Bel, Erskin, and Jethro: Be celebrities.

"Oh, I'm your boss now, am I?" you ask, but you untangle yourself from your moirail enough to take her hands and draw her over to you.

"Ms Gawker," you say, your mouth twitching just a little, "you are a delight, a joy, a pleasure, a satisfaction, a genuine ray of moonlight descended from on high to enrich my humble existence, and you're also a good deal prettier than Kadros over there. Thank you very much for whatever it was you just did."

 

You laugh as you shake the jacket out and admire the embroidery. Machined, certainly, but neatly so, and the subject matter is— well, is romantic enough to heat your fins up.

"A musclebeast skull, Bel, now really," you chide him. "It's completely hideous. I'm going to burn it. You're a sickening affront to anyone with working ocular membranes, you deranged peacock. Thank you."

You tuck it slightly more carefully into your sylladex than you might necessarily need to, then stand up with a tired groan.

"Jethro and I are done for the night," you say to the group at large. "I was thinking of going out for an ice cream but we'll have to do that some other time. Lainey, you're invited to deter further romantic nut-jobbery and because I certainly owe you some ice cream for prior nut-job-related services. Bel, you can get ice cream on your own if you feel like walking back to the hotel, but I will definitely judge your sanity attributes. Jethro, please stand up, I want to kiss you on the face."

 

You can't quite hide your grin at his appreciation of the gift. "Much as I'd like to see you try to pilot the flyer out of the parking lot, I don't feel like walking that far today, so I guess I'll drop you two off at the hotel." Yeah, they're not listening, they're too busy nuzzling. You turn to Lainey with a shrug. "Welp, we lost them. The whole world's a pile when you're in that diamond honeymoon phase, I guess. Do you want me to drop you and your -- palemate? -- off anywhere, or would you guys like to help me find a gym? I'm going stir-crazy from sitting around."

 

Lainey tilts her hand back and forth. "Eh we're more—"

"Hold up, hold up, you don't think I can drive?" you interrupt, too surprised to be insulted. "Did... did you think I made it from one continent to the next at a brisk paddle? Good heavens. I can drive nearly anything. That's amazing, you don't think I can drive. Am I going to turn around one morning to find you writing me an instruction manual for my toothbrush?"

You lead the way back to the parking-lot and knock on the window so you don't surprise a lowblood of uncertain explosive abilities out of a nap. He opens the door, looking dozy and limp, and you leave Lainey to the task of bundling him back in his seat and getting the safety straps on and all. You settle yourself in the front seat and check over the controls. You haven't driven this model before, but it seems to have the expected things in the expected places, and hums to life in a regular fashion when you thumb the power key. As much as you'd like Jethro up front with you, you have a point to prove, so Bel gets to ride shotgun.

Once everyone's gotten their safety straps buckled, you adjust the mirrors, scoot the seat forward a few inches, and glide gently upwards to proper cruising altitude, getting a feel for the wind.

Then you do a barrel roll.

"HA," you tell Bel, leveling out neatly.

 

"I am chagrined and chastened," you drawl, and lean your seat back.

You're not sure why you assumed he couldn't drive. Maybe because he sat in the passenger seat and waited for you at Cloris's, after you told him to take your flyer, but shocky as he was it was better he didn't drive then. "To be honest," you admit, "I did think you walked or swam most of your perambulations, maybe with the occasional dirtbike or -- I don't know -- biplane. Hot air balloon. Probably because of the flintlocks."

 

"Mm. I suppose that's fair," you allow. "I do prefer to go traveling the manual way, when it's possible, and I'm better with flying than overland devices so dirtbikes are right out. But sometimes a chap has to sacrifice taking the scenic route in favor of not growing bloody old and dying somewhere in the middle of some great big fuck-off patch of wasteland or whatever. This planet has an inconvenient amount of boring bits."

You angle the car around for a wide sweep towards the denser hivestem conglomeration.

"Look up a gym and I'll drop you off," you add, then grin. "Out the window, maybe."

 

"Heh. I'd look pretty badass if I took you up on that and stuck the landing, wouldn't I?" When you do a search, though, you discover that your hotel has a gym in the basement. It's not big or fancy, and you were kind of hoping for a climbing wall, but the convenience convinces you. You'll just chat with Galley or Pancho or Lu while you use the rowing machine or whatever.

You explain this and add, "I'll be sure and take at least two hours, so you two can have some alone time."

 

"We'll be sure to set a timer," you tell him, a bit absently due to the tricky navigation between the tall stems of communal hives. Instead of landing at the front of your hotel, though, you draw the flyer to a halt a few lengths above the penthouse suit's balcony. Then you roll Bel's window down, and waggle your eyebrows.

"Care to try?" you challenge him.

 

You roll your eyes, but you're undoing your seatbelt and opening your door as you do so. You haul him in by a fistful of his shirtfront for a solid kiss.

Then you crouch in the doorway to gauge the distance -- bounce a little to see how much the flyer's going to scoot back when you launch -- and make the leap. It's not really all that hard, so you even manage to land with a little flourish. You can't help throwing him a grin over your shoulder before you go inside.

 

You grin like an idiot at your kismesis until Lainey punches you on the shoulder, going ooooooh, while Jethro— the jerk— is definitely laughing at you.

"You're all jealous," you sniff, and lower the flyer down to ground level. "Alright, everyone out, last stop. You live around here, don't you?"

Lainey manages to give no definitive answer you help her remove several yards of uncoordinated and extremely embarassed lowblood from the backseat. She says her goodbyes, her boy manages to wave at you, if not to actually look anyone in the face, and they head off in a reasonably straight line down the street.

"That was exhausting," you say to Jethro. "Let's never do anything ever again."

 

"Bluuuuh," you agree, draping yourself all over him like you're going to make him carry you. Only for a moment, though, and then you get your feet under you and make at least half an effort to act your age. "It was fun, though! Lainey's a stitch, and Shy Bro is a cutie even if he doesn't talk, and I got pants! An' you got a spade jacket, you prince of pitch, you." You elbow him teasingly.

 

"Well, it wasn't so bad," you allow, smiling just a very little bit besottedly, and sling an arm around his shoulders as you go inside.

In the lift, though, while you're holding one another and peppering the side of his neck and shoulder with soft little kisses, it occurs to you that-- that you've only been nuzzling or petting the one side-- because, because he's-- hurt. You draw back a titch and run very light fingers over the worn dermal tape holding the other side of his throat together.

"I say," you murmur. "You almost died, didn't you? We should be keeping a closer eye on this..."

 

It doesn't hurt when he touches it, but it does something to your nerves, and you give a full-body shudder and make a 'guh' noise. You press your own hand over it to make the nerve-whatsit stop. "It don't hurt really... it oughtta hurt, how come it don't hurt? Do drinker bites go numb? Shit, I'm worried now, we better take a look at it."

At your own floor, you twine your fingers with Erskin's and lead him into the bathroom in a bit of a hurry, because you need to look under the bandage ASAP, and you need him with you when you do, in case it's bad.

 

"Yes, being taken like that-- after the initial, er, event, it doesn't hurt. None of mine do. Er. Rather the, er, opposite, generally..."

You have him sit on a fussy little stool by the sink that's for towels or something, and get to easing the tape off the wound site.

"Hm," you say, studying the mess of scabbing and stitches. "More bruising than I ever had from my Lady, but a great deal less than if a beast had been at you. No infection... That's good. Marks seem to knit together more slowly than you'd expect."

You drop your injury bag on the counter and rummage around for the antiseptic.

"Might as well treat it like a beast wound, it's extensive enough. I'll clean it up, check over the stitching, dust with clotting powder again and tape it back up. Hardly a bother, what?"

 

"It ain't... nerve damage, right?" you worry, prodding the area gingerly. It feels weirdly sensitive, but the sensation isn't pain. Touching it brings back vivid flashes of being bitten, how helpless you felt, how scared and angry, and how violated -- and under that is a weird current of longing.

The combination is a gutpunch of horror you weren't prepared for. You lurch for the gaper and bring up your barbecue.

 

"Jethro? A-are you-- alright?" You hover over him and gingerly pat his back, terrified and bewildered.

 

You spit a few times and paw at the flush lever, then sit back on your heels, wiping at your mouth. You're shaking. "It's addictive, ain't it. There's a sex thing in it. It makes you feel shit. And. Want shit."

Cold sweat is slick on your neck, but it doesn't even sting in the bite. It does something else you don't have a word for. You would really, really like it to stop now.

 

Without the tape and bandaging to hold him together, the sudden movements have pulled open a few of the marks. Hesitant to touch the area again, you get him a cup of water from the sink.

"I wanted her well before she ever touched me," you say, lost. "The first time I had to beg, to, to help her, give-- repay her. And. She never took me unless I asked, ever, and then of course she made sure it was, it was good, for me, as well, I don't... it's not right that you're... you didn't want it. She, she-- a-attacked you."

You rub his back. "She attacked you," you repeat.

 

You rinse your mouth, spit, then settle back against him to drink the rest of the water. "Yeah," you say hoarsely at last. "I been in fights before. Ain't like I never been afeared for my life. This was different. It's like. She. She left sumpin in me. I ain't thinkin' right." You hide your runny eyes against his shirt front. "I feel gross, bro."

'Gross' is a vast understatement, and somewhat inaccurate, but just the thought of trying to put into words all the confusing and complicated kinds of nasty you feel is daunting, and you're tired.

So of course now is when you remember you have another Cloris-related nasty-bomb to process. You groan. "Goddammit. Aright, well, while we're both feelin' fucked up about this here topic, I might as well mention Bel cracked Cloris's husktop. I dunno what's on it, but he said it made him queasy, and he's no stranger to folks' insides bein' on the outside, so... anyhow." You swallow and take a deep breath, promising yourself that if you can just get to the end of this explanation you're allowed to put your head on his lap and just let him bandage you up and maybe cry a little. "He gave it to me. Said it's up to me if I'd show you or not -- cuz there's some kinds of hurt a good rival don't do, you dig? -- an' I don't know if we oughtta look or not. But you should know it's there if you need to see it. An' I'll look at it with you, whatever it is."

You take his hand and press it over the wound, riding out the stab of craving, trying to overwrite it with pale comfort. "Pretty sure I ain't the first one she did this to."