CW: 23 / 17 YEAR OLD AGE GAP, SEVERE POWER BALANCE, AN UNFORTUNATE LESSON IN "sleeping with someone who hates you will not make them not hate you".
ICONIC DISQUIET | 9 sweeps, 23 years old
PHERES DYSSEU | 7 sweeps, 17 years old
“It’s 3PM,” the television sings, “do you know where your clademates are?”
And just on cue, the door slides open.
The lights in the common room are dimmed. The curtains have been drawn shut, but this late in the day, there’s no way to fully block the sunlight: it creeps in through the cracks in the fabric, seeping into the floor in front of each window in golden pools that make your eyes water. You’ve told Raphae to get a better tint on the panes, but he likes the light. Says it gives the room atmosphere.
“And besides, babe,” he chided, last time you’d brought it up: “- why are you up at 3PM, anyway?”
The next time you start to complain about the light, you’re going to remember this: Pheres walking into the room, wearing enough white that it feels like a slap to the face. There’s white on his shirt, white on his pants, white painted in arching designs across both prongs of that obscene rack. He’s bright enough that he’s practically glowing.
No, scratch that: he’s taken out his lenses, and what you’d thought was an after-image is his eyes, glowing bright as two suns in the darkness.
He’s scrubbing at his face as he heads in. He doesn’t pay you any mind, not at all, not until you clear your throat.
“ID,” he says, startling.
“That’s me,” you drawl. You mute the television with your psionics and keep knitting, the click of your needles loud in the sudden silence. “The one and only! And where are you going, mister daywalker?”
He’s never quite dropped his hand from his face. But now it flicks up, fingers brushing close to his eyes before he forces it down. Forces: you can see the muscles in his arm going taut, drawn tense as the tendons in his neck.
His smile barely deserves the name. “.. funny.”
“I’m a regular comedian, sweetheart.” He’s lingering directly in front of your television, shifting from foot to foot, but when he notices you watching, he stops moving and lifts his chin. Behind him, the show’s flipped from the commercials back to the recital. But although you can see a familiar pair of horns bobbing behind him, you don’t gesture him to move. Not just yet!
You’ve seen Apollo Harley’s last performance a dozen times. But it isn’t often that Pheres comes slinking into the apartment when he’s alone! Why, usually, he doesn’t even risk it with his moirail.
He’s usually too scared. Too terrified, poor pupa: he’s grown in sweeps and inches since Sipara first hauled him in, with his scabbed over face and his cullbait eyes, but he’s never really changed. Never stopped suspecting you were one bad day from culling him, as soon as Raphae turned his back.
There’s something flattering about that level of fear! But he hasn’t been cowering at the sound of your very name, lately. And right now, he isn’t even quaking, poor dear. Why, he’s acting like he’s not scared of you at all, and if it weren’t for the were holding his body taut, maybe you’d even believe it.
He’s scared, but he’s refusing to show it. That’s something new! And that’s far more interesting than any old recording.
When he slinks forward, you click your needles together, a loud clack that stops him mid-step. “Now, don’t ignore me! That’s rude, sugarhorns.”
“.. my apologies. I didn’t expect you wanted to chat, given that it’s so late, so. Ah. I’m going to bed.” The ‘obviously’ hangs silent. “Raphae gave me a key,” he adds, so sweet and pleasant that it almost makes you pause. It’s the sort of tone he uses on Raphae. It’s not one you’ve ever had directed at you, not from this half-grown sprig: Pheres’s always been sharp and anxious, the few times Sipara hasn’t spoken for him. “Presumably the offer still stands?”
“Well! It’s not like it’s my hive, sugarhorns,” you say, blithe, “so if Raphae said you can stay, I guess that’s that. But the guest room’s that way.”
You wave with a needle over towards the far hall, but all Pheres does is laugh. Then he grins at you, sheepish and lopsided as he threads a hand through his hair.
“Ah.” He’s darker than Raphae. The white of his clothes feels blinding even in the light of the room, bright enough that it makes you want to squint as the sunlight catches on the gauze, turns it irisdiscent. “Yes, I realise,” he murmurs. “I was going to Sipara’s, actually.”
“Sipara’s asleep, dearheart, like all good, little pupas.”
And that gets you a frown.
“I’m not going to wake her.” Patience is layered thick as syrup in his words, softening the edges. No wonder Raphae likes him so much: he’s nearly as cloying as one of his co-stars. “I’m just going to sleep -”
“In her recuperacoon?” you ask, raising your eyebrows, and your needles click together as you start the next row. “Just climb in there, smelling like you just dipped yourself into a vat of vodka? Booze and sopor doesn’t mix, fourprongs! You’ll wake her right up.”
“And that’s no good.” You click your tongue, shaking your head. “Sipa-dear has actually been working all night, unlike some of us,” you inform him. “She needs her rest! And not to have it ruined worrying after why her moirail’s come limping in at 3PM, looking like the most bedraggled dandelion in the field.”
“Did you actually go out like that, by the way, or did you lose your glasses along the way? Oh! ‘scuse me, sweetpea, glasses and lenses,” you say, helpfully. “Don'tcha know those are expensive? I know that our little rust makes bank, but that’s no call to get careless!”
He lifts his chin. “Sipara doesn’t pay for me,” Pheres says, prim. “Or for my clothes. But, ah, thank you for your concern! But I assure you, I’m not going to wake her up.” There’s nothing on his shirt, but he dusts the front of it off all the same, fingers tugging at the end of his sleeves and straightening them out flat. “I’ll see you in the evening. Enjoy your..”
He glances towards the television. You missed the first blood, listening to him; there’s maroon on the floor, but the poor schlub who got cut is nowhere to be seen. Pheres’s nose wrinkles as Harley’s shoe skirts the pool, close enough that the fabric wrinkles from the heat of it. “.. show,” he says. “Enjoy your show.”
Then he turns and stalks towards the back hall.
You let him take the first three feet. Of course you do! Garbed in white or not, Pheres isn’t exactly a sight for sore eyes: that ridiculous rack of his is long enough to make some of the church-rats jealous, and it’s glossed, to boot, the rough arches gleaming gold in the sunlight. With the curls catching around it and the horns curling on bottom, even you have to admit, it’s kind of fucking gorgeous.
And the rest of him sn’t quite a sight for sore eyes, either.
So you let him take the first three feet, then you snatch hold of him with your psionics. Pink tangles around his ribs and shoulders, and you spin him mid-step. When he stumbles, it’s right back into the recreationblock.
“Hey, there,” you say, amused. “I think you got a little confused, spacecadet! Understandable, really, considering your awful drinking habits, but I’m pretty sure I said the guest room was thattaway.”
The look he gives you this time is infinitely more familiar. “Yes, you did,” he says, mild, but there’s that sharp edge you’re used to. Except it’s fascinating, really, because for once, it’s just him: he’s not peeking from behind Sipara’s shoulder, like she’s the worst kind of meat-shield, like she could really do anything if you decided to cull him.
It’s just him, chin up, nose high, like he’s got any right to look down on you. “But I’m not heading there.”
He turns on his heel. You give him another two feet before you spin him around, and this time, he actually flails when the pink lights of your psionics snap into existence.
It doesn’t do anything. He snaps a hand through one band, breaking it, but you’re already tugging him right-ways with the others.
“To the left, sweetheart,” you say, helpfully.
He actually hisses at you. You’ve spent too much time around Riccin and Sipara! When his ears don’t flip back to match, just stay all stiff and round, it actually throws you.
What throws you more is the way he flares up a split second later, eyes lighting up like embers in the night. Psi snaps off of the corners, bright enough that you can hear the whine of it at the edge of your range.
“Stop it!” he snaps, baring his fangs so the light hits them, and wouldn’t that just be a sight, if they weren’t nubs?
“Well, good job, fourprongs, that was practically fucking eloquent.” The ding of your protocol is still new. When Raphae had said he didn’t like cursing, you hadn’t realised how far his definition spread: it feels like someone puts a finger to your node and presses, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough you know it’s there. “Maybe if you say please,” you drawl, trying to ignore the intrusion, “I’ll consider it.”
He just looks at you.
And then Pheres takes a deep breath. When he closes his eyes, the room dims, the light fading down to something almost managable. When he opens them, the glow’s dimmer, too, a slower hue that matches the slow rise and fall of his chest, and it’s a nice effect, you’ll give him that.
“Iconic,” he says, slow and proper, each syllable in that clipped, rural accent of his. He’s grown a few inches in the past few perigees! Seems like everyone’s been doing that, except for you: he’s gained the two, maybe three inches he needed to catch up with Sipara, and he’s tall enough to actually look down his nose at you from the couch. “Might I please go sleep in my moirail’s room? As is her stated preference?”
There’s so much condescension layered in his voice. You let the question hang, because there’s something absolutely precious in the way his breath picks back up in response. Has he always imitated Raphae like this, and you just never noticed? You’d known he was a little cuckoo, but the way he’s holding himself - like a proper little blueblood - is amazing.
“Well,” you finally say. “That just didn’t sound very sincere, sweetheart.”
“Stop calling me that.” Three steps, and he’s halfway across the room, his knees bumping into the coffee table in front of you. The glass figurines on top shift, clinking into each other, and you tsk, reaching out to fix where a ceramic kitten nearly fell to the edge. “Careful,” you scold, but he doesn’t pay you any mind, none at all.
“And what is your problem?” he demands. “Being her auspistice doesn’t make you her keeper. She has a lusus, Iconic. She doesn’t need a second one. And she has a moirail. We always sleep in the same recuperacoon.” Frustration leaks in. “I’m not going to wake her up. For heaven’s sake, I’m her moirail. I think I’m a lttle more concerned about that then you.”
“But you’re such a bad one, pupa.” His eyes widen. Then he flushes, red flaring fire-bright in his cheeks. “Oh, sorry,” you laugh, “do you prefer me not using that, either? Sugargrub. Sweethorns. Fourprongs, how’s that –”
“I don’t see how you can judge bad moirails, considering yours is going into the helmsblock.” A beat.
“Or is that your preference?” he says, prim. “I know how your.. religion views such things.”
.. well!
Scratch that. He’s definitely not afraid of you anymore.
You blink at him, watching his face to see if he’ll realise how much he just erred. But Pheres’s chin is up, and his mout set. The jut of his upper horns would almost be threatening, if they weren’t curved over his shoulders, the tips blunted and round.
“My religion,” you repeat, curious, and he gestures sharply towards his cheek. Now that he’s mentioned it, you can feel the black bars on your skin. You’d forgotten to take off your paint after the performance - and of course he’d think you’re a part of the Navigressors, with grease still on your hide.
It almost makes sense. That’s so noteworthy, with Sipara’s little cullbait. “Really? Don’t you mean the clade religion? Because I think you’re a little out-numbered.”
“Sipara’s outgrown it,” he says, peering down at you through his lashes. “It’s a shame the rest of you haven’t.”
You’re not entirely sure what’s changed since the last time you paid any attention to Pheres! Sipara’s spent whole twilights furious about him dealing with bluebloods: maybe their shitty pride has rubbed off. Maybe this is just liquid courage, turning from some cowering rust to someone worth noticing.
You don’t really care why: you like it.
The sunlight to his back puts his face in shadows, and then the light of his psionics set his features into sharp relief. His features look stone-cut in the darkness. The set of his body language is downright imperious. If you slapped fins on him, they wouldn’t be out of place - but why bother with fins, when he’s got that curling rack?
No wonder he’s got that brace on his neck. Between the weight of both sets, it’s a wonder it hasn’t just snapped.
It’s a wonder someone hasn’t snapped it!
But seeing this half-grown sprout try and get belligerent at you is the best entertainment you’ve had all night.
“But it doesn’t matter,” he continues. His chin’s up, but now there’s amusement seeping into his voice, too, sweet and poisonous as bad well-water. “You realise you can’t actually stop me, don’t you?”
He lifts a hand, and snaps. There’s a buzzing in your horns, seeping all the way down into your horn-bed as energy builds - then light flares at his fingertip, pooling down into the bed of his palm as it grows. Psionic tricks like this are a dime a dozen. Doesn’t mean the way the light creeps across his skin, darkening the hue and bleaching out the white of his clothes, isn’t attractive. “It’s Sipara’s hive, too. I can go anywhere in this block that I want. I was being polite,” he emphasizes, eyes narrowed, “in asking, instead of just jumping.”
“I wasn’t actually asking permission.”
Oh, right. That’s what his power was.
(What sort of maroonblood teleports?)
“Isn’t that just sweet of you?” He doesn’t slouch, at that, which’s a surprise: his lips thin instead, his horn tilts up. If he were a more interesting troll, he would’ve growled. It’s a shame he isn’t. “D'you want a medal, fourprongs? ‘cause I’m afraid I’m all out.”
“It’s a good thing you were polite,” you add. “Just imagine what might’ve happened if you weren’t! Why, some cullbait vagrant just storming into my matesprit’s hive, in the wee hours of the night. Barging into my poor auspitice’s room. What’s a fellow to do, in that case?”
“I mean, just look at yourself. I’m surprised the security bots even let you in through the door, to be honest!” He opens his mouth. You laugh, waving a hand, and unfold yourself from the couch.
Pheres stiffens, but he doesn’t step back when you step forward. He doesn’t flinch, either - and isn’t that just a disappointment? “Oh, honeypie, I know you’re on the admissions list,” you drawl, “but look at yourself. You look like a goddamn ghoul. If they had any sense, they would’ve culled you, just to be sure.”
“But I guess you’re just lucky like that.” He tucks his chin in, tossing his head. On anyone else, it’d be a horn toss. On him, it’s just absurd. “Unfor~tunately for you, my little raspberry, I’m just not as forgiving as the bots! If you try to do your little bunny-hop in, my darling sprite, I will haul you out personally, how’s that?” You place a hand on his shoulders. He’s coiled tight under you: if he gets any tenser, he might just break.
Poor thing.
And you don’t want to break him. Sipara would get upset, bless her heart! But you do dig your nails in as you lean in, and your smile’s as thin as his lips. “Or ma~aybe,” you drawl, “I’ll just do all of us a favour and haul you out the window, how’s that? Sipa’ll get over it –”
When he tenses, you know he’s going to do something. but you’re not expecting him to slam those absurd horns right into the underside of your chin. Your head jerks up even as you start to twist away, and he takes advantage of that. His hands plant firmly in your shoulders and he shoves, hard.
Sweeps of experience should keep you upright! But momentum wins. You fall, hitting the coffee table, and distantly you hear the tinkling of glass shattering. More relevant is the way you haven’t let go of his shoulders, though. Pheres writhes like a snake, fangs bared, but you haul him down with you.
Your ass hits the edge of the table, then your shoulders. Instinct alone has your horns hitting the soft carpet with a puft, rather than the wooden edge. And there’s bony knees digging into your hips, and bony fingers digging holes into your shoulders. Above you, Pheres is as wide-eyed as if he was the one that just got fucking shoved.
“Did you just break my cats?” you demand, incredulous, and letting go of his shoulders, you fumble around you on the carpet. Everywhere you touch, there’s glass.
This close, with the dark of the ceiling above him, you can make out the faded bloom of his pupils, faded pink behind the glare of the white. Before, he’d flushed. Now he’s just red, the colour creeping up like a rash.
When he realises you’re staring, he laughs, brittle and high. “I did you a favour. An undeserved one. They’re fucking terrible.” His fingers curl in, his nails biting into your bare skin. “I’m not going to apologise,” he adds. “You deserved that.”
You really, really should cull him for this. Half of those figurines are collector’s items! They are unique and precious to you, and worse yet, they’re irreplaceable. They don’t even make them anymore! You can feel the shards digging into your back through the fabric of your cardigan, undoubtedly ripping holes into the weave of the fabric. But unlike your poor figurines, you can always replace the sweater.
And right now, even with dollar signs dancing in front of your eyes.. you can’t bring yourself to be too irate over the figurines. Pheres’s half bent over you, knees framing your hips, his claws digging into your shoulders. This close, he’s warm as the sunlight on his back, and when you shift, letting yourself get a bit more comfortable on the ground, he doesn’t move.
He just exhales, a little shakily. This close, you can smell the vodka on his breath, but it doesn’t matter: he’s a psionic, and his eyes aren’t dull. He’s burned it off. If he hasn’t, he will.
“Besides,” he adds, “you can’t complain. You’re not even bleeding.”
“Yet,” you say, and shrug your shoulders. “Watch your nails, pupa, they’re sharp.”
Pheres blinks, looking down at his hands like he forgot they were there. Then he jolts up, eyes wide, nervous laughter bubbling up like foam from a spritzer. “Ah -” Surprise sets in. For a moment, he’s straight as a board, sliding back like he’s able to pull off of you entirely.
But he doesn’t. He looks down at you, eyes wide, then he relaxes, inch by inch. “Don’t call me pupa,” is what he says, waspish, even as he clasps his hands in front of him. (No blood on his claws, but he actually manicured them, and they’re as white as the gauze on his arms. It’s absurd.)
“I already told you that. I have a name.”
“So Sipara’s told me, unfortunately!” It’s a little hard to focus on anything but the glutes on your hips, honestly. You shift, bracing an elbow behind you, and look up at him. Pheres isn’t half-bad looking from this angle, all things considered! If he didn’t keep talking, you’d focus on that.
But he doesn’t seem keen to shut the fuck up. “Right. She’s told you.” He shakes his head at you. “She’s told you all about me, and us, and I’m sure she’s mentioning me every time I so much as message her,” he says, and it’s not bragging: he states it as a fact, crisp and clean and without so much as an edge of doubt in his voice. “Because we’re moirails. And that’s what moirails do. You’re so concerned about me waking her!”
“Well, how do you think she’d feel about this? Me scrapping on the ground with you, like we’re a couple of lowbloods?”
“.. are we scrapping? Last I saw,” you note, “you’re the one that took a swing, darling. And now you’re just sitting on me.”
He flushes at that, but when he shoves at your shoulder, breath so terse it comes out as a hiss, he doesn’t move.
Oh, you should move him. You know you should, honestly, and you can hear Raphae in the back of your pan, dubious, as loud as a pan nanny: “- are you robbing the school creches now, Iconic?” But you can’t bring yourself to care.
He’s pretty, and he’s warm, and if he’d just shut up –
Well. You can’t say you’re averse, not when this is getting fascinatingly caliginious. Caliginious is a strong word for it, maybe: you’re not precisely certain what he’s doing here. The only thing you’re sure of is that he has no idea what he’s doing here.
If only he’d shut up.
“That’s not moirallegience,” you say, because you can’t resist an opening, and Pheres is nothing but them: he’s targets upon targets, all there to be fucking prodded. “That’s co-dependence.”
Pheres swells. “What do you even know about quadrants?” he demands, flustered, fucking aghast. “You don’t even care about the ones you have! I’ve never even seen that yellow that you and Sipara are all about - you don’t have pictures of him up, you don’t have his name up. On anything. I’ve checked.” He’s emphasizing each word, gesturing with a hand as he talks. “Or Iphige’s, or.. even Raphae’s, for heaven’s sake. And he’s your matesprit! Most people would have his face plastered everywhere.”
“So many questions! Are you trying to pile me?” Pheres’s been frowning. Now he genuinely scowls. “Because,” you say cheerfully, “you’re getting awfully personal –”
“Do base accusations usually work to distract people? Sipara uses them, but she’s seven. I rather thought you’d learn better by ten!” He pauses, takes a breath. “But it makes sense. No wonder you’re so worried about Sipara and I’s relationship.”
“You’re projecting,” he declares. “That’s a little embarrassing, don’t you think?”
There’s a hundred different things you could say to that. There’s a hundred different retorts! You’re not going to be shown up by some half-grown adolescent. And somehow the tables have shifted. He’s amused, and you’re not.
“Nine,” is what you manage, irritated at him, irritated at yourself. (Two sweeps. Eleven is looming like an omen, but you’ve still got two sweeps until you’re plugged in, and Raphae has his matched set. Two sweeps, and you’re not going to let this scrap of fabric take one from you early.) “I’m nine.”
“Really? With all the mention of pupas, I was certain you must be at least ten. Maybe eleven!” Maybe you twitch. For the briefest moment, Pheres’s eyebrows knit. Then he grins, shakes his head. The motion sends his twists spiralling. “Heaven only knows you’re the oldest person in the hive. Still.. that’s an entire sweep until you’re conscripted. Such a difference,” he says, poisonously bright. “However could I forget? Nine, and a few perigees. But that poses another question!”
“How, exactly, are you so bad at quadrants?”
Somehow, this isn’t amusing at all.
“Codependence. Moirallegience. Really! Are you even serious? Is Iphige even your moirail,” he asks, pointed, “or is that just for convenience, just like your matesprit?”
“Alright, alright. This is absolutely precious, but analysing ID hour is over, I’m afraid! And you’re digging holes into my organs, sweetheart. So you can just move.” You start to push up. There’s glass digging into your elbows. The cleaner droids are going to have afield-day with this.
But Pheres is not moving. Pheres is just staring at you, eyes narrowed, chewing on his lip. “I don’t see why you care,” he says, irritated. “Are you going to let me go without - threatening to haul me back by my hair, or something savage?”
“.. I’m fairly certain I said nothing about hair, sweetheart!” He’s not moving. For all of your shifting, when you still, he’s still perched on your hips. “Have you been thinking about this?” you say, amused, eyeing him. “Because, sure, we can work that in -”
“Then we’re not done talking,” he announces, and slams his hands into your shoulders.
You let him push you down. He’s rougher than you’d have expected! Your horns hit the ground with a thump, and - alright, this’s progressing. Unexpectedly.
He’s still chewing on his lip. The skin’s pinched and colouring, the red bright under his fang. You’ve got half a mind to bite it, see if you can’t spill it properly.
If he doesn’t beat you to it first, because he leans forward, hands braced on your shoulders. “I don’t understand,” he says, frustrated. “It’s none of your business! This isn’t how auspisticism works! This isn’t your job, and it’s not - you shouldn’t care!”
“It doesn’t make any sense, unless..“ His breath catches. His eyes widen. If he had ears worth noting, they’d lift, but instead he swallows, hard, and practically bounces on top of you. “Oh my god,” he marvels, “you’re pale for her.”
“I can’t believe it.” His hair’s fallen out of those ridiculous ringlets and into waves. They’re tumbling past and around his horns, framing his face like a halo and blocking out the light. There’s no heat coming from the glow of his eyes! But the warmth in his voice scalds. “Oh, but - it makes so much sense.”
“I should’ve guessed, when you moved her in.” He’s picking up in speed. “I told her auspitices aren’t that kind. I told her you had motives.”
Raphae’s asked you before, exasperated, long suffering: don’t you ever get embarrassed? It’s always been a silly question. You don’t do shame!
Until, as it turns out, there’s a ninety pound bag of knives sitting on your thorax, casting all sorts of frankly unfortunate aspersions on you! You pride yourself on not caring, usually, but it’s remarkably hard to keep your balance with the bone-sharp jut of a knee digging into your hip, and the carpet doing its very best to add new holes to your back.
“Look -”
“No, no, my apologies. That was untoward. You’ve demonstrated that you’re such a kind hearted soul,” he says cheerily. “No, perhaps it was later. When you first saw her fighting? Good heavens. After you put her into the ring? This is just - I can’t believe it.”
“You don’t care about your moirail,” he announces, viciously pleased. “You don’t care about your matesprit. You don’t care about anything at all, except - blurring on my moirail. Don’t you think you ought to be paying attention to your own quadrants, ID? They’re your age.”
“This is just pathetic.”
“Oh, fuck off -” you snap, and midword, he fucking kisses you.
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