Reciprocation [Victor Lark]

[Seven Xu]

Victor’s choice of words made it difficult for Seven’s smile to fade. Whether it was a result of passion or curiosity or both – the feeling of someone wanting to know him so fully, to tell him so fervently that he matters – left Seven reeling in euphoria and distracted him from the finger that was now pushing firmly against one venomous fang, exposed in his grin.

The brief wince that followed pressure against his upper jaw forced Seven to break his hazy stare, starving Victor of red beneath pale eyelids as he snatched up the hand between both of his own to inspect it. An apology threatened to slip out from between parted lips, despite the pin-prick and resulting crimson globule that rested atop Victor’s finger not being any fault of his. Instead, one pale hand strayed towards the tabletop and removed a linen napkin that had been folded delicately beneath his silverware to dab the blood and venom from the fingertip. “Be more careful.” The whispered statement was hardly chastising. If Seven were more inclined to speak on the subject, he would have pointed Victor towards the tiny scars that dotted his bottom lip, a result of past carelessness and a pair of canines too long and sharp for such soft skin.

Most of the questions that were shot at him were rhetorical, but the last comment bordered on an anxiety that was all too familiar to him. “‘Men’?” Seven laughed. He leaned forward to slide his fingertips along Victor’s jaw and around the back of his ear, diving into the soft black hair that lingered there, “I’m not sure how many more would fit in my bed.” The joke rolled on dying laughter. “But, no; you’re the only person I’ve ever taken in. You’re lucky we’re not large men or it would be tough to breathe pressed so close on such a small mattress.” The hand moved to the back of Victor’s neck, fingers still trapped and reveling within strands of dark hair. “Not that I’m complaining.”

Seven eventually straightened and removed his hand from Victor’s warm skin to pluck his silver spoon from its spot, displaced by the napkin. A mouthful of creamy soup was pushed between parted lips and swallowed hungrily before he flipped the utensil over, licking the remainder off with a grin. “I work at Wildwood Music most days, tending to the workshop and fixing and selling instruments.” His life didn’t sound particularly interesting to him. “For a while, I only went between home and work. I had to make sure you were alright. You had a lot of cuts and scrapes, you know; so I was worried about you. Then, pity and worry turned into something more significant.” Seven paused, and then dropped the spoon against the porcelain of the bowl. His eyes were focused on some distant painting that hung on the wall across the room, though he wasn’t particularly interested in it.

That bliss in his smile still lingered as his voice dropped to a whisper, “I’m glad I let you in, Victor.” The significance of the comment may have been lost on his companion, but he said it all the same. “It’s hard for me to open up to anyone; but with you, it’s been hard not to tell you everything all at once.” Seven winced at the poetic drivel. “Does that sound stupid?” He turned back to scan Victor’s face for a response while a river of pink grew wider on his cheeks.

[Victor Lark]

Chuckling at Seven’s hasty care for his tiny wound, Victor pulled his thumb from the napkin’s grasp and lifted it to his lips. He sucked away the second bead of red from his quickly healing flesh, but he tasted only a dot of metallic warmth. All of the venom had already been wiped away or soaked in. A brief emptiness at the front of his mind was filled by the feeling of that hand on his neck. He reached up to hold it and smiled with secret relief at the words that accompanied the touch.

Idly rubbing the end of his thumb, he turned to his bowl and with his spoon fished out a few of the soup’s biggest chunks. They were still small, for the sake of delicacy, or something. The course was too light for his taste; he wondered if his stomach growled too loudly as he tried in vain to fill it with the meager portion. He followed with more wine and, realizing he had tipped the end of the glass too high, refilled both of theirs with the still-cool bottle at the other end of their little table. The same delighted expectation that had settled happily at the bottom of his gut ignited again at Seven’s insistence to say absolutely everything. To find the questions that would oblige them both was becoming a game, in itself. Only a twitch in the ease of his smile betrayed his elation in the prospect, but Victor could not be entirely assured that Seven would not discern it: he who had intimately observed the unmasked Ravokian for so many days.

“No...” he replied, drawing a line on Seven’s bare upper arm with his knuckle. Suprised at the open-man’s admission of reticence (which entirely contradicted Victor’s previous assumptions), he ran his tongue over his lips to think. The propriety was coming back. “I don’t mind. If you want to talk, you should talk.” He paused to taste his drink again. “It’s not stupid--you’re not stupid. I’ve seen a book or two in your room, by the light from the hall. I bet you’re smart.”

The slight touch turned into a playful shove, and then Victor’s hand regarded his spoon again. As he stirred the thin liquid beneath it to see if any more substance would rise to the top, he continued, “So did you cross the so-called Unforgiven to sell instruments in Syliras? Do you think that lutes and flutes are your life’s calling?” A glance through tight lips softened the tease, “I did not know this city was a center for pilgrims of musical maintenance!”

[Seven Xu]

Seven had been so preoccupied by his own apprehensions and Victor’s crooning words for so long he had all but forgotten their primary game. The dainty monochrome guise was feather light and easy to overlook until air rushing in from outside grazed bare legs or the warmth of Victor’s touch drew invisible lines down the curve of his shoulder and arm. A ghostly hand guided Victor’s playful shove with one of his own before dropping to lie against a well-dressed thigh. Victor was always so much warmer than the stormy grey of his eyes let on. Seven donned a prim smile as he reveled in the comfort of living, breathing flesh beneath his fingertips.

“I spent most of my father’s gold on that little stone room you’ve been sleeping in,” Seven replied, puffed lips crinkling in a failed attempt at offense when he was labeled as a pilgrim, “and since I need to eat, I need to work. It is far from glamorous, but it keeps my hands busy and my belly full.” The face smoothed again under blithe laughter and he listed forward, snatching up his own spoon with his free hand to fill the aforementioned hungry stomach with something other than bread. Mouthful after mouthful, the thick cream soup lined his throat and stomach and brought comforting warmth to his core.

As Seven ate, he spoke. “My father,” he succumbed to a failing smile, “He sent me here after admitting that the cold woman that raised me was not my birth mother. Of course, I knew that.” A breath, as if the recollection was taxing, “He claimed my real mother had moved here shortly after my birth. He gave me what I needed – money, clothing, a relatively safe passage with a merchant caravan through the Unforgiven, everything.” The last of the broth went down in a gulp, but Seven’s eyes remained affixed to the bottom of the bowl. “Then a few weeks ago I found a letter. He’d hidden it, knowing I wouldn’t find it until I was far enough from home to not be able to turn back. She isn’t in Syliras, he just didn’t want me ever going back to Lhavit. He didn’t want me.”

Seven rolled his eyes as a mix between laughter and exasperation emerged in a full-bodied sigh, “Well, I made it here alive; so I have that.” It was obvious the wounds from the ordeal were still fairly fresh, barely having time to scab over before he began ripping away at them again in the charming company of the Ravokian at his side. The fingers that drifted along Victor’s leg had tightened their grip, and he found himself glaring at the warped reflection in the bottom of his porcelain bowl in an attempt to stifle the blurry glazing over a pair of eyes unable to hide bleeding emotion.

Tension broke with the reappearance of their waiter. Seven sat upright as their empty bowls were replaced by the following course: a fragrant blend of mixed vegetables and braised fish garnished with herbs Seven could not begin to name. He wordlessly thanked Lhex for the segue and seized the delicate glass of wine Victor had refilled a chime earlier. The thin smile returned behind a chipper offer. “I am getting better at the mandora; it’s a type of lute. I’ll play for you some time, if you want.”

[Victor Lark]

Victor had not had the chance to finish the disappointing course before him, so absorbed was he in Seven’s telling. He set his hand over the one that had settled on his leg, and did not move it as the strength of his grasp changed. While the story itself was sad and unique, it was the emotion that flared between the words which struck him: the heavy breaths, and the reddening tears that he could only compare to those that had come from their mishap at the store. He wondered how different they were, the sentiments behind the similar expressions.

The back of his fingers brushed Seven’s cheek so that he might take a look at the eyes which seemed temporarily determined to avoid him. He debated if it would be best to offer some consolation, but it seemed that when he genuinely wanted to dry tears, the words did not come. He did not look at the server as his soup was exchanged for another pretty plate and Seven changed the subject. Victor’s hand dropped. “Yes! And maybe I’ll visit the shop sometime, and help you earn your commission!”

But he would not let them avoid the topic for long. He plunged into that wound which Seven had exposed for him, ripping at its edges and pulling out his life’s blood. “You care,” he began, as if it were a novel concept, “that he wants you. Why? Was he ever very kind to you? You share blood, and that is sometimes important—” His stomach reminded him to look down at the delicious scents on the table, so he picked up his fork and separated a piece of the fish from the whole. It hovered in his forgotten hand, uneaten. “Is it important to you? Why else would it matter?” The word, which he had just defined as universal, encouraged them both to consider its limitations. Victor did not know what it meant, to be a hypocrite.

“I say, if he doesn’t want you, he doesn’t deserve you. And you don’t deserve a life of busy hands and emptying bellies. It’s hardly living, to spend your days between a dark apartment and a shop because there’s nothing else. But that’s what he has given you, or at least it’s all you have bothered to take from him.” A wry smile replaced the half-serious accusations as he pointed his utensil at Seven. “Is that what you want?” Then he finally he lifted the wavering bite to his mouth, and gave his own go at filling his belly.

[Seven Xu]

Seven leaned forward on a bent elbow, fingertips pushing against a smooth chin that had difficulty producing any sort of prickling facial hair. Gleaming red hovered over the sardonic line of pink on that olive-skinned face where rhetorical questions slipped out one after the other, considering the story. How easily he could shut him up: a hand wandering northward on his inner thigh followed by lips that closed in to inhale the heavy, warm breath that voice traveled on, that’s all it would take. That would go over well at the brothel men euphemized as ‘The Golden Dragon’, but they were wrapped in the lavish comforts of ‘The White Swan’ where subtleties were appreciated and even women that were not women were not whores.

When Victor spoke of entitlement - of what Seven did or did not deserve - it brought heat to his cheeks and his bottom lip was sucked into his mouth to chew on thoughtfully. There had never been a soul to tell him that he was worth more than what life and Lhex had handed to him – at least not in a way that made his skin grow pink and mind wallow in the possibility of some underlying praise or admission in those words. Now he was just playing his own private game of semantics; reaching for something he wanted to hear.

Seven’s eyelids fluttered, dismissing wandering thoughts. When Victor quieted, his last question hanging in the air between them, Seven drew an inward breath and let the elbow slide off of the table and into his lap where he fiddled with the skimpy hem of his costume. “I don’t know what I want,” the response was sincere; “I spend too much time trying to do what people have already done. I’m a scholar – not much use for one of those in a place that values your ability to lift a sword over reading a book or picking out stars.” Victor’s previous comment regarding his intelligence brought light to Seven’s face and the glass of wine to his thirsty lips. He uttered an afterthought before tipping the glass, “Blood is always important.”

Another mouthful of the tepid liquid went down and worked in his veins. “You may be right. About my life, that is.” Glass thudded and displaced the dainty tablecloth to free his hand. Dewy fingertips dove into the stretch of silk black hair behind Victor’s ear, and his thumb scratched away a tiny streak of stubborn blue paint beneath his earlobe. “But why?”

The buzzing warmth of wine had ripped down the thin layer of inhibition that kept Seven from voicing thoughts that until now had been content sleeping in the dark recesses of his mind. “I mean, why do you care so much, Victor?” It seemed more like a statement than a question; a grasp for affirmation. “Why do you want to spend your days and nights with me, to wrap your arms around me and not some woman, even now that you’re well?” Seven could feel his heart trying to escape his tiny chest as the newest, fragrant course went ignored in favor of bold curiosity. His voice had dropped to a whisper, and his eyes refused to leave the steely glaze of those that stared back at him – they screamed for the same validation Victor himself had received moments before. Despite himself, Seven’s lips drew a thin smile. “What do you think I deserve?”

[Victor Lark]

A breath of laughter filled up the cracks between those familiar questions. “Isn’t it obvious?” Victor repeated, stretching his arm behind a pair of half-bare shoulders and resting it against the back of Seven’s chair. Those words were as hollow as his understanding of love, but the fondness that floated on their tone was beyond anything he could hope to explain. How could he describe how he was strangely attracted to the sincerity that had been forced on him in days of weakness? How could he say how remarkable it was to feel grateful?

“I like you.”

He thought he recognized the sentiment in the bend of white eyebrows and the flare of scarlet-wrapped pupils, and he tore his eyes from that flash of desperation. Victor wanted to reciprocate all of Seven’s kindnesses, though he did not know how. He could only reach to his fork and reply, “You deserve what you want.” There was a shrug on his tone, but as he filled his mouth with the warm meat, he gave a soft squeeze to the back of the arm which hung behind his opposite hand. The glance he raised back at Seven spoke of more promises, something almost like attachment.

Victor’s words became lighter as he continued on. “So if you don’t know what you want, then how can I know what you deserve? How can you know what makes you happy? Or maybe you like the uncertainty!” He broke the joke with the clink of his fork against his plate and a short sip of wine. Short, tickling lines poured from his fingertips onto Seven’s arm as he persisted in those probing, assuming ramblings which he did not realize Seven despised. “Here, I know: you want to count stars, and you want to read books. You want to keep your hands busy. You want to live in Lhavit again, or at least you’re not satisfied with this hole of a city. And you want to impress your father. Or maybe you want to kick his ass, get your hands on some of his blood! You can’t tell me I’m wrong!”

The subsequent laugh was a hesitation in disguise. Seven seemed disinclined to speak of his father’s distant cruelties, and Victor’s newfound attempts at kindness battled with old habits. Rarely had the Ravokian thought twice about digging around in subjects where he was not wanted, and ultimately this moment did not result in a change of mind. He was fascinated with that character, and the things he did to Seven’s countenance even when he was not present. “Well, you already have his blood, don’t you? But what do you want with it?”

[Seven Xu]

Victor’s reluctance to keep an extended mutual stare had done little to discourage the curl of Seven’s smile, and that flash of an argent-glazed promise was enough to slate that craving fueled by insecurities. “Then I deserve you.” A laugh chimed on lips that had, for once, successfully hidden predacious white fang beneath their vibrant pink before he leaned into a forked mouthful of greens. The flaking, steaming white fish would be carefully eaten around and offered to Victor, if he were so inclined to indulge.

Time had failed to acclimate Seven to the thrill of exploratory fingertips on his exposed skin. He immediately regretted spurning any advances Victor had made in the darkness of his stone world; the man was exquisite. Wisps of black poured down across candle-lit olive skin and almond eyes gave way to volatile pools of silver that flashed with ardor. When he meant to smile, he really smiled – and though his words fell short and hollow at times, Victor’s body seemed to fill in the passions his guileless mind could not grasp. Long after Victor had broken their stare, Seven’s gaze wandered to a crisp collar where he noticed the gleam of that chain that hung perpetually around the man’s neck. White fingers lifted to grasp at the lavaliere and free the tiny bird from its buttoned linen cage.

“That was pretty good,” Seven remarked, satisfied to let the body-warm pendant drop again against Victor’s chest. “But, you are wrong about me wanting to go back to Lhavit, or wanting any sort of revenge in blood.”

Narrow shoulders rolled forward beneath the arm that drew him in and he listed sideways to close the remaining space between them. Nestled comfortably against the crook of Victor’s shoulder the negligible weight of Seven’s head dropped, allowing unruly white tresses to fall across the span of a linen-wrapped collarbone. The dainty plate in front of him held little more for edible vegetables and the second glass of wine he gulped down had warmed his core. Bare legs shifted and a fragile seam was readjusted in another futile attempt at effeminate decency. The act was wearing as thin as the little white dress itself; he felt the itch to leave the confines of the large oval-shaped dining room and to shrug off the chiffon skirt in favor of his masculinity.

“Lhavit is a wonderful place.” He felt he’d said that before, “but it is no longer my home. I didn’t come to Syliras because I wanted to live here, so it wouldn’t break my heart if I left again. It’s a bittersweet feeling to have no real attachment to a city.” A hand lifted to pluck a cherry tomato from its spot on the plate and as he pushed it between his lips a small chuckle rose from him, wrapped in harmony within Victor’s own chiming laughter.

The entrance to the White Swan swung open with new patrons and brought with it a waft of cool air that wrapped around their ankles. Outside, the hazy sun had been obscured by clouds, their bellies dark and heavy. A light drizzle had begun to kick up the various smells of the Gate District and the aroma of dirt lingered until the doors closed again.

“And what of you, why did you risk life and limb to come here – or is this merely a short stop on a far more impressive journey?” Seven sat up and positioned himself so that his far elbow rested on the table and his bare knees pressed against one of Victor’s thighs, still keeping little space between them.

[Victor Lark]

The little piece of silver, warmed by the heat of his own heart, felt like fingers as it moved over his chest and lingered on his collarbone. Victor loosed a keen grin at those apple-red eyes before the thing tripped against his shirt and settled over a bed of black and white stripes, exposed. His hand itched to reach up and touch it, to satisfy the reflex to put it away again, but his hands were occupied with his fork and the gentle embrace of a chatting Seven. He let it flutter to the back of his mind as he opted to fill his perpetually empty stomach with the perpetually paltry meal.

In contrast to the spider-kin’s preferences, Victor had left the heavily spiced and now soggy medley of vegetables virtually untouched beside his evaporating fish. When he finally regarded the plate beside his and saw what waited for him, he took the silent offer immediately—if not for hunger, then because he did not want to let himself frown at Seven’s short avoidances, which turned the conversation from his father to the Ravokian before him. “I think I’ll go to Alvadas,” he answered before swallowing, then with a beat corrected himself, “I am going to Alvadas. It seems like a fun place. Where would you go, if you went anywhere?”

Though he was not entirely sure he cared, he did not want to be asked to elaborate. He skewered one of his own mushrooms with his fork and lifted it affectionately to the man’s pale lips, begging them to part. If the offer was not taken, he would suffer the rubbery vegetable himself and then take to the rest of the fish. “Why not that Symenestra city, up north? They probably won’t hate you quite as much as a Ravokian or Lhavitian. Or—”

Before he could finish cleaning Seven’s plate, the server’s hand reached into his view and stole it from beneath his busy utensil. Victor was forced to pause. A short glare of confusion rose to face the well-dressed man, but it melted into acquiescence when he was greeted with snobbish disapproval. Their proximity, their intimacy, and now other pieces of their decorum were about as proper as the rest of the day had been. Victor squirmed teasingly against Seven’s thigh, but did not part from him as their plates were replaced. A pair of small salads, consisting of as many apples and pecans as spinach leaves, were doused in a sweet-looking red sauce before the server walked smoothly away, all signs of disdain hidden in subservient grace. Victor reached for his glass instead of his new fork and, with a gulp of it, realized that his wine was low again. The bottle itself held only enough for one more full glass. Like a gentleman (or perhaps unlike one), he tipped the rest into Seven’s.

“Or would they?” He added as the last of the tiny bubbles burst at the top, “Do you think you would look strange to full-blood, or just as beautiful?” A single finger, cooled by its contact with the bottle, drew an admiring line down a white nose. “Your mother is the Symenestra, I assume. Do you think she is there? Do you think she wants you?”

[Seven Xu]

Seven’s primed response was met by the keen press of a mushroom’s bulbous cap. He accepted the offering, pulling the vegetable from the fork with his teeth. Victor’s flimsy reasoning for wanting to cross the treacherous Suvan to go to a place he deemed ‘fun’ left questions unanswered, but soon forgotten.

The waiter’s arm descended, startling the halfblood that had been too wrapped up in such improper intimacy. Seven responded with an audible gasp and swiveled his head to meet the same condescending glare Victor had been afforded before their plates were exchanged for the following course. Seven was mindful of their proximity when sober, but the warmth of wine had made him careless and contemptuous. The hand that previously rested innocently on Victor’s thigh gave in to his weight and as he leaned in no longer fearful of his scanty chiffon confines, his grinning face obscured most of Victor’s vision. Seven’s free hand grasped hungrily at a smooth olive jaw and eager canines found the wet, fleshy mound of a bottom lip. White bangs mingled on black and from a familiar burn came a dauntless and satisfied moan.

Seven’s fingers remained dangerously high on a warm thigh as he drew back victorious, equally successful in fending off the pretentious steward as he was coaxing that pink back to his face. Fingertips unconsciously dove between folds of white linen that bunched at Victor’s hips, body-warm and tantalizing. “Kalinor is in the west,” Seven finally corrected Victor, blonde lashes fluttering as a salad fork fussed between the vibrant green of spinach leaves. “I’ve heard it’s near-impossible to navigate if you aren’t a Symenestra. It’s just ropes and strings of silk attaching buildings that hang on the roof of a massive cavern.” The fork lifted and swayed to and fro as if to illustrate his point, stopping only at his lips so that a scrutinizing tongue could wander along its syrup-sticky underbelly.

Victor’s charms beget a glowing smile. “They aren’t fond of mixing blood, as far as I know. I’m sure they wouldn’t find me as ‘beautiful’ as you do.” Seven plunged the utensil back into the salad, pressing against the bottom of the shallow bowl. “My mother is a halfblood like me.” His voice turned to lofty suggestion behind tight lips as the cool wet trail down his nose lingered and attempted to extinguish that blush. “I’d like to think she wants me, that she hopes I’m still alive and happy somewhere—which I am. And I hope the same for her, wherever she is.”

Seven’s chin finally lifted to regard the new glass of wine with a playful grin and the hand on Victor’s upper thigh jerked away to snatch up the dainty glass, wobbling and full with pale bubbling gold. “We should leave.” The dare was punctuated by a short sip of the wine. Seven would be pressed to admit that his exaggerated display of affection had awakened something deeper and far more sincere—not to mention the droning wail of violin and haughty wait staff left little to be desired. As he went on to elaborate, his glass tilted towards the door and wine came dangerously close to spilling over an exposed knee. “You know, before the rain starts falling too hard.”

The prospect of shedding the frilly disguise wasn’t entirely unappealing, either.

[Victor Lark]

The words entered his ears, but despite his interest he could not bring himself to commit them to memory. He could not concentrate on the answers that spilled from those exquisite lips, which tormented him with their idle movement as tingling flames seethed before his teeth and beneath his belt. His smile ignored the fourth course in favor of following Seven’s face as it moved, reveling in the little changes there wthout discerning their details or meaning. Finally, a phrase latched onto his brain and woke him from that distraction.

“We should leave.” Victor swayed as he pulled his arm from the casual embrace and laced his fingers between Seven’s. He squeezed his passions into those wispy white digits, which momentarily matched the shade of his own knuckles. Then he regarded the door, pressing his tongue against the inside of his bottom lip. The drizzle would soon turn to a rightful Summer rain, the kind that would be finished by the time their dessert had come and gone. “Of course,” he replied obediently as he reached for the glass that danced precariously in Seven’s drunken grip. With a chuckle, he set it safely on the table again, then pulled some coins from the purse in his pocket and deposited them beside it.

When he stood, the rush in rising reminded him that he was not entirely immune to the alcohol in his veins. And unfortunately, the staggering man was not deterred from bowing with an exaggerated flourish as he helped his lady to his feet and offered that worthlessly thin jacket as a shield against the rain. “There are puddles out there,” Victor explained, wrapping one arm around Seven’s shoulders again, “I would not want you to ruin your shoes, or dirty your toes!”

So he bent and scooped up Seven’s legs, unwary of the dainty table setting and confused guests. He cradled the light body like a damsel’s, bobbing once or twice to arrange the skirt so that it was tucked modestly between the crook of his elbow and a pair of thighs. Then, giggling, he swept them both through the simple maze of fragile decor and escaped into a curtain of rain.

They should have returned to the shop where the morning’s purchases waited, but if Victor ever fleetingly remembered that which had happened so long ago, he did not seem concerned about it. At first, he was not even certain where he was headed. He only ran, and laughed, and carefully swung Seven’s head and feet from where ever they might have otherwise collided with the ubiquitous stone corners. Then he discovered that his stomping, slipping feet had brought him to the brink of the Bittern District, where a few narrow arches would lead them from the tapering sky into the confines of residential corridors. There he gave Seven a triumphant spin. Half-way through the circle, he misjudged the depth of a cobblestone valley and stumbled.

Victor’s reflexes only had attention for his precious burden; one arm dropped Seven’s feet and the other clutched his abdomen, in an attempt to rescue both balances. A skipped heartbeat and jolt of panic later, his smile had flitted back. Salvation from the rain was only feet away, but Victor could not control himself; his warmth pushed Seven quickly, even roughly, towards the slick wall. Lungs heavy with the effort of their progress, he breathed into him with a kiss that dripped in the surrounding shower and wallowed in the discomfort of their clothing's sticky damp. Even now the rain was letting up, but Victor did not notice because he was not.