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FIC: sipara nzinga, a childhood memory
Raphae always leaves the door to his respiteblock unlocked. He says it’s because he wants to make everyone feel welcome - he’s got all sorts of shit in his room, real fancy stuff that’s got no place in the rest of the house like his clothes and his weapons, and he’s always harping on about how you and Pheres should feel free to use any of it.
But that’s just bull he likes to spin. There’s all sorts of shit in there he doesn’t want you handling! Like his guns. The first time he walked in and saw you playing with one, he went as white as a daywalker, and the next night, every single one of them was behind a lock. Fucker.
Other things you’re not allowed to handle: his knives, his rail’s books on biology that he keeps up on the top shelf and that you have to bribe to Duckdad to knock loose. All the liquor and candies he keeps hidden away in his drawers, like that stuff’s worth hiding. It doesn’t even taste any good!
His fancy highblood paint-pots.
You’re pretty sure he’d have hidden those away if he’d ever thought twice about it, but neither you or Pheres have ever shown much interest. Why the fuck would you? You and Pher decided ages ago that two of you have got to be the prettiest motherfuckers this side of the district. You don’t need paint to cover your mugs!
At least, that’s what you’ve always thought. But lately, it’s been bugging you that everyone at Carnival is always wearing paint, and you’re not. Most nights, you’re the only bare-faced pupa in the whole, entire tent, and everyone likes to make sure you know it. Especially the big indigoes.
If it weren’t for the fact Riccin’s always trailing you like the world’s most annoying shadow and ID’s always hanging in the wings, ready to intervene - like you’re the one trying to start fights with everyone! - you’d have probably gotten snatched up for club practice already.
As is, they sure do fucking like to call your symbolhight for tithe. ID calls it the price of being a flatscan in church. You call it fucking hoofbeastshit.
It’s not fair! If you were wearing paint, no one’d think you were anything but one of the dumb churchrats, and you wouldn’t stand out at all. (You like standing out, but not when they make you bleed for it.)
And if Riccin got to wear paint, why shouldn’t you? You know the hymnbooks way better than she does, even the really stupid bits that don’t make any sense no matter how much you read them.
“Flatscan bitches don’t get to wear paint,” Riccin told you last night when you’d asked her, “because you fuckers are paint. You gonna cull your ‘rail and wear ‘em on your mug, Nzinga? ‘cause that’s fucking nasty.”
And then she’d refused to share hers, even after you punched her.
All of your stipend goes into Pheres’s bank right now, and you’re not sour about it: the fuck do you need caegars for, with a hive over your head and food in your digestionsack? He’s the one out in his silly cart all day, working on those books, surviving off of his dumb coffee, and you’re happy to help him out any way you can.
Except it turns out paint costs cash that you don’t have, and you don’t want to go crying to ID for it. He’d give you the caegars, but he doesn’t like the fact you started trailing him to Carnival in the first place. If he knew it was for paint, he’d tug off your ears.
But Raphae goes out every day all decked out in paint, and even if it’s the wrong type - all neutral tones and lowblood hues, with a little bit of violet for his moirail and indigo for his job, not the white and black and gray that you need -
Well, you figured you could make it work.
But it’s not working. The paint’s going on all wrong, clumping and peeling off your skin as it dries, and the rest of it isn’t doing much better. You keep poking yourself in the eye with the charcoal stick, and the lines you’ve managed are fucking awful, all streaky and shaky instead of the smooth swoops that both he and Riccin wear.
And the fact the stupid birds won’t shut up isn’t helping. Most of the time you go into Raphae’s room, all three of ‘em will come bustling after you: Bennue to snoop, terrordad to see if you’re stealing him more sweetmeats, and duckdad usually just 'cause he fell asleep on terrordad’s back again. You don’t bother to keep them out. They’re lusus! They’re supposed to be, like, able to go wherever they want.
You should’ve made 'em leave, though, because after the fourth time you poked yourself in the eye and started to get mad, they all started getting fussy. Bennue just lectures, but terrordad actually tried to make you leave, hooking his big beak into the sleeve of your shirt and pulling. You’re too big for him to actually haul you, like he does with Pheres, but he tugged and tugged until you were sure it was going to rip, and you had to fling pots at him to finally get him to leave.
And now the other two are nesting up high on the mirror. Bennue keeps making reproachful noises at you like you’re the one being awful, but worse is the way turtleduckdad is just crooning. Like you’re a fucking wriggler, throwing a fit.
You’d throw jars at them, but that’d just prove them right. And if Raphae comes back to find his bathroom a mess, he might legit murder you.
When duckdad sets off crooning again, though, you’re starting not to care.
“Shut up!” you yowl, and the charcoalstick snaps in your fronds. They’re shaking. When did they start shaking? Why are you so awful at this? “Shut up, shut up, shut UP!”
“Don’t yell at the birdies, pupa,” ID drawls from the doorway. In the mirror, his eyes are narrow, and his voice is his usual, snide drawl: “You’ll wake up Iphie.”
You can just barely see terrordad behind him, feathers all afluff, his head hanging down low. He’s still got indigo ink all over his face where you flung the pot at him, and he won’t look at you.
“Your pop’s a fucking traitor,” you tell ID, hunching your shoulders, and you drag your paint pots closer. You’re not going to throw paint at the lusii, because they’re small and they finally just shut up, but if ID’s come in here just to nettle you…
“I’ve been told that.” He’s just standing there, not saying anything, and this should be okay. It should feel better than him trying to talk to you, but it doesn’t: the longer the silence hangs, the more your soundstem is tightening, until it feels like the words are building up and you’re going to burst from the effort of holding them back.
Sometimes you wish you could chatter, like your rail: words come easy to him, bubbling up like fizz in a spritzer, but you can’t figure out what you want to say. All you have is a desperate sort of unhappiness, building tighter and tighter in your belly, and if you don’t start gabbing, you’re going to burst.
You don’t know what to say. You don’t even want to say anything, not really, but ID is just standing there, his own paint impeccable, and it’s not a matter of want: you’ve got to say something, or it’s starting to feel like you’ll die.
“It’s not fair,” is what you finally manage, snapping off the words. You slam your palm down on the desk hard enough that it makes the pots on top skitter. That’s not good enough. You want to break them, snap them, ruin them: leave them looking like you feel, all sharp points and broken edges. Raphae can cull you for ruining his stuff. You don’t care. “I just –”
“Why can’t I be like you?” you say, and it comes out as a wail.
ID stares. He’s gone all wide-eyed and quiet and he’s not saying anything, just looking, and it’s not helping. This was supposed to help! You hiss at him, your ears going back, but now that you’ve started talking, you can’t seem to stop. “It’s not fair! Everyone else wears paint, and everyone else’s got powers, and - and - so should I! Why don’t I?”
The world’s going hazy with red. You swipe furiously at your bulbs with the back of your mitt until they ache and your hands gone all rusty, but at least the world’s clear again. Mostly. “Oh,“ ID says, flat. “Pupa. No.”
The air lights up with purple, so thick that you can almost feel it on your skin. The remnants of the charcoal brush gets tugged free from your hands, and then the pots go skittering back on the table, far out of your reach.
“You daft little widget. What’d you want to go and be like me for?” Everyone in this hive is so tall: it only takes him two, three steps to get over to you, and that’s not fair, either. You should be the tallest person, but instead you’re just itsy and runty and small –
“I’m just an old fussbucket, remember?” He snatches Raphae’s fancy blue rag from the clothholder, and the way he mops up your face, careful not to let the clothscrap scrub at your skin, is nicer than his voice. (Thank god. You don’t think you could deal with it if he was trying to speak nice to you.) “What’d you call me yesterday? Worthless old fancyfoot?”
“But you have psionics.” Your voice is all low and reedy, and you could just bite yourself. You sound like Pheres. You sound weak. Ugh.
“And what d'you think you need those for?” And maybe he agrees, because ID flicks you in the horn with a lacquered nail, hard enough that you hiss. The purple’s faded. His eyes are just his usual yellow-on-yellow, familiar and mean and bright. “There we go,” he says, pleased: “There’s my little thresher. Look at this!”
He yanks you in close to him, a hand pressed to your newly clean cheek. Before you can react, he’s tugging at your seedflap, pulling up your upper lip so you’re snarling in the mirror. “Three inch fangs! And you’re built like an antlion. You know how many trolls would kill for that? You wouldn’t have that if you were a sparkplug, dearash.“
You snap at his fingers, making sure you stop right before you hit them, and he laughs, releasing your face and curling them in tight. “Hell-lion,” he corrects himself, fond. “You don’t want psionics, sweetgrub. You don’t need them.”
“Riccin says –”
“And what’ve I told you about listening to what the clowns say?” He clicks his tongue, and taking you by the shoulder, steers you away from the mirror. The clothscrap’s all crumpled up on the desk where he left it, and the whole thing’s a mess, but he doesn’t seem to care. You guess Raphae’ll clean it up.
That’s fine. Raphae won’t get mad at ID. No one ever gets mad at ID, not for long.
Not even you. He ruffles your hair idly, pulling you in close as he leads you to the recreationblock. “Riccin’s an idiot,” he tells you. “You’re better off the way you are, Sipara. Trust me on this.”