HEART ARMADA

Roque’s eyes blink on, a reserve of warmth in the dust blue dark of the academies billowing halls. They hang there, wink on, then off, a lighthouse amidst a fog of indecision. Darrow had not called upon him to burn away the hours in the naval simulators as they had most nights since arriving. He does not ask him for his help either, does not say he is afraid, or worried, but Roque knows him well enough now to piece together that this is a concession for him to admit.

He is large in his doorway, and while the masonry was well built to accommodate even the larger of gold, Darrow had always looked crowded into any space he occupied, as though even his own skin did not fit him. He skims his eyes along the dark bruises of exhaustion pillowing his friend’s eyes, the work of his lips, a slight dishevel to his hair and Roque breaks the calm current of dusk with a bittersweet smile, his gaze mourning Darrow just as he cherishes him.

He looks different than he remembers, though how or compared to when, he cannot say. His heart is constantly holding funerals, moreover after the atrocities of the passage, for the people they used to be seemingly on the daily. Roque too, feels the growing pains. But yes, it is strange to reframe him now, surrounded by four clean walls, well fed, the loom of more complex threats just overhead.

The rebellious halo of Roque's hair is folded and twisted up out of his eyes, his face unguarded, the cut of his cheekbones a mirage under the shadows of the lamplight. 

“Ah—“ he draws his legs close where he'd been pressing at the bleed of a forming bruise from where Tactus had knocked him off his horse earlier that day, soaked him in the river. He frowns, briefly distracted by the memory, the constraints of his body and how he had shamed such a beautiful horse.

“Yes, well. Relentless life as of late will do that to a man. I myself have been dreaming of fleets, only the stars are technicolor, too loud for the vacuum of space. That, and I feel trapped, stuck there in a perfect memory. Isn’t that odd?” It's half true, not of course accounting for the night terrors that so often plague him and the ghost touch of those he had left in the rot of dirt. He shivers, distracts himself by drawing back his covers for Darrow. His voice softens impossibly further, as though already in a dream.

Being gold does not always mean you are treated as though you are gilded. It is not a fair world, not a fair society. Victra was raised in a house that would have you believe there was no real difference between being a man and a woman. Look at the power you could still have. It is not true. Or, it is only half true. They will let you be sharp. They will let you be brutal. They will even let you be ugly if you're useful enough. But they will never let you forget you are a woman. Not really. You're still something to be displayed, or bedded, or graciously allowed to get too loud.

But Victra is not ugly. She is tall, dense muscle that strays closer to bulky than lithe, her face and body a succession of scars over slicing eyes. She does not have the scarring carved off. A man wouldn't. But still, she is not ugly, sinks into femine curves and a strange, unnerving beauty, not unlike a large cat. She does not get draped over the well tailored arms of pixie and praetors at bubbling galas. But, there has never been a man to say no to her when she comes calling. Not one that hasn't shaken apart beneath her. This is the truest form of power she has salvaged in the world, and it is not so devastating. She enjoys it, really, even if her body has blurred between her own and a tool.

Sevro does not look at her that way.

There are larger fish to fry. She is not a stupid woman. She keeps her scorned tongue to herself. But without the currency of her allure, and the wilt of her weak body burning back at her—days in the gym with Darrow trying to rehabilitate her abused body—work back to something she recognizes, she is frustrated. She feels like a woman under his brutish gaze. Hates how entirely other it makes her feel.

He had not made her a Howler, despite the years of loyalty she'd paid Darrow, not after abandoning her color, choosing this infantile movement over her flesh and blood in the wake of a year of hell. She had tried on merit alone at first, and when that hadn't worked, she let her hands linger, her nails against his shoulder, a brush against his thigh. And when even that did not work, she flirted with Darrow. Damn it all to hell, she'd flirted with reds from time to time, crass and honest in a way that surprised her.

There is nothing she does that is not calculated, and still it jars her to be confronted, shock rare and silly on her face. She does not let it loiter for long, snatches her lips into a Cheshire grin, not quite reaching her eyes. She tilts her head one way at him, than the other, frailer than she'd once been but still taller than him when she steps into his space. A mocking hand touches her chest, feigning at touched.