have you used pitch romance as a handle to control people? Fettle, Riccin, Ketino - it's always been so easy, and you've never been one to overlook a tool. This just isn't one that people usually present you with.

That's fine, though. You've seen Pheres participate in flushrom enough times that you know the gist. You've seen it in /movies,/ over and over, and if Hap's some sort of a cullbait abomination, it's to your benefit to find out what's under his clothes, anyway. How far does the taint go? His eyes, when you peer into them, look more rose than red. Is it the same on his interior?

If you cut him open, will you find vestigial gills inside?

And it's not like you have to pretend to like him. He's funny, and he's nice, and he's tried to save your life twice now, even though there's no real reason to. If you'd gotten culled, ID would've bit him, and that'd have been that. Maybe Hadean would've squalled, but he wouldn't want Pheres stuck in a revenge cycle - but Hap had stepped in anyway. He likes you, and he's got /loyalty/, and he's appealingly nice, in a way that few trolls are. Not as much as Pheres, or Rohati, or any of the other trolls you've ever really, really liked - but that just means he's not boring, right? And you've never managed to like anyone flush, not among them, not in your interviews, not even in games, but that doesn't mean you can't fake it.  Because there's easier ways of figuring out if he's got gills, on this fucking hell station, than just slitting him open.

So you laugh, just like you've heard Pheres do a hundred times, and you curl your lip at him, like you've never seen Pheres do, even once in his life. "They're worms," you complain, dropping your elbow on the table with a thunk. When you settle your head in your palm, you can tilt your face just so, in the way that's always worked in pitch. Sure enough, his gaze drops. "If you're going to read my wiki article, dude, might as well get bits right."

"Yeah, sorry, didn't realise there was going to be a test. But tell you what." He leans in. If you look at him just like this, eyes half-lidded, so your eyelashes are brushing your cheeks, you don't have to see the fins at all. "I'll make it up to you -"

Kissing is not something you've ever been very interested in. It's wet, and it's tedious, and it always takes too long. There's just nothing worth paying attention to in it. You used to go through your stats, sometimes, when folks kissed you on dates: how much that this picture might get you, how much this interaction was /worth/, who you might want to start a rivalry with, or a fight, or trash online to hit your view goals for the month. What your next video could be filmed about to keep folks from unsubscribing, and what videos had gotten you the most hits, and the most comments, and the most donations afterwards.

You're not fighting right now. Even Hadean's not fighting, and there's no stats to go through. There's just the wet slide of a tongue in your mouth, Hap's breath on your skin, and the chill of his skin on yours. Without cloth as a barrier, he feels like an oliveblood.

And just like that, it's all intolerable. You pull back with a grimace, ears pinned back, and wipe off your mouth on the back of your hand. "Sorry," you say, rough, while his face is slowly blotching red across from you. "Sorry, sorry, it's not - it's just -"

"Uh. No, look - I'm sorry. Did I misread?" Did you say his face was slowly blotching? It's a bricky abomination, that's what it is. "I must have," he decides, but whatever else he's going to say gets swallowed when you shake your head, hard enough to send your beads clattering.

"It's not you, shut up! It's just -" You've never been in this situation before. You can usually just ignore all of it, if you want to, but the thought of kissing him again makes your toes curl and your breath catch.

But that's not fair. You should be able to ignore it! You should just be able to move the fuck on, like you have every other time, because it's not like you dislike Hap, it's just -

"I'm bad at this," you admit, and much to your horror, your voice fucking cracks. "I'm really, really bad at this, okay? I'm sorry. Like, wow, that was - that was a total bulge move -"

"You're not /bad/ at this. You're just --"

"I'm bad at this," you admit, and much to your horror, your voice fucking cracks. "I'm really, really bad at this, okay? I'm sorry. Like, wow, that was - that was a total bulge move -"

"You're not /bad/ at this. You're just --"

"I'm terrible at this," you snap, and you drop your head onto the table with a thunk, burying your face behind your arms. If you pin your ears back, it's almost like you can't hear him. If you press your face hard enough against the table, it's almost like being dead, you figure. Because shouldn't you get used to it?

It doesn't matter how much you fight with tyrians like Gwydyn or Muireach. It doesn't matter if you can get Mah Jie back, or if you can manipulate people, or if you can get things done. None of it matters, because just like Matari said - what will you do when the drones come? Shoot them in the face? You always figured you'd be fine, because you can manage pitch. You can manage anything, if you try hard enough, and you figure out the way to do it.

But you can't manage flushed, apparently, and you don't want to. And maybe, maybe, maybe -

- the idea of even trying to swing this pitch leaves you feeling like you've had a ball in your gut.

Part of you wants to say this is Hadean's fault. You used to get squeamish, as a pupa, before you'd decided that certain things had to be done. To ignore a tool in your belt just because you didn't enjoy using it was how folks ended up dead, and you were always there ot make sure you and Pheres /didn't/. But you'd outgrown it! You'd gotten used to kissing folks, and more, until it was just like any other part of your routine. You'd never enjoyed going to the gym, after Ico had hauled you up a membership, or working out with weights before he'd managed. But you'd known it was /important/.

And being able to use people's feelings were important, too. But you haven't, for perigees and perigees and perigees, and now, apparently you've gotten soft.

There's a hand on your neck. It's warm, and it's cloth, the soft cotton swill that Hap and every other maroonblood wears in place of a highblood's silk. "No romo," he says, "but c'mon, now, calm down. There's no need to be this dramatic. It's a kiss. It didn't work. I mean, were my feelings hurt that you literally rubbed your mouth? Fucking obviously, but hey, next time I go to kiss someone, I'll just make sure I get a mint before. Or an apple. It's no big deal. You're not crying, are you?" He pauses. "Please don't be crying. That'd be entirely too romo for me."

You lift your head just enough to hiss at him.

"Oh, thank the Empress," he says, relieved, and he pats your neck again, soft and more than a little awkward. "This is already pretty awkward, I have to say. If I had to go and add 'yeah, and then she started crying to it'', I am pretty sure I'd have to skip out right now to just go and drown myself. Why are you so upset? It's not that big of a deal. I promise. Sometimes people just don't work out -"

"It's not you," you snap.

"Well, I mean, don't go feeling bad that it's just /you/ -"

"- it's /everyone/."