#banavett

He tilted his head when a new consciousness entered his awareness. On the other side of the field, he knew there was a path the watchmen walked often. He started heading towards the presence, maybe backup was in order, who knew, maybe the violent post burglar used the place as a hidey-hole.

He crossed the field and walked through a small patch of forest, between the thick bushes and right onto the path. He stopped, blinked a few times as recognition dawned on him, “Oh, good evening,” he said, well he couldn’t really think of anything better to say, “You are a watchman, correct? I would like to report a suspiciously noisy building for being empty.”

She did that annoying thing where someone touches the tip of the nose. His scrunched and a scowl appeared, crossing his arms. “Really. That’s all the thanks I get for leaving your uncle in pieces at the bottom of a swamp? Where is the Southern hospitality, Bo?” 

The arrival at the palace had been planned as a surprise. Peering through the open door to Aaron’s room, Maddox’s unexpected visit might be even more startling. The king was passed out on his bed at four in the afternoon with a small puff of a dog nestled at his side. No bottle in his hand or silken eye mask shielding the light from a window. Just Aaron breathing quietly in deep sleep. After removing his shoes Maddox eased slowly into the bed beside the man to prevent disturbing him, a faint smile on his lips. Rolling on his side he draped an arm over Aaron’s stomach and closed his eyes, realizing a short nap wasn’t such a terrible idea. 

☼ ― 

There’s vanity there. When she was younger, Titania would go into town every so often buying beautiful garments of clothing here and there that caught her eye, but these were pieces she never had the courage to wear, with the Church’s rules about colors and plainclothes. Sometimes when she would choose an outfit for the day, she’d feel her fingers twitch with the urge to grab a colorful blouse or some patterned slacks, but Titania always refrained. She’d style he hair modestly, wear neutrals and faded, almost grey, greens ― although there were a few times where she allowed herself the luxury of adorning some colorful jewelry or a fancier scarf― and she barely wore any makeup. Those things changed when she came back, first daring to wear a warm yellow blouse with one of her more greyed and muted slacks, and even adding shoes that weren’t those grey tennis shoes she’d worn to death. 

The party was loud, filling up the first floor of the O’Connor mansion -- a large, antebellum house, located just three blocks from Main Street -- and spilling onto the porch. A band played in the library, and the furniture had all been sequestered to the summer porch in favor of packing more people in. They were all Saints, then. Or at least, Unholy ones.

Dressed in cherry red, Stella bobbed from room to room, aware that she had a shadow and keen to pay it no mind. Ban had been a student of hers, once, a mentee, after. He still was. It was somewhat discomforting to carry a relationship through the war, when everything had been charred and burned and laid to waste. How could any good survive?

She landed on the side porch, the wide expanse of spindle and pillar giving way to willow trees and a babbling brook in the distance. Music filtered out from the half-open windows, the chatter and clink of guests filling the air. Stella smiled. Her drink was red, but sour. Amaretto. She looked over her shoulder, and then reached out her hand to beckon him. The crowd began to sing.

Should old acquaintance be forgot--

“It’s all right, yeah?” Stella looked up, blue eyes bright. It had to be all right. She would make it all right. A new year, new beginnings. And all the Saints under one roof again.

--for auld lang syne.

The grandfather clock in the hall began to chime, one, two, three, and four. Her hand wound around his forearm and gave it a light squeeze. He was taller than her, then, but still a student. Stella leaned over and kissed his cheek.

“Happy New Year, Ban Avett.”

Cypris would have been perfectly fine stargazing while the new year came creeping across the world. Instead he was watching the gathered crowd in tense anticipation, their eagerness like electricity in the air. He barely felt it, or anything, not after the fifth or so drink so he could relax.  

He didn’t know the people around there, watched them with hazy wide eyes while they scrambled about in those few seconds on the countdown. When someone bumped into him, nearly spilling the drink he was still clinging to, he groaned in protest and shot a look at the towering figure. 

Ban. Oh, right..he knew him. Ban was a friend! Cypris didn’t have many of those. It was nice that Ban was looking out for him…or accidentally almost stepped on him; who knew. 

The sudden surge of noise from the crowd, that clock hitting midnight, it was infectious and Cypris held his drink in both hands as the impulse hit him, swung up on the toes of his sneakers to even reach as he kissed the taller and rather perplexed man right on the lips, mostly. Why was Ban that tall? 

His coherence dissolved into an amused snicker as he drew back to say something of apparent dire importance…forgot what it was an instant later in the shocking moment his balance shifted under him, hitting the ground with a startled, fairly undignified, squeak. 

Cypris was convinced it was partly a lie, maybe for the sake of saving him the awkward moment of admitting that he wasn’t going to eat something like that in the first place; he had a general rule of avoiding eating anything that had at one point been part of the living world if he could at all avoid it. It had made for a few tiresome holidays back home for his poor father, explaining it off to visitors as just a quirk of his youngest offspring. 

So maybe it was a lie, but if that was the case Cypris was perfectly willing to entertain it for the conversation he didn’t have to stumble through, even a little grateful for it.

“Who the hell thought it was a good idea to let you around a stove in the first place?”

“Oh.”

Malle stared down at the box on the bed, willing the blush not to rise in her face. It refused, and she could feel the flush carry in soft sweeps up her neck, bedding in the high points of her cheeks. Hands clasped demurely in front of her, and she didn’t look at him right away.

“Well, I mean.”

It had been a wild year. Several years, really, all of this in the making. And it wasn’t so odd, this sort of a gift. They were married, after all. If ever it was appropriate-- It was just--

Malle reached toward the box, lifting a short nightgown of dark blue silk from it. It was more string than fabric, and it felt like water in her fingers, transient and shifting. She held it up. The hem barely skimmed her thighs.

Brows lifted.

“This seems more like a gift for you.”