#mothtoflame

When it comes to matters of family, Sidney is shockingly forthright about his feelings. This sort of frank discussion kept himself and his twin sane over the years. It comes with the territory of being a Hoover, he supposes.

Sidney is seated quite close to Percy, his estranged sibling. While she’s busy scrutinizing every inch of his face for any clues as to how they could possibly be related, he’s making a grab for her hand. He examines her long fingers for a moment, then presses his palm to hers. His fingers are quite slender as well, but he’s no match. Taller means longer. She wins.

Wins what, Sidney isn’t sure. He just knows she wins. Those’re the rules of sibling combat. It’s never too late to be in competition with one another -- not even twenty years after the fact.

“I don’t blame you. Dad’s nuts,” he affirms, fixing his gaze on Percy’s face. He lets go of her hand and rests his chin in his palm. He can’t imagine ever running away from Paxton, but he gets it. Even Violette has exhibited flights of fancy from time to time.

a spilling tea text

[from: dimi] well, it is... you see

[from: dimi] i shouldn’t say this but

[from: dimi] PERCEVAL is a well known rider of the carousel, iyswim

[from: dimi] and i would KNOW!

[from: dimi] though i can’t remember the last time he woke up in MY sheets..

“Paxton,” Riley flicks ash off of the end of his cigarette, barely wincing as a loose ember laps at his knuckle. Thoughtlessly, he hands it off to Paxton. Just like the old days. Just like back when lung cancer was the least of their concerns, when a day without a bullet just narrowly missing a vital organ was considered a rousing success. A cigarette was celebratory, typically. In this case, it is little more than a mild comfort.

Riley studies Paxton’s aged face, acutely aware of how smooth and boyish his own has remained over the years. It kills him, seeing how easily time has touched him. If he could smooth away the wrinkles and pock marks of age, he would give anything.

   "... I see," Anna responds softly. Sidney isn’t often assertive, but when he is, it’s telling. He’d wanted to be discreet with their sessions from the beginning. Sidney declining to ask his father for transportation home - despite how supposedly “fine” and “good” he is - well, it says a lot about the relationship. More than Sidney realizes.

  “I hope you’re not taking a taxi all that way? Or, God forbid, a bus,” she giggles. Sidney is an adult, yes, but it’s hard to picture him being so... independent. And so far from the city, too.

  “I could take you there myself. Drop you off a block or so from the driveway... It’s your choice, Sidney.” She brushes back a thick curl of hair, fixing her watery blue stare on him. “--When did you eat last, sweetheart? I should make you something before you go.”

   Everyone has their secrets -- even someone as open and trusting as Sidney. After spending so much of his life under his father’s thumb, always obeying and never questioning, he feels that he’s entitled to one little secret. Just one aspect of his life independent of his father’s grand designs for him. It’s the least he deserves, anyway, after all of the suffering Sidney has suffered at the hands of his father and his terrible secrets.

   Sidney is ready to go home. He’s all packed, bus fare in his pocket, boots laced up and coat on. While Anna fusses over him, he can’t help but feel like a child being sent off to school. When she brushes his hair back, he flushes. He fidgets, averting her gaze.

   It’s some time before he answers. He has to carefully consider his words, not out of anxiety but simply because there’s no other way for him to speak. He’s not terribly slow, but he’s not quite as quick-thinking as her. Words take time -- his words take a bit more time.

   He sets his bag down by the door and shrugs off his coat.

   “I... skipped lunch,” he admits hesitantly. He doesn’t address his transportation situation because he just doesn’t want to. His mind is made up. He doesn’t mind taking a later bus, though, if it means he gets fed.

“Hey, what the fuck?”

Violette stood at the end of the corridor, scalpel poised to be thrown. She could barely breathe in her mask -- black and silicone and as smelly as could be -- but this encounter made her feel all the more grateful for her disguise.

Her emotionless faux rabbit face stared into the dark eyeholes of a faux rooster. She could tell from his height and build that he wasn’t someone she wanted to fuck with. A man like that was deadly up close, even more so if she showed weakness, so she stood her ground and kept her distance. Her grip on her scalpel tightened just a fraction.

“You’re too calm about these things,” Jacob responds. He’s stern, but soft in a way he reserves only for the prince. Too forgiving, too tender. Or so the king would say.

Jacob has learned to hide his weakness for the prince after so many years, but never has it been snuffed out. Not so long as Jacob can look upon him and be sure of his safety.

“I know you’re strong. That doesn’t mean you should be ignorant.”

At this time, he can’t shake the sting he feels at seeing the prince’s shirt torn, seeped with blood where it lies across his waist. Jacob has already retrieved some supplies from the steed’s satchels: clean bandages and a salve. It is the best he can do, for now.

It’s at this moment Jacob freezes, realizing what needs to be done next. His cheeks flush warm at the thought, but he approaches regardless.

“Sir, you worry too much,” the prince retorts, grinning in spite of the pained waver in his voice. Though the injury is still fresh, his skin has already begun to take on a pale, waxen quality. It’s as though the color has been drained from him. He breathes evenly, but there’s a concerning amount of effort behind it.

Magic sparks at his fingertips, then fizzles out. Little green embers flake off and singe his blood-soaked shirt. He never imagined it would work. He’s just confirming what he knows -- that he’s already too weak to help himself.

When Jacob freezes, Uriyah laughs. It’s short, it’s painful. There’s a note of fear buried deep within his mirth.

“Well? Go on, then. Come to my rescue.”

“...And my wife - ex-wife, well... our marriage definitely wasn’t going to stand the test of time. We tried, for our daughter, but... it didn’t work, not least because of career pressures.” 

Eli is situated on the full-length fainting couch, a little conscious that his suit might wrinkle, but not so much that he’d prefer to sit normally. Often he’ll take a few minutes to rest his eyes here and there when he’s working, if he’s in a private office - unfortunately, that doesn’t happen a lot these days, with the rise of open-plan departments and glass walls and doors. Even then, his respite is usually plagued with racing and constant thought. 

He has his eyes open now, though his sight is settled on the ceiling. As if he’s talking to himself, rather than the doctor who sits nearby. His hands gesticulate lazily as he continues. 

“...Then, she was unfaithful. During the marriage. I found out much later. And I guess at this point, it shouldn’t have mattered. Some part of me always wondered... suspected it. But it affected me a lot, and I was so angry. I’m still angry. Not angry... shocked. Because of the nature of it... not the nature but...” He trails off, frowning up towards the light fixture. He turns to look at his therapist, then back again. 

“...I’m not sure if this is still sensitive information. I don’t think so; not here, anyway. I’m not even still angry at her. I’m just... I think about it. It kept me awake for a while.” He pauses, glancing over once more, hoping she’ll shake it out of him, but understanding that isn’t her job, and instead she’ll probably sit there looking neutral until he finishes his train of thought. He looks up, shuts his eyes again, and speaks like he’s ripping off a Band-Aid.