The thread of their gaze pulls tight, and then breaks. Andras tilts his glass back again, liquid pooling in the cup of his mouth and clawing away at his tongue.
(There is a time in the streets of Delumine when the country is gray and quiet except for his magic crackling away and the uneven drip, drip, drip of melting snow slumping its way down the rooftops.
There is a time when Andras looks at him, looks at the polished edges of each aristocratic bone, as the knife's edge of his mouth, and asks: what do you want? though he isn't sure what he means. What do you want? Like the answer would be more than that goddamn smile, more than laughter like sunshine and patience like a cat, patience that makes his skin crawl. And somehow that never is quite the answer, after all.
What do you want? he asks, again and again, after Pilate has gone and he has nothing but dead faces and duty and hungry magic with gnashing teeth.)
Andras swallows around an ice cube that he crunches between his teeth. He sees now, too late, as a snake winds its way toward Pilate's ear and tugs, that every question he's asked knots into one: who are you? His host blinks, and turns back, and Andras' eyes do not flit toward the room behind him, his mouth does not ask about ghosts or demons or whatever he sees in dark rooms.
"That's not fair," he grins, "I'm nice."
For all his curiosity, Andras is not in the business of asking hard questions. Andras is not in the business of asking many things, at all.
A shard of ice like glass plinks into the bottom of Pilate's empty cup, and the black thing in Andras unfolds like a flower, taking root before he sees that it has. His teeth hurt. The breath he sucks in is quiet but sharp. Andras tells himself that Hell is Pilate's face.
The warden adds, "Maybe not to you, but--" before knocking the rest of his own drink back in a white-knuckled grip. His heart begs who are you but his brain is too busy asking 'who am I?'"I don't think you'd want that. Me being nice."
He glances sidelong from behind his glasses, shifting his wings with a sound like old silk. "It isn't fun."
(There is a time in the streets of Delumine when the country is gray and quiet except for his magic crackling away and the uneven drip, drip, drip of melting snow slumping its way down the rooftops.
There is a time when Andras looks at him, looks at the polished edges of each aristocratic bone, as the knife's edge of his mouth, and asks: what do you want? though he isn't sure what he means. What do you want? Like the answer would be more than that goddamn smile, more than laughter like sunshine and patience like a cat, patience that makes his skin crawl. And somehow that never is quite the answer, after all.
What do you want? he asks, again and again, after Pilate has gone and he has nothing but dead faces and duty and hungry magic with gnashing teeth.)
Andras swallows around an ice cube that he crunches between his teeth. He sees now, too late, as a snake winds its way toward Pilate's ear and tugs, that every question he's asked knots into one: who are you? His host blinks, and turns back, and Andras' eyes do not flit toward the room behind him, his mouth does not ask about ghosts or demons or whatever he sees in dark rooms.
"That's not fair," he grins, "I'm nice."
For all his curiosity, Andras is not in the business of asking hard questions. Andras is not in the business of asking many things, at all.
A shard of ice like glass plinks into the bottom of Pilate's empty cup, and the black thing in Andras unfolds like a flower, taking root before he sees that it has. His teeth hurt. The breath he sucks in is quiet but sharp. Andras tells himself that Hell is Pilate's face.
The warden adds, "Maybe not to you, but--" before knocking the rest of his own drink back in a white-knuckled grip. His heart begs who are you but his brain is too busy asking 'who am I?'"I don't think you'd want that. Me being nice."
He glances sidelong from behind his glasses, shifting his wings with a sound like old silk. "It isn't fun."
let this whole town hear your knuckles crack
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
