Ever Glittering, Too Far to Touch

[Laszlo]

Winter 11th, 511 Fourth bell. It was bitter cold. What did it matter? The cold had tried to kill him before, more than once, actually, and had never succeeded. This close to the sea, the wind was crisp, but Laszlo braved it anyway. It was nearly dawn, and with all that was happening lately, the Ethaefal couldn't sleep. He'd gone for walk, only to find that half of Alvadas had sunk into the Suvan Sea, the roads rolling downhill into the water like he surface of a capsizing ship. He had been looking for the Withering Rose, but when he found the sea lapping at half-submerged buildings, decided to give up the search. He climbed upon the roof of some halfway waterlogged shop and sat there, in the cold, watching Leth dance upon the endless water. A Suvan breeze beckoned at the edges of his dark grey cloak, brushing like a lover's hand across his cheek, and playfully tossing the ends of his graphite hair. Beneath his heavy wool barrier, his lithe Symenestra body was kept mostly warm. It was draped over his curled form, long legs locked behind his long arms. The wind had pushed his hood back some time ago, but his long hair was sufficient to keep his neck warm, and he didn't want to risk freezing a limb off to correct it (it would only fall again anyway). After half an hour in one spot, he began quelling the urge to shiver. He could leave, and probably should have, but he didn't feel like going back home just yet. To the House of Murderers. There was no one he could talk to now—not Victor, who threatened death upon Abalia; not Seven, who would unconditionally side with his lover; not Ifran, who was keeping Abalia away from Laszlo's affairs; and not Abalia. So here the Ethaefal was with only his thoughts, staring at the sea that had given birth to him, and had first tried to kill him. Siofra's body was out there, somewhere, rotting away. He wondered where her soul had gone.

[Abalia]

Alvadas had led her to him, Abalia would say. With foggy thoughts and a distinct feeling of aimlessness, she'd followed her empty stomach along whichever street her feet found. The city, tricky though it was, had never harmed her. It felt almost like a parent on most days, and today she needed one of those. How long had it been since she'd fought with Laszlo? How long since the anger dissipated and left behind an aching reminder that, really, she was all alone in this world? Too many days, too many sleepless hours, far too long. Her mood was sadly contemplative, the exuberance she normally demonstrated for life greatly subdued. No one noticed. No one cared. Abalia was like a lost craft floating in the middle of the Suvan - disconnected, isolated, too far gone. For all the dramatics of her situation, she wasn't thinking of it in such flashy terms. She just very much missed Roxanne, who had been taken from her without explanation. Laszlo had been left in her place, somehow, and now his actions and her temper had stolen that affinity away too. Abalia didn't mine solitude when she had a 'home' to go back to, even if that was just a person. Now, though, it was a bit rattling. Unnerving, uncomfortable. Stumbling upon Laszlo, who seemed as thoughtful as she felt, hadn't been what she had expected when she'd entrusted herself to Alvadas. The cold wind swallowed the sounds of her approach so that she was able to watch him unseen for a few long moments. His furrowed brow, the hair that whipped against his face, his slight frown. She sighed, wishing she could reach up with her small hands to wipe those creases away. She wanted to see him smile again, to hear her name on his lips. A great gust of wind caused her to stumble forward, as if Alvadas was becoming impatient with her inaction. Abalia, trying very hard to swallow the lump of pride in her throat, obeyed this time. She slipped forward until she was just behind him. "We fit together, you and I," the native to such a bizarre city, half submerged in the sea, spoke softly against his hair. She'd settled onto her knees so that her frame was tucked snugly against his back. Slender arms wound about his shoulders so that gloved fingers could clasp in front of him. He smelled so familiar, so nice. She said little else for a moment, as the breeze seemed to calm in quiet approbation. And then she tucked her head into him a bit, and sighed her apology into his throat. "I'm sorry for the bottles I broke. For... most of that night. I didn't realize how badly I wanted you to be mine until I saw you with someone else. I just couldn't... think." Terribly frank, Abalia didn't bother trying to soften her words or make them less suggestive. It was what she felt and her emotions were too frayed to allow manipulation or anything of the sort any breadth. "I've missed you."

[Laszlo]

A pair of thin arms encircled Laszlo's shoulders. He let out a tiny noise of surprise, noticing the way his body stopped shivering. The sea in front of him left his mind completely, allowing his reflective, cat-like eyes to break away from the moon's quivering reflections. They settled on the gloved hands resting gently over his breastbone, staring to compensate for his desire to reach up and touch them. Don't, he pleaded quietly, not meaning it in the slightest bit. Perhaps if he repeated it, he might be able to uphold the principle. Leave me alone. She buried her face into his hair and breathed warmly. Laszlo shut his eyes, lips parting. He found himself leaning back counter-intuitively. It was so hard not to. This past week had been lonely. You can't be here, Abalia. You can't be around me. I've lied to you, kept things from you, because I thought you couldn't deal with the truth. I hold myself so high above these simple mortals, but I'm the liar, the vengeful one, the lustful one, the avaricious one. Go away. Salvage what's left of your life. I can only make it worse, like I have for everyone else. I don't belong in Alvadas. I don't belong in Mizahar. Just go. Go away. The Ethaefal stiffened, risking a break in his warm woolen barrier by turning around in the human's loosening arms. His eyeshine faded when his sparkling amethysts met her darkened auburn. For a moment he stared at her face, remembering the curve of her cheek, the texture of her skin, the shape of her lips. He appeared pensive, ready to say something well incubated. Instead he only leaned forward and kissed her. Goddess, it felt good to taste her again, sweet as strawberries, and the scent of her like fresh rain filling his senses. His lips pushed harder than he had intended to at first, a slender, clawed hand reaching from the confines of his cloak and brushing her waist. Thank the gods that you're safe, he thought happily at the sky above them, swirling with milky twilight. Thank Ifran. When he pulled away, he left his mouth open to speak. He licked a drop of moisture from his bottom lip first. "I'm cold." Without waiting for her consent, Laszlo adjusted the cloak on his shoulders, edging it around his back until he had enough to throw over the both of them. It was hardly adequate, but the warm of their bodies could do the rest. He reclined back on the roof beside her, snagging her middle with a long arm and holding her next to him. His forehead pressed into the silken weight of her hair. "I'm sorry I haven't been honest with you."

[Abalia]

What was there to do, but respond? The weight of the emotion she'd nearly crumpled beneath over the past week was blissfully purged by his bruising kiss, and Abalia could have wept for the catharsis. She sagged against him, all too willing, when he pulled away and tucked them both safely inside his cloak. She could feel the chill that must have ran bone deep in him, and though she was petite in comparison, she pressed her warm curves as snugly as she could manage to his side. Her head found that dip in the swell of his shoulder, that perfect place where it fit so naturally, and she sighed against him. "I don't think it matters," she said after a lengthy pause. With the fabric of his shirt bunched in her fingertips, the familiarity of his scent and his lithe form tucked against her, Abalia felt apt to forgive. What had she to gain from holding a grudge? That didn't mean that the image of Laszlo wrapped up in those other arms was any easier to swallow. It still made a dull sort of fury swell beneath her skin, made her heart constrict. Only now she hated the other for it, and somehow convinced her heart to overlook his part in the madness. Because if she didn't, she'd lose this, wouldn't she? "I just..." she said, her voice small and vulnerable against the curve of his throat. "I don't understand why... why her and not me, Laz?" He knew, or he should have known, anyway, that there was no place she'd prefer more in all of Alvadas to his bed. What deficiency did she have, then, that made a stranger preferable to the curve of her own hips, the sleek invite of smooth thigh, the hunger of her own slender arms?

[Laszlo]

At Abalia's question, Laszlo's featured tightened. Of course that was why she was upset. She had made that clear from her outburst, and the Ethaefal had had time after that to contemplate her jealousy. It was selfish and unfounded, or so he'd thought at first. More recently, however, he began to consider that perhaps he could have been more forthcoming with her. Lips parted, Laszlo made a hesitant noise. He could feel the answer in his head, but the words were escaping him. Fearing Abalia might recoil and push away, he tightened his arm around her. "I was afraid," he said at last, his amethyst eyes grazing over the top of the human's head, following singular strands of brunette. "You have no idea how much I wanted to, that night. But it's… as a Symenestra… I don't, I don't quite understand my own physiology, is what I'm saying. I didn't want to take a risk." How could he explain it eloquently? "I can tell, in this body, when you're most likely to… something about fertility cycles. I was at the height of mine and—" Of course, Laszlo was less concerned about becoming a father and more about Abalia becoming a mother. It was difficult to know whether the child would be Symenestra, human, or some Ethaefalen mix, but he couldn't run the risk of seeing her become like those surrogates in Kalinor. He shifted uncomfortably, the wooden shingles of their conquered rooftop digging into his hip. An arm moved an inch down to a warmer spot on Abalia's back. "I can't say for certain what would happen, being an Ethaefal. I don't know if it's been documented, or anything, but I just couldn't risk it. Not with you. That other woman, she doesn't mean anything. I didn't want to hurt her either, of course, but if something terrible happened, at least you wouldn't suffer for it." Laszlo swallowed hard amid the awkward tension. "Sating my passions has only ever served as distraction. It's not something I've ever taken that seriously." Never mind that he had only started this ritual of "distraction" in the past few seasons. "I never meant to spurn you."

[Abalia]

He hardly made sense, though the otherwise quick-witted Abalia tried to keep up. She didn't understand, really. His words coalesced with memories of things Seven had said, though. Derogatory things about Symenestra, a veiled suggestion of the danger she would face as Laszlo's lover. The time she'd spent with a Symenestra lover before, apparently, had been ineffective in regards to educating her on the reproductive struggles of his race. Smart, it had been, for Dolvich to keep her blissfully unaware. She'd never have shared his bed so willingly, so seriously considered leaving behind Roxanne if she had realized that she was only a pawn, and an expendable one at that. Surmising, then, that pregnancy had been at the root of his worries and that, for whatever reason, the idea was a dangerous one to Laszlo, Abalia ducked her blushing face against his shoulder. It was hardly a welcome thought for her, either. The last thing she needed was to be wandering the streets with a babe at her breast, trying to figure out how she'd feed the both of them. Something about Laszlo made her doubt the measure of grace with which he'd accept impending fatherhood; a lingering mistrust, perhaps, despite the verbal forgiveness she'd offered. As painful to her heart and her pride as the lesson had been, seeing Laszlo with that other woman had been an important lesson nonetheless. He wasn't hers to keep. "You don't have to rut between a strangers thighs to 'sate your passions'" she said in a mimicry that was at once eerily accurate, and yet amusing to say the least. She captured the inflection in his tone, the way his vowels flirted upwards at their ending, the general accent that wasn't quite like the language spoken on the streets of Alvadas. It was the sweet femininity of her voice that made it comical, so far removed from the pleasant masculinity of his own. "I thought we'd established that there are plenty of other ways to manage that." Their night together was a case in point. Though she'd exhausted all attempts at coercion and he had stolidly denied her, they'd slept very little. When Abalia had, at last, collapsed against his beautiful chest it had been with a most satisfied sense of exhaustion. She had thought the feeling had been mutual. At present, the petite brunette eyed the water that was lapping ever so gently against the pavement dubiously. Had it risen since she'd settled with Laszlo? Thinking of such things made it easier to distract herself from the overwhelming urge she felt to climb into his lap. She wanted to tangle her slender arms around his shoulders, to tuck her slender frame as tightly to him as she could manage. She wanted to do it all without the impediment of their clothing. She ached for him, in a way that confused lust and affection and a hundred more nebulous emotions to create a distinct sensation she'd never felt for someone before. "Or do you require variety?" There was a bite to her words, though the snappish retort reeked of lingering hurt and perhaps embarrassment. It was difficult to want to be all someone needed, and to be proven insufficient. Still, despite the chill to her words that matched the bitter air, Abalia held onto him with an unrelenting resolve.

[Laszlo]

"Variety is nice." Laszlo winced. As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew that it had been the exact wrong thing to say. You idiot. "Uh—I mean, no, I don't require it. I'm just not very picky." Wrong again. "Urgh, that isn't what I meant." Why was this so difficult to explain? His hand slid away from Abalia's back and emerged from the shelter of his cloak, sliding away a tangled lock of dark silver. The cool metal edge of his splint brushed his forehead, still adhered to his broken finger with several layers of linen. Laszlo needed a moment to pull himself out of this hole, so he shut his eyes, drawing his eyebrows together as he attempted to more carefully word an eloquent reply. This did not have to be so complicated. Couldn't he just lay here with her? And had she picked up on Laszlo's dodgy explanation for why he hadn't slept with her? He couldn't tell. "Look." That hand retreated back into the warmth of his shared cloak, snagging her waist again with a possessive flourish. "I don't remember establishing any rule that said I couldn't be with someone else. I'm fond of you, and you're my friend. Like Ifran, and Seven." Victor's name appeared in his head, and he chose not to use it. He ignored the plume of guilt that manifested alongside it, reminding him that he had watched Roxanne die. "I don't understand exactly why this bothers you. I…" The image of her angry face at the tavern, two of Ifran's hands around her waist. She had said something, and he'd brushed it off. "Wait, you said before… Abalia, I never decided that we were together. If that's what you want… couldn't you have just talked to me?" Where was Ifran, anyway? Shouldn't he have been keeping an eye on her? Although, Abalia had a mind of her own. It seemed reasonable that she had stolen out on her own.

[Abalia]

Oh, Laszlo, who had so often had a silver tongue and smoothed over her hurt with his thoughtful and well-timed words. Abalia stiffened from the beginning of his ridiculous rant, and by the time he'd finished she had extracted her slender arms from about his frame and wrapped them around her own knees instead. "Gods, you're an idiot," she murmured lowly, though she obviously didn't care if he heard. She was focused outwardly now, on the part of the city that was submerged. Her throat felt tight and tears pricked at her eyes, but she refused to fall to them. Whatever emotional volatility was causing this instability she'd been prone to lately, she hated it. Abalia supposed that, in part, this particular desire to sniffle stemmed more from the fact that she could no longer run to Roxanne's warm arms when the world battered and bruised her. If Roxxie had been here, Abalia would have probably written Laszlo off long before. There was no Roxxie, though. No one to love her unconditionally, no source of strength and companionship that was always waiting, like a beautiful sentinel, to care for her. She was alone. In this isolation she was all the more vulnerable to the impervious charms that made her fancy Laszlo so much, and even as he trampled all over her tender emotions for him with his careless, stupid words, she couldn't hate him for it. Life would be so much easier if only she could. "I don't want to be your friend like Ifran. Or Seven. Gods, Laz. Did you screw him too?"

[Laszlo]

With a heated sigh, Laszlo rolled onto his back and allowed Abalia to sit up. He remained there, his tall, lissome form laid against the incline of their stolen roof. The air pressed cold into his cloak, and the wooden shingles pressed even colder into his back. A tingling shudder slithered down his spine and crawled through each of his limbs. He felt like shivering again. Laszlo's amethyst eyes entered a staring contest with Zintila's blinking twilight, though he lost just a few seconds later. "No, Abalia. I didn't petch Seven." There was a pause, long enough for him to refresh the air in his lungs. "Wait, you mean Ifran? Ah… yes, I've been with him." Laszlo knew however that she wasn't just asking for academic reasons; she was comparing herself to these people. What could possibly be more pointless. His patience running out, the Ethaefal rolled forward to sit up, propping his weight on one slender arm. "Abalia, I've been with a handful of people. Do you want me to name all of them?" Something about sitting here on her level became mildly infuriating, so he rose briskly to his feet. His jaw trembled briefly from the cold as he readjusted his cloak. Before them, some of the taller buildings underwater still managed to break the surface, creating dark, artificial islands. A stray cat had found itself stranded one of them. Didn't Abalia have a dog? "It's part of the reason I didn't sleep with you that night. You're special to me, Abalia. I didn't want to just use you for hollow gratification. You deserve better." Despite his words, his voice carried a certain venom, an acidity that betrayed his waning patience. It was frustrating to think that Abalia wasn't aware of the lengths he had gone through to keep her safe. His finger was broken because of her. It ached in her ignorance. "Abalia, I…" His voice failed him and fell. Laszlo was silent for a moment as he collected his words for another try. When he finished, he turned partially to almost face her. The base of his throat stung unnaturally. "Where is Ifran?" was not what he wanted to say, but that's what came out. The Ethaefal had to push her away, or she was going to get hurt. Victor may have lost interest in Abalia for now, but if they met again, Laszlo was sure it would be renewed. "You should be with him. He's a better man than I am."

[Abalia]

With her rosy lips pursed in a stubborn pout as he spoke, Abalia gave a humorless laugh at last when he inquired about Ifran's location. "Hell if I know. You know Ifran a whole lot better than I do. Just follow your cock, Laszlo. Maybe it'll lead you to him." Abalia wished for something to throw into the water, but her small hands came up empty with only the rooftop to search. Somehow his words only deepened her offense. She didn't want to be special to him if it meant he was constantly sending her away and wrapping those long arms around someone else instead. It seemed as if they were speaking two different languages, somehow, and that only compounded her frustration. "And who're you to judge the value of a person for me, anyway?" Abalia stood at last, too, dusting her hands as she did so. "Ifran is a pretty picture. He's whatever he needs to be for the day. I'm not sure anyone ever really knows him. And if I'd rather stand on a rooftop and argue with a ridiculous ethaefal, well, by gods, it isn't your place to decide otherwise." Abalia huffed a little when she had finished, staring up at him. "I feel like... I feel like you want to wrap me up in a mound of feathers and ... and... protect me from everything. I don't even know what that means, Laz, but for the love of Syna, stop it." Pretty chin thrust out stubbornly, she stepped forward until her small hands could splay against his sides, fingers curling just above his hips. "I'm not as fragile as I seem," she continued, in a softer tone. "I'm strong enough for you. To be with you."