inbox.

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Comments

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I must have been living in the part of Antiva where the flamingo shit gets shoveled.

[champions]

Did you put yourself to good use?

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Never. Nikos, remember?

[As if she's perhaps confused as to who she is speaking with.]

[champions]

Mm. I can't work out if you are saying that because you have a low opinion of yourself, or you want other people to have low expectations.

[exequy]

[ Kostos cuts a look toward Nikos, one of chiding severity, which is easy for him to emote when he hasn’t lived with them all this time. When the only times he’s seen them since he was nine were the times they were there, intentionally, to see him, usually with presents. ]

And lose the chance to inform on you?

[ He would really like that Serpent. He glances at it again, mentally chides himself for looking at it, weighs the risks while he looks at his own hands, and discards an Angel on top of it. ]

No.

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Why can it not be both?

[champions]

That is worse.

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[Unmoved by his brother's look, yet moved by his response, Nikos snorts, loudly. He has been--unflatteringly, unfairly--compared to a horse for this reaction. It has not been enough to make him change his ways.]

And here I was under the impression that our pact was still in effect.

[The pact. It came together after a particularly savage fight in the library. Kostos, with a bloody lip, Nikos with a bite on his hand. Torn clothing too. They were expected at dinner. There would have to be some lie. So: the pact. They wouldn't sell one another out, not for this or for any future incident. They would be stone walls and neither could get into trouble.

Keto had been there as well that night, crying outside the door. Now she is like a wraith, when Nikos thinks of her. She was dead two weeks later. Perhaps that is why. And Kostos left, and the pact remained unbroken by greed or temptation or the promise of reward, as it surely would have been if they had more time.]

If you inform on me, I will have to do the same for you. There are a disgusting amount of wasteful gifts waiting to be delivered to you. It would require, [and he plucks a card from his hand. The Song of Mercy.] a small parade.

[And while his brother is distracted by that horrible image, and as he is laying his Song on top of the discarded Angel, Nikos moves his ring finger, cleverly, to slip out a card discarded four moves ago. A small gesture, one that relies on distraction.]

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[Nikos sighs, sharply.]

Marisol, if you start to show concern for my self-esteem, I am going to throw myself off of a tall tower and give you something to really be concerned about.

Why are you not overseeing redecoration of your fifth salon or whatever excessive room is in fashion right now.

[champions]

Oh, boca de dragon. ( Snapdragon. She likes to call him snapdragon. Because he's Nevarran, but also a dramatic flower. Also that translation might be wrong, don't trust the internet. ) Entrails are so tiresome to clean up, and they upset the flamingos.

I don't have time for my fifth salon, let alone my sixth, but because I have an excessive cousin who is more dramatic than is fashionable, right now.

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[A nickname he both despises and, despite himself, appreciates. A little. In a way he would never, ever admit, no matter how drunk or ill or on his deathbed. Which means: Nikos gives a wordless grumble. Resigned.]

Very blasé and Antivan of you. I don't give a single shit about fashion. But I am not dramatic. I am quarantined. It is the opposite of dramatic.

You should teach your flamingos to eat entrails.

[champions]

One can be dramatic and quarantined. If anything, I think that would bring it out in people.

( And, laughter. ) Perhaps they can become a terrifying second army.

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You’re Antivan. I must defer to your knowledge of dramatics, prima.

[Very serous. As is:]

As to your flamingos, I will say if I saw a herd of flamingos walking toward me, I would walk the other way. It wouldn’t involve my intestines at all.

[exequy]

[ Kostos is thoroughly distracted. First by our pact: he has to reach back through twenty years and through the shroud hung around other memories in close proximity, and while doing that he frowns at Nikos like he's learned some strange fourth language. When he does find the memory in the haze, though—the blood, the bruises, the distant crying, the somber drama (they have not changed all that much) of the handshake—he exhales the sort of exhale that might have been a laugh if he were another person in another situation. The pact.

But then, a threat.

It is only fair, of course. Only a return volley of something Kostos started. But Kostos' face still crumples with horror at the thought of a gift parade. He even covers his eyes so he can massage his temples one-handed. He misses Nikos' sleight of hand entirely. Well played. ]

That is, [ he says, and lowers his hand, ] disproportionate retaliation. Escalation.

[champions]

( A musing hum. ) I think you would really benefit from a chorus to follow you. Announce and narrate your every move, play music when appropriate.

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[Nikos smiles at his hand as the Knight of Sacrifice shows his face among his knightly brothers.]

A pair of wagons at least. You have never been settled anywhere long enough to receive the gifts, the Circle might not allow you the gifts, the road that led to you was dangerous and the gifts might be stolen, you outright refused the gifts-- [A litany of reasons delivered in the tones of complaints. These are all things that have been said of Kostos when their mother was showing Nikos the room kept stacked with back-burnered presents for him.] --or perhaps fear of refusal preempted the effort. I am never sure of which. And thinking about it now, they may require three carts. There are so many.

[He lays his hand facedown on the table so he can lean back in his chair. Of course, he takes his cup of wine with him, and his next comment is addressed there, and not to his brother.]

I am open to negotiation.

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What?

[champions]

Or we could organise a parade once the quarantine is over.

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What is the thin pretext for how this benefits me?

[champions]

You enjoy seeing me happy?

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Mm, [which is another grumble, this time with a tint of except, also, opening the door to the clarification which inevitably follows,] I enjoy the lack of hassle that comes with your happiness.

A parade and a bard would be a hassle, one that would exceed and overtake the lack of hassle from your happiness.

[champions]

What if the parade was arranged to follow after Kostos, instead?

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Marisol. He would hate it. I would never foist such a horror on my own brother.

[three, two, one... lol.gif]

[exequy]

I'm sure. [ Kostos drums his fingers on the table, once apiece. In another time and place, trading threats with another man, there'd be sparks, like a thumb on the scale. But Nikos must know he'd never. Or if he doesn't know, he's one of the few people Kostos wouldn't want to think otherwise.

He draws a card while he's busy sullenly staring Nikos down, and only looks at it belatedly. The Angel of Death. But his hand is a losing one, unless Nikos has had unreasonably bad luck. He keeps it and discards another. He'll sort out how to play it later—try, at least. ]

Does smugness look that insufferable on me?

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[Nikos, speaking into his cup, says:] Worse.

[Then he takes a big swig of wine, because he wants to, and because it will probably help him to stop looking so very insufferable. Smugness is something in the mouth.

Truthfully his brother is familiar because he looks like Nikos, because Kostos is Kostos. A voice on a page that Nikos could always hear in his head when he was reading his brother's letters. A mirror that frowned back, when Nikos was permitted to go along for a visit. A cheek that Nikos bit once, very hard, and then said it was just because he was pretending to be a wolverine.

And at the same time, Kostos is unfamiliar, because they have not seen one another in years, exchange letters only infrequently, thanks to several factors in both of their lives. And while it is nothing that Nikos is going to dwell over or write about in his journal, it is still a strange thought to consider, as he looks across the table at his brother.]

I'm surprised no one's complained yet. People are always whining at me about the expressions I wear. Perhaps you're more intimidating than I am.

[Nikos raises his cup in a lazy half-toast before he knocks back another sip. Then he leans forward and grabs the edge of the table, levers himself back into position to consider the card that's just been discarded before he picks up his hand and considers what he's holding.]

Anyways. What a blessing for you that our mother is leery at the very idea of Kirkwall. I don't even know that she's send cart or servant. Think of what they would track back on their boots.

[He picks up another card, and discards the Angel of Fortitude with careless ease.]