An Expected Encounter

[Victor Lark]

57 Fall, 511; fourteen bells

A sudden, succinct breath and a sigh: it took only one sniff to decide that those pants could stand to be worn again, despite that they had since been deposited into the corner’s growing pile of otherwise soiled clothes. Victor slipped them over his last pair of underwear and hung a belt over his bare shoulder as he raided the bureau for a shirt. His newly washed hair tossed water onto the wooden bottoms of each drawer as he opened them and discovered them virtually empty.

Only one of Seven’s shirts was left; he decided that could not take the last in good conscience, so he slipped some dirty socks into his shoes and strode out of his room shirtless. He crossed the hall to Laszlo’s room and proceeded to his wardrobe, considered it a moment before he chose a shirt with buttons and shrugged it over his shoulders. The dark gray linen hung away from his small frame like the limbs of a willow tree, but he buttoned the cuffs at his wrists and tucked it into his pants nonetheless. He was pulling his belt through the buckle when he pushed through the door to the bar.

It was too early to go out in search of the Wager. Anyway, it seemed a forest had sprouted between the cobblestones outside, the kind that probably contained some jaguar or yukman who would gladly hinder his progress elsewhere. Beer was as good a breakfast as any; one look out of the window and Victor turned to the bar. With salutatory grin to the horned man at its end, he vaulted over the counter and sat on its opposite edge, produced a mug from the shelf beneath him and filled it from the tap beside him.

Victor wrapped his hands around the pint and considered the cold lager within. Then he ducked and swiveled to face Laszlo, crossing his legs atop the bar as he fixed his eyes on the golden pair opposite. “Good morning,” he declared smilingly, and his stare did not relent even as he lifted his mug.

[Laszlo]

It was darker in the tavern today, not that it was ever very illuminated at all. The forest outside the main room's only window blotted out nearly every hint of sunlight, bringing an early dusk to long, wooden interior of the Sun and Stars. Unfazed by the impulsive whimsy of Ionu's Alvadas, Laszlo only adjusted his daily routine by crossing the room to refill the oil in some of the room's lanterns. A bright, yellow, polygonal circle glowed resolutely in the ceiling's mosaic, set in a sea of deep blue. At least Laszlo still had his own version of the sky. Golden eyes sent themselves upward as a shuffling cascade footsteps sounded above him. Victor was awake. As much as it was made apparent, the human kept hours nearly as inversed as Laszlo, like him usually not finding a bed until the cusp of dawn. Yet he slept more, which was probably much easier to do when there was another body to warm his bed. Once Laszlo's eyes opened in the morning—which translated roughly to about mid-afternoon—he couldn't stand to be lying down anymore. There was always something to be done downstairs. The brunet Ravokian appeared from the doorway just as Laszlo was returning to the bar. Tipping a glass vial that contained what could be mistaken for water, he refilled the last lantern, then replaced the glass protector. "Good morning, Victor," Laszlo responded dutifully, his tone automatically neutral even as he participated in the joke. Returning the oil to its spot under the bar, he straightened and turned to his compatriot with a tame smile. "On your way out soon?" he added, with a touch of bitterness. He understood that Victor's other engagement was more or less against his will, but it was still exhausting to do so much without his help. Then Laszlo recognized the familiar, slightly upturned corner on the left side of Victor's collar. Pulling a damp rag off of the bar top, he began wiping the oil from his fingers. "Is… that my shirt?" Normally he wouldn't have noticed, but that bent collar was bothersome and he otherwise liked that shirt.

[Victor Lark]

Victor ignored the weight of the drink in his empty stomach, swallowing away the vague nausea that followed. A breath of a laugh tumbled from his shoulders as he set his mug down in front of him, eyeing again the window and the wilderness that clearly blocked his way out. He took the first inquiry for another joke; if he understood the request in it, he did not acknowledge it. He stared down at his beer, fingered the mug’s handle and turned it in a few circles, as if to insist it was better worth his attention than the endless scrubbing that Laszlo seemed to prefer.

Giving himself a few seconds after the ethaefal spoke again, he looked up with a question on his brow. “Hm? Oh, this?” His chin tucked into his chest as he regarded said shirt, and a moment’s consideration led him to decide that it was not worth the effort to lie. His gaze darted up again and he replied, “Yes.”

He peered a mocking smile through a tilted head, trying to identify how much Laszlo cared about his clothes. When he could not discern the answer immediately, his wandering fingers gave a few scrutinizing tugs to the threadbare linen and then idly pulled the topmost button loose. One leg slithered off the bar to hang, suggesting that he might rise from where he sat. “Do you need it back?”

[Laszlo]

"What? No—" Startled by Victor's apparent willingness to disrobe, Laszlo took a partial step backward to emphasize his lack of desire for confrontation. His molten amber eyes did a frantic, slightly irked sweep of his associate from head to toe before he turned away, facing the darkened, empty tavern. He finished with the towel, wiping off each individual finger before tossing the rag back into the disorganized oblivion of the bar shelves. "Of course not. Wear it, if you want. Just, ask next time?" Consciously adjusting the collar of his own, black button-down, Laszlo left the bar and drifted toward the window. The murky glass was more insistent on reflecting the dim lights inside the tavern than revealing what lie outside, but after a moment or two, Laszlo's eyes were able to discern the difference. The foliage outside was thick, green, and foreign—nothing like the tame, rain-starved scrubland outside Syliras, or the hardy mountain flora that somehow grew from gravel and hard rock. When he was sure he saw a fond of leaves rustle, the Ethaefal took himself and his reflection away from the window and headed over to the nearest table. He sank easily into one of the chairs, uttering a soft groan as his back feet thanked him with waves of light, pleasant pain. It was probably the first time he'd actually sat in at least a few hours. Crossing his arms, he reclined back in the chair and nodded his attention toward Victor again. "Looks a bit dangerous out there today. If you do go out, try not to get maimed in that shirt?" Laszlo punctuated his joke with a light half-smile. "I got that from the fisherman who saved my life in Syliras. I'm fond of it."

[Victor Lark]

Victor did not bother to retire that button back to its linen cage. His conceding hand slumped to the bar as his body slipped away from it, slinked between a pair of barstools and touched the floor. He leaned towards his drink with a carefully vague nod, acknowledging the request without committing to it, and grabbed his mug. He watched Laszlo approach the window over the dank wooden rim of it, filling his hungry belly and his bored mind for lack of anything better.

But the rounded edges of his horns, like tireless terra cotta, lingered too long in place of sullen lips and weary eyes; after only moments, Victor pushed himself with a noisy grunt from the bar and approached his associate. His reflection swayed conspicuously beside the other, slow and sleepy, until the ethaefal finally turned around and took a seat. Victor sighed and moved his eyes towards the window. Of course the forest seemed a dismal prospect, compared with the warmth and entertainment on the other side of the glass, but Victor saw it less a hindrance and more an excuse. A fidgeting flourish danced over his mug-wielding fingers as he looked quickly back. “I’ve got a few hours. I’ll give it that much time to clear, and if it doesn’t, I’ll take the roof.”

Then he followed suit, pulling the groaning chair out from under the table and close to its occupied brother before he sat. Their knees knocked as he dropped the mug onto the table, without relinquishing it from his grasp. He did not think of the pain they shared in his feet and ankles, only of the teasing smirk that pulled up half of his face. He glanced down at his shirt again, the worn threads and the imperfect collar. “He saved your life, did he?” Olive fingers tugged at the corner, trying to flatten it.

“What sort of trouble were you in, that you—” Then he connected the nameless fisherman with the sea, and his expression faltered in realization. He laughed, let his hand fall from his mug so it could slap the table. “You’re fond of it, or you’re fond of him? The man that dragged your naked ass out of the water when you washed up! Is this the first shirt you ever wore? How old is it?” The fabric felt softer than it had then, like it had suddenly aged. He folded his arms so that he could press it against his skin and wring out some tender, timeworn memory. His waning smile pointed at Laszlo and attempted the same.

[Laszlo]

The table shuddered as it was struck, and the sharp, sudden impact of Victor's palm against the unsuspecting wood surface brought Laszlo to look up immediately in mild alarm, both eyebrows raised over his exhausted golden eyes. The answer to Victor's partial inquiry had already been forming in his head, but he paused to watch the Ravokian laugh. Once the accusation was issued, Laszlo barked a laugh of his own. "No, no, it wasn't like that," he corrected with a grin, aiming his eyes back down to the table. He'd never been able to laugh about Syliras before. This was a nice change to the usual burden of guilt. Folding his arms loosely over his chest, Laszlo straightened in his chair and crossed one leg over the other, allowing Victor a polite amount of legroom. "If only the story were so romantic. I'm not sure how old the shirt is, but it is the first I wore, I suppose. I've never thought of it like that." An eyebrow arced above one eye as Laszlo glanced upward. "I suppose I never told you how young I am. I only fell to Mizahar the Winter before last." His "birth" day was coming up, he remembered with a touch of bitterness. Someone had told him before that it was reason to celebrate. Laszlo could never figure out why. Thoughtfully, Laszlo lifted one perfectly peach colored hand and inspected the dull, whitish nails that didn't reach past his fingertips. These nails could not become weapons like his vespertine ones, not in any serious way. These hands were far less lethal, and a little less useful. He did sorely miss the utility of his thicker claws when he was in his day form, but it didn't seem practical to grow out his thinner, fragile humanlike nails. They looked better trimmed anyway. "No, he just let me stay at his house with his family for a short while. Mr. Fenwick and I, we aren't on good terms. I'm fairly sure that if that man saw me again, he'd…" Laszlo broke into a choking laugh, his smile quickly turning into a grimace. "Well, he won't be seeing anything again." Laszlo tucked his hand back into the crook of the opposite arm. He began tapping a quiet rhythm in the air, repeatedly nudging his one airborne foot in an idle motion. It was difficult, figuring out how to word the entire fiasco politely. He expected that Victor would somehow make a joke out of it. Ha, actually Laszlo hoped he would. "His daughter however was a young woman, and she seemed… drawn to me. Came to me in the middle of the night. I tried to refuse her, but not very hard. She cut herself on one of my fangs and was poisoned, and she panicked loudly. Her father came in and thought I'd forced myself on her, and promptly tried to kill me." Laszlo dropped his arms and laid one hand on the table, chipping away at the uneven, unpolished wood with his short thumbnail. "I was passing out and didn't realize what I was doing to defend myself. I used my Symenestra nails and…" Forcing a smile, Laszlo shrugged. "No, I'm not fond of the man, but I am still grateful that he gave me a place to stay and put clothes on my back. I wish things had gone differently."

[Victor Lark]

“Do you, though?” came the immediate retort, despite that Victor had been silent and apparently engrossed throughout the telling. He leaned towards Laszlo, closing the distance the ethaefal had since created, smelling of soap and beer and the musk of a wardrobe that was not his. The shirt’s fabric was feeling heavy and coarse again, filled with satisfactory answers. “Do you wish you were still living with a fisherman who hated you, who would kill you for his daughter’s lust? She should not have been surprised.” With a shrug, his elbow found the table and supported the invasive posture. He dragged his drink closer.

Victor had known the bite of a symenestra once, and had tasted it diluted in many a fanged kiss. It was unlike anything he had ever known, delicious pain in external passions manifest; that girl was an idiot for thinking any less of it. The human found himself wondering: first, whether Vethis Orthilia’s venom tasted any different, and then, how willing he would be to dispense it. His eyes landed on the idle dance of a hanging foot, then began to crawl up a leg that was full of more bone and muscle than any spider’s.

“You’re not sorry you hurt him. Not any more than you’re sorry she liked you.” Victor’s tone dared the poor man to correct him, to defend his guilt, if not his actions. “Tell me you did not want her, and I’ll believe you’re only two years old.” He recalled the rules of pre-adolescent games in a city of water and stone and chaos. I’m older, so you have to do what I say! If only it were so simple.

Before it reached the crux of his thigh, laughing tin darted to meet the golden coins of Laszlo’s eyes. There it lingered an instant too long, pausing in the recollection of another yellow gaze that seemed similar, and yet so far away. Victor could only hope that this treasure would be more fruitful. His hand rose from where he had abandoned it on his own leg, debated the outcomes of embracing the folded knee opposite, and instead moved to clasp the chill of his wooden cup. The same dare silvered his tongue as he added, “What do you want, if not another body in your bed?”

[Laszlo]

Leaning back in his chair, Laszlo watched the peculiar journey of Victor's heavy-lidded grays. The human was keenly intelligent, so the Ethaefal had discerned, especially when he could be bothered to pay certain attention to something long enough to be analytical. Rather than laud his brilliance and make endless assessments of his surroundings, as Laszlo often did, Victor seemed rather bored with his mental prowess, and so it was difficult to interpret what exactly the Ravokian was thinking behind his scrutiny. Was he merely being studious, or was that lazy curl on his lips a sign of intrigue? Offended by the human's remark, Laszlo was quickly distracted from his curiosity and aimed at him sharp, golden glare, accompanied by the incredulous tilt of his head. "Is that all you want?" he asked defensively, feeling a little more resentful of the remark than seemed rational. Not exactly understanding why, he consciously dismissed his annoyance and continued. "Of course I wanted her, but I was only a day old and having a traumatic, existential crisis. I wasn't interested in empty pursuits. I had nothing but respect for her father up until the moment he tried to murder me, and taking his daughter into my bed went against my better conscience. I do have a sense of restraint. Don't you?" It was almost alarming that Victor seemed to be having some trouble understanding Laszlo's meaning. The Ethaefal had meant to infer that he'd wished no one had been hurt, but all Victor seemed to interpret was grief over a change in circumstances. He'd expected him to intuit the level of guilt felt for the Fenwick family, but he seemed to be missing the cue. Laszlo must not have been communicating clearly enough. Unnerved and mildly confused by the long, wordless gaze exchanged earlier between the two of them, Laszlo averted his eyes away from Victor's and focused on something else—like his cup of lager. Conscious of eye contact and feeling socially unwieldy for the time being, he avoided meeting eyes with the human again. It would be better not to read into it. Right? "I wish no one had gotten hurt, that's all. The fisherman was only defending his daughter, for all he knew. I suppose I would too, if I knew there was a Widow courting my daughter." It occurred to Laszlo that Victor might not be aware of the romantic conundrum that every Symenestra faced. He dismissed the idea of explaining; it wouldn't make good conversation just now.

[Victor Lark]

Victor shrugged. “But there wasn’t,” he argued, leaning too close again, happy to pretend his single drink had been three. “You’re not a Widow; you’re an ethaefal. He was being unreasonable. He’s only got himself to blame.” The human did not much care about the fate of this Fenwick character, and neither was he incredibly concerned whose fault it was that there was another blind fisherman in the world. But Laszlo seemed to savor the subject, and there was nothing like removing the weight of blame to loosen a pair of stiff shoulders.

His wandering gaze settled like a smirk on Laszlo’s lips before it danced up to his eyes, assessing the spoils of his latest exploration. This man honored societal courtesies such as respect; he sympathized with the pain of strangers; he knew restraint, whatever that meant; and if he knew what violence he was capable of, he did not seem very fond of it. Victor had heard of the term regret, but it did not occur to him then. He only though that he might should have waited for night, when symenestran eyes could better see lust and anger over reason and explanation. Whatever the future held, today he had the sun. He decided the rules of the first game need not be changed. It was challenge enough, to bring a man from his mind’s despair to his body’s desire.

The mug mumbled to the edge of the edge of the table as Victor moved it as close as it would come, hoping to draw the attention of the eyes that had settled on it. There he released it, preferring instead to fill the tiny hall with the groan of his chair as it spasmed to Laszlo’s side. Victor’s head tipped casually, cheerfully, as his palm offered a comforting embrace to Laszlo’s thigh. “I have restraint,” he admitted. A sly smile clarified the assertion as if it were a secret. “When it suits.”

A single chuckle dismissed the joke, and his tone settled haphazardly between mocking and sympathetic. “Don’t worry about them, Laszlo. It’s in the past.” He curled a finger around a bronze-edged jaw, so as to pull moping gold to meet happy silver. Rising eyebrows suggested sincerity. “I’m sorry I brought it up.”

Then Victor’s thumb trapped that flawless chin in his grasp, and he pulled their lips together.

[Laszlo]

"Vic—" The Ravokian was kissing him? Laszlo could scarcely believe the sensation his lips, the blur of a face he saw through low-lidded eyes. He could smell himself on the shirt Victor was wearing, mingled with the dark, spicy scent of the olive-skinned human. Whatever had been going through his mind before, about the Fenwicks or whoever, was long gone. Victor had very effectively changed the subject. Laszlo had the opportunity to lean away, but he didn't. In fact he'd had the opportunity to avoid the kiss altogether. It hadn't exactly been sudden. Victor had been teasing him with his eyes through almost the entire conversation, but Laszlo hadn't thought the human would have been considering him in this way. Even when he leaned close and drew his fingertip along the edge of his jaw, the Ethaefal had been brave out of curiosity. Victor wouldn't really go that far, he'd thought. But he did. At first, Laszlo began to reciprocate. Victor had always been easy on the eyes. It wasn't as if it had never crossed his mind before. Reality quickly returned to him, and Laszlo mumbled something unintelligible into Victor's lips. A hand slid over Victor's arm, pushing him backward as the Ethaefal finally took his chance to lean away, parting a kiss that had become wet. He drew his lips in briefly, running his tongue over the flavor of someone else, while hard golden eyes silently interrogated Victor's tin stare. "What are—what was that?" Laszlo didn't retract his hand, ready to hold Victor back in case he tried again. He wanted to say that he had no complaints, but he remembered the way Seven nearly lost it when it looked like Victor had been killed at the tournament. This didn't seem like something Laszlo should get involved in. Or, perhaps he simply misunderstood their relationship. Laszlo would hardly be all that bothered if any of his recent partners had been with anyone. Seven did seem to overlook when the blue creature kissed his lover. Oh, whatever. "I'm not complaining, but I thought you and Seven…" Laszlo finally let go of Victor's arm. "You're a strange man, Victor."