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PHERES, INKTOBER DAY 1: POWER
PHERES DYSSEU | 16 YEARS OLD / ~7 SWEEPS | 1,401 WORDS
Raphae’s hive is all done up in blues and pinks, cloying enough that it looks like it stepped straight out of a magazine. There’s dancing bears on the walls, and carved into the furniture, and decorating the couch. There’s stuffed birds with their glistening black eyes and tiny beaks everywhere. When Chapar reaches out for Iphige’s lusus, you don’t have time to warn him.
Turtleduckdad pulls his neck all the way into his feathers with a warning hiss, eyes snapping open, and Chapar drops him with a yelp.
“I’m so sorry,” you murmur, gently shooing the duck away. Chapar just folds his arms, tucking his hands into his sleeves.
“Wow. This apartment is definitely, like -” He exhales slowly as he looks around, but you can’t quite bring yourself to try and see it like he does. Maybe the first time you’d walked in, you’d been impressed. The only hive you’d ever seen back then was the Birdhouse, crowded wall from wall with trolls who’d never left and never would, and from the detritus of those long gone. Back then, it’d been breathtaking.
But now.. it’s been too many sweeps since the first time Sipara hauled you in. You’ve had too many customers since then, from cerulean to indigo, to even a violet, once, and next to all of that -
Raphae’s hive does look like it’s from a magazine. Unfortunately, it’s just not the priciest one on the rack, and when push comes to shove, there’s only so impressed you can be with any apartment that features a crying bear as the entryway’s centerpiece.
Chapar, though.. he’s never gone on deliveries like you! He’s never truly had a clade with the amount of wealth you’re used to. The closest he’s ever had to a clade is Malaya’s troupe, and when he’s fawned over Malaya’s apartment every time the two of you’d spent the day there, you’ve never been able to quite bring yourself to pointing out exactly how little a navy’s stipend can truly pay for. It was all very impressive, from the carpets to the television, and Malaya had expected the both of you to be impressed.
It’s just.. well. It’s hard to be impressed by a television, after you’ve been inside homes with proper theaters.
“It’s nice, isn’t it?” you say lightly, bouncing up on your toes. There’s an empty teacup on the nearest endtable, one of the ones that weeps rainbows from the mouth. You gently spin it around before Chapar can see, then drift towards the piano room, because - well, there’s no reason, really, except that the way his breath catches at the sight of it is uniquely gratifying. It’s real wood, with the sort of imperfections that come from being cohorts old. The one in Malaya’s house had been teak. "Ah, I want to show you the kitchens!“
"Don’t you mean the kitchen?” he says, faint.
“Ah - no. I hate to brag, but..” Chapar’s looking at you like he’s daring you to finish. You titter, hand flitting in front of your mouth, but it doesn’t quite hide your sheepish grin. His eyes widen.
“Would you believe,” you murmur, apologetic, while he just stares, “we’ve got three?”
He stays tight on your heels as you lead him through the front hall, and - perhaps you shouldn’t feel so smug about the way he’s just growing more and more skittish with every step. After all, this isn’t your hive, ultimately. This isn’t your home, in any sense of the word. You’ve always been on the very outskirts of the clade, just like you hover on the outskirts of Malaya’s, and while Sipara belongs here, you’re just her moirail. You’ve always slept in her recuperacoon, and you’ve always considered yourself lucky for it.
But - no, it’s not really like Malaya’s clade, is it? You’re not properly a part of that at all, for all that the two of you are practically matesprits. No, here, at least, you’ve got a key, and you’ve got a quadrant who lives here, one who’s willing to wear your colour and use your name. And Raphae’s said over and over that you’re free to stay around as much as you’d like. He adores you, the way clade’s supposed to, and Iphige tolerates you, and if Iconic brightens at the sight of you, for all the wrong reasons -
- well! Iconic’s supposed to be out tonight, which is why you dropped by. The rest of the trolls here are your clademates, and that means you belong here, even if it isn’t yours. If Sipara was here, she’d expect you to show it off, really.
And she should be here. Iconic’s out, but she didn’t have anything scheduled. You can hear clanking from the nearest doorway. You start to lift a hand, but when you glance back, it’s unnecessary: Chapar’s stopped by a telephone, his hands locked behind him like he’s afraid of breaking it. “Sipa,” you call out, “are you here?”
There’s a clattering. Sure enough, Sipara flounces out from behind the doorframe of the kitchen, covered in flour.
A moment later, like a ghost, Iconic trails out after her, an arm slung loosely around her shoulders. He’s in the air - when isn’t he in the air, these nights? - and he’s making her tow him like a boat behind. “Siparaja,” he complains, and although his eyes narrow when he sees you, his voice doesn’t slow. “You’re going to tug my arms off, ashmite, and then where’ll we be? And the butter’s going to scald!”
But she’s not paying any attention to that. She’s looking at you, and then she’s peering past you, all the way back at Chapar.
Her eyes lock onto his symbol, but you can practically see her running the numbers in her head. The next smile she flashes is as bright and sunny as any she’d aim at you. “Pheres!” she shrieks, giving Iconic a shove as she shrugs him off forcibly. Her eyes are still fixed on Chapar, and - oh! If it’d been Malaya, you’d never have risked this. But you know how Sipara works.
You know she’ll take anything over a blueblood, even if it’s an olive with more blue hanging from his ears than skin.
And sure enough, she doesn’t so much as direct a snarl his way. Sipara gets right intp Chapar’s face, bumping her nose against his as he flinches back. “Hi!” Then she pivots to fling herself into your arms, full-bodied. When you stumble, she just wraps her arms around you, burying her face in your hair like it’s been perigees, not one week. “Pheres, tyrian tits, I missed youuu. Who’s this? The fuck, you didn’t say you were coming - you didn’t say you were bringing anyone –”
“Sipara,” you say, muffled. She’s butting her head against your chin like a cat, and you’re having to avoid curls in your mouth with every word. Perhaps you’d be better off if you just accepted them, because ID looks like he’s ready to cull you right here. “Hello! Ah - this is Chapar! I’ve told you all about him -”
“Hi,” Chapar squeaks, his ears pinned, and for a moment, you think Sipara’s going to say something. Her nose wrinkles like she just might.
You’re not expecting Iconic to beat her to it. “You’re bringing home strays now? My goodness gracious, Dysseu.” How much condescension can one troll fit into his words? Your face’s warming as he takes in Chapar, eyes dragging up and down him like he’s trying to judge. “I just didn’t know we were a gosh darn hostel -”
You open your mouth.
“Oh my god, ID, shut up,” Sipara snaps over her shoulder instead, before you can get the words out, and in the sudden silence, you could hear a pin drop. She doesn’t seem to notice, though. She just grins at you, toothy and eager, and twines her arm through yours as she tugs you towards the nearest kitchen. “C'monnn. We made honeypots! You should try ‘em. D'you like honeypots, dude? 'cause, like, spoiler alert, I’m the best cook for 'em in the entire fucking city –”
Beside you, Chapar’s brows are knit, but he’s trying to match her grin, nervous though he is. But when you beam, you’re not watching Sipara. No, your gaze is locked on Iconic.
He does not smile back.
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