SMILE + Angst prompts #2 - Lotar, Mirren, Rez

# “Try hard not to stare at the stunning (first) smile they see blossoming on the other’s lips.” -  Lotár 

Lotár doesn’t have to try hard to match your pace, not with his/her unnatural speed. But he/she must find the image of him/her trailing just half a step behind you hilarious, so he/she doesn’t bother to overtake you. Yet.

Instead, he/she delights himself/herself with raising his/her voice, just enough so that an otherwise private conversation would be overheard by all with working ears. Even if the staff tries their best to scatter out of your way, should Lotár’s attention sway from you to one of them.

“—and you—” Lotár pauses theatrically just as you pass a large group of servants. ““What wasss it that you told him to get him ssso heated up?” 

That damn snake wants the whole palace to know the story, you figured that much, and by the way he/she goes about it, even the village will be informed of what has transpired during the morning briefing. Of what you did, and to whom, to be exact.

The rumors about Lotár were true. Being his/her annoyance - because, naturally, he/she doesn’t have enemies - is akin to a death sentence. Societal death in the palace is worse than a beheading, if only because the latter can be withstood.

Lotár clears his/her throat, giving you a sign to play your part in his/her ruse. Begrudgingly, you accede. “That he can stick the... Ugh, do we have to do this again?”

“Of courssse, we do. It wasss delightful.” Lotár’s mien is rather haughty, but the voice that resounds from his/her chest has a distinct playfulness to it. And to think you took the demon for a more serious kind upon your first meeting. How utterly wrong you were. “Or ssso I hear, sssince I wasssn’t there.”

Gods, he/she really hates being excluded, doesn’t he/she?  Especially from the ‘fun’ of watching his/her political opponents be publicly ridiculed.

“I think,” you start in a whisper, lest you ruin Lotár’s play, “that by tomorrow, everyone will be aware that the judge slept with—”

“Ah, ah, ah, dear, but who caresss about ‘everyone.’ We’re retelling thisss tale for my own enjoyment.” Uh-huh. “Go on.”

“I already told you the story twice.” Both times, just as you happened to encounter a group of people. What a coincidence...

“Do it again. It was hysssterical.” Lotár’s eyes flicker towards the servants huddled by the corner of the hallway, making sure he/she has their rapt attention. When he/she is confident that it is so, he/she continues, “Oh, how he ran out of the room foaming at the mouth! And he usssed to be ssso proud and unssshakeable! What did you tell him to make him lossse it?”

Ugh. “Well, I told him to stick the report up his ass.”

“Yesss, yesss. And?”

“...If he has some space left that’s not occupied by— I don’t know why I said that!”

Disregarding your botched delivery, Lotár bursts into giggles, wiping an imaginary tear out of the corner of his/her eye as he/she does so. It takes you a while to understand he/she’s actually laughing, because compared to the two previous times, his/her lips don’t curl into a sneer. 

You’re not the only one who tries hard not to stare at the stunning smile that blossoms on Lotár’s lips - some of the braver servants steal covert glances that way, too. It’s the first of the sort you’ve ever seen on him/her, almost soft. 

Really, you didn’t think he/she was capable of joy so pure. Ah, pure, if not for the subject of his/her mirth. Someone will get demoted soon, after all.

“And?” Lotár ushers you to go on. “What happened next?”

Obediently, you open your mouth to recount the last moments of the meeting, when Lotár’s hand suddenly slices through the air, stopping you mid-breath. His/Her eyes, that were glued to the courtyard below, curve into contented slits. 

You understand why when you catch a glimpse of a bloody red cape.

Shit, Mastravisch.

“That’sss enough, darling, good job,” Lotár adds promptly, in a much quieter tone, leaning towards you as he/she speaks. All traces of levity evaporate from him/her in a blink, replaced by a dead-cold satisfaction. “I’ll be sssure to give you a cookie for the trouble.” 

“Will the cookie be poisoned?”

Lotár huffs out a laugh. “Hmm, let it be a sssurprissse.”

Great. “I’ll pass.”

# “It’s almost like you don’t know how to smile.” - Mirren

It takes a while for you to re-learn how to use your hands to grab and hold rather than to float over or move through. The first couple of days are severely trying your patience, but your eventual victory is well worth the momentary failure.

When your body finally agrees to cooperate, you find yourself touching everything that can be touched within the small chapel: the moldy walls, the crumbling altar, the shards of broken windows that Mirren brushed out off the way somewhere between your many ‘naps.’ 

Ever watchful, your savior sits on the edge of the altar. He/She observes your childlike glee with a placid, composed face, not unlike that of the decayed gray statue decorating the temple. You’d think he/she’s bored, or barely paying attention, if not for his/her single ruby-red eye shuffling side to side, following your every move. 

There’s not much else for him/her to do here, to be fair, aside from perusing the books he/she brought with him/her and some that he/she scavenged from the basement. Mirren does seem to like watching you, idly, with no particular meaning to it. Just like one would watch a fish in a pond, or a cat sunbathing. His/Her gaze is never heavy, and most of the time, you forget it’s even on you.

Now, however, it’s a bit pointed. Maybe he/she’s already anticipating his/her turn, knowing full well what’s coming next. It is your last trial, after all. To touch a living being differs greatly from being touched, and from interacting with the inanimate. It’s much harder to manage, but... it seems you’ve passed. 

“Do you feel me?” you blurt out as soon as your palm makes contact with Mirren’s shoulder. The golden epaulette is cold to the touch, though slightly warmer than the bare stone has been. The texture is rough, but not as much as thinly crushed gravel. 

Mirren nods blithely, but his/her expression gains depth. The emotions he/she shows are strange and conflicting, but in your newfound exuberance, you disregard them completely. 

“Can I keep going?” you ask, remembering proper etiquette just in time for your hand to slide towards Mirren’s collar to touch-test the buttons there. “Mirren?”

“Yes,” he/she says simply, clearing his/her throat once before speaking. He/She sounds a bit rough, probably from the recent disuse. “Go on.” 

You do. Since you’re finally able to put your hands on him/her, you’re really going to help yourself.

Bored with the buttons, you move on to the hair, as sleek and soft as you’d imagined. The strands slip through your fingers, uninterrupted by any knots or tangles, as you rearrange them from the back to the front of Mirren’s torso. Noticing that they quickly tangle in the straps of his/her jacket, you brush them backwards again. 

Mirren’s skin is tepid, much like yours, perhaps slightly warmer. His/Her hands are rough, but the cheek under his/her uncovered eye is smooth. His/Her short and stiff lashes prickle your thumb as he/she casts his/her eyelid down. 

“Are you sleepy?” Mirren never is, but you ask all the same, already expecting the slow shake of his/her head, so shallow it doesn’t dislodge your hold on him/her. The puffs of his/her hot breath make your fingers tingle. 

“No,” he/she says, and a few moments pass before he/she brings himself/herself to continue. “I’m happy.”

“Are you?” The question tumbles out of you unpolished, sounding as disbelieving as you, yourself, feel. There’s also a faint trace of hope that’s plain to your ears only. Something warm simmers in your chest, but you go on to say, “I wouldn’t have guessed.”

Mirren looks up at you, brows drawn in confusion. “How do I show you?”

“Most people would, I don’t know, smile?” The grimace that furrows Mirren’s lips is certainly not that, but you assume there is an attempt. You snort. “It’s almost like you don’t know how... to...” Oh.

Mirren’s eye flickers to the side. He/She almost looks ashamed, but it was not your intention to mock him/her. You heard him/her laugh before, more than once, you’d never had assumed—

“I’m not a person,” he/she reminds you, voice as cold as a blade. His/Her expression relaxes, though, when you cup his/her jaw with both hands, squishing it a bit.

“Neither am I, you know,” you retort, pulling his/her head up when you shrug. “A ghost and a blade. That makes us quite the pair, doesn’t it?” 

“I suppose it does,” he/she says, letting his/her eye drop closed again. His/Her lips curl against your palm, just a little bit. 

# “Is that what you wanted to hear? Are you happy?” - Rez 

Watching Mirren’s retreating back is so commonplace you could paint the picture from memory by now. Every fold of his/her uniform, the patterned buttons. While he/she vacates the dining table, you call him/her every curse word you know, but still, you hope he/she’ll turn around, just for a second. 

“Doing this again?” 

Rez’s voice startles you, and you straighten in your seat at once, darting a quick glance across the room to see if the other courtiers have noticed your state of... unrest. 

Nobody did, if only because everyone else has already left. Only you and Rez remain by the table.  Though Rez is slumped more on the table than by it. His/Her legs are stretched far back, almost across the entire surface, while only his/her upper torso remains low on the chair, supported by one folded arm. 

The other, holding a cup, is angled towards you. “Should let it go.”

“Let go of what?” you mumble, brushing him/her off to stand. Your meal is unfinished, as always these days. 

Seeing as you’re done, Rez swipes a piece of roast from your plate and washes it down with the rest of his/her mead, licking the oil off his/her fingers for good measure before he/she finally gets up. 

He/She’s still not done drilling you, though. “You want Mirren to feel guilty. He/She won’t,” Rez says, like it’s a revelation. It’s not. But if the lack of apologies hadn’t clued you on it by now, Rez’s nagging wouldn’t either. “He/She won’t give you what you want.”

He/She’s been in a foul mood the entire morning, so you know he/she’s only looking for a fight. And yet, you take the bait before you can rethink the wisdom of it. “I don’t want anything from him/her.”

Rez snorts. It’s unamused. “That’s why you’re looking at him/her like—”

“Drop it, Rez.”

He/She doesn’t, of course. “You really think that if you give him/her time, he/she’ll come around? That he/she’ll ditch his/her owner for you?”

It smarts, because Rez is right. You can’t even refute him/her.

The lack of response only fuels Rez’s irritation, though. He/She slams his/her empty cup on the table with a bang. “He/She’ll never love you like you love him/her! Do you need him/her to tell you that to your face for you to get it?”

“I don’t—”

“And even if he/she did love you. Say he/she does. He/She sold you o— Oh.” Rez pauses, taking in whatever expression that dawned on your face. His/Her own is tainted with disbelief that slowly morphs into disgust. “Is that what you wanted to hear? That he/she loves you? Even if it’s a lie?” He/She laughs, a quick sharp burst of not-mirth, then again, through gritted teeth. “Are you happy?” 

The ferocity in his/her voice makes you flinch. He/She’s never spoken to you like this, with so much ridicule and hostility, even when you fought. He/She seems to catch himself/herself on that, at last, because he/she takes a rapid step back, cursing up a storm. 

“Sorry,” he/she mutters a moment later, brushing a hand over his/her face. “Mirren’s just... He/She’s not like us.”

“I know.”

“He/She doesn’t have...” Rez chews on his/her lower lip as he/she searches for the right word.

“Remorse?”

“Feelings.”

Oh. Right. You were aware. Still, maybe you needed that reality check. 

“I just— I don’t want you hurt,” Rez continues, leaving the ‘more than you already were’ unsaid. His/Her tone is much gentler now, but you’d never go as far as to call him/her kind. 

“Mhm. And yet you handed me my ass when you forced me to spar yesterday.”

[if romance:]

“It’s a good piece of ass. Can’t blame me for sampling.”

“Can and will. Dragging me to a field in the middle of the night is a bit too elaborate of a plan if it’s just about ‘sampling.’ Not to mention the rough handling, too.”

“I—”

“And don’t say anything about tenderizing the meat, or I’ll really smack you this time.”

Rez’s brows pop up in - absolutely feigned - surprise. “Some interesting ideas you have. Tell me more.”

“Ugh, shut up.”

“Right. But isn’t this where you say my ass isn’t bad either, or...?”

“Eh. I wouldn’t know.”

“Don’t be shy. I saw you looking.”

“I was not!”

“I saw it with my good eye.”

“What? I can’t hear you from over here. The wind is too strong.”

[else:]

“It’s not my fault you suck,” Rez huffs. His/Her shoulders relax slightly when he/she notices that your mood seems to improve. “And speaking of sucking—”

“Ugh, no.” You slap your hands over your ears, though it’s mostly just for show. You know nothing can stop the filth Rez is about to unleash on you, not even a gag. “I don’t want to know.”

Rez roars with laughter, draping an arm over your shoulder to prevent you from fleeing the scene. His/Her hold is steady, and sometimes, you find that a little steadiness is all you need.