NO MORE SHAME / NO MORE FEAR / NO MORE DREAD

Laelia Magnon thinks a lot. She is particular and meticulous. Spirit wants to see what else she can be.

But she is not so young or unaware as to understand what her mother truly means, and even if she knows better... she can't help but hope this is the time that her mother can make her feel better.

"Your dreams," she whispers, irreverently dubious. Because—because. Some things must be seen, must be understood, and Helena has always been quite—

"Tell me about them, Helaena. I wish to hear. I wish to know every single one."

what he'd like to say is you're fucking joking, or i'm not a babysitter, or this is a waste of my time. but it isn't in his programming to question his superiors. besides — pyotr is right. just look at all the trouble vanya gets herself into.

<< i will watch her. it will be easy. we know the same people. >>

a beat.

<<This was my thought,>> Pyotr agrees, pleased by Sasha's apparent acknowledgment of Pyotr's infinite wisdom.

At the mention of reports, his smile becomes the expression of a man who's just had sewage waft into his nostrils.

<<That sounds so formal. This isn't like that, and the hassle of the extra work isn't worth it. Text me if something—no—call me. And I'll call you before the sun comes up, if I need to know something. It's casual. It's fine.>>

where does this old fuck get off? if there's anything he hates being called, it's sloppy. come on. he's grown out of that.

<<No, stupid boy.>>

Therefore, it wasn't a stupid question.

If Roscoe finds Nanami's thoroughness and meticulous grating, that speaks more to the sort of work Roscoe does than it does to Nanami's intelligence.

"Yes," Nanami says. Yeah, I probably do know something you don't, you miserable hag seems like a lot to translate from his internal monologue to external spoken English.

Dolores takes another drag while Mr. Minister keeps talking at her, slowly giving him a once over that's less flirtatious appraisal and more terminator scan. Like she's trying to assess whether or not this conversation is actually worth sticking around for based on the color of his suit. She breathes out a steady stream of billowing white. Hm... "Oh, I bet." The irony in her tone is so strong it's a wonder she doesn't taste metal. "Well this has been a truly riveting conversation, but I think I'm going to sneak out the bathroom window now, so if you'll excuse me..." Stubbing out her cigarette on her stolen dishware, her little heels click along the echoing floor. She makes it all of five steps maybe when the serene and cerulean light of the tanks cut out, plunging them both into bubbling darkness. Concerned, muffled shouting breaks out from the main room and Dolores, ever the unbothered just sighs. "Or not."

Maybe the vulnerability is what puts her off—has her extinguishing her smoke and, with it, any potential for this to become a lively, mutually beneficial chance encounter. Rupert's not so desperate that he follows after her. In fact, he needs a few moments to collect himself and stare sulkily at the crustaceans and cephalopods.

The outburst startles him—and only him, it seems. He lurches away from the tanks and to Dolores' side. He nearly holds his arm out to her—then thinks better of it.

"Surely," he admits, shoving his hands in his pockets to avoid looking as flustered as he is, "There's an emergency exit with a stairwell. We must find that."

The room feels softer around the edges, like the world has been wrapped in gauze. Thoughts drift slower than they should, each one taking its time before settling. It's easier like this—easier not to think too hard about where he fits and where he doesn't.

Zachary still feels like he has one foot somewhere else.

Deadlines. Half-finished articles. The quiet glow of a laptop at three in the morning. The carefully curated confidence of his online work. Different audiences, different masks. None of them overlap neatly with this place or these people who orbit Kieran like satellites.

Kieran seems to fit everywhere. He makes things look so effortless. That charm. The kind that can wrap a room around its finger without really trying.

Maybe that's why his chest feels tight when their eyes meet again, when that easy smile lands on him like he's supposed to understand something unspoken. Like he's already part of the pattern.

He's still hovering at the edge of it all. The outsider who wandered in and somehow stayed long enough to start forgetting the way back home. Kieran never looks at him like he's an outsider, though. That might be the most disarming thing about him.

The high hums quietly through Zachary's body, loosening the edges of his resistance. Make it easier to stop overthinking the invisible lines he keeps drawing between himself and everyone else. Maybe he doesn't have to hold the distance. Maybe he doesn't have to hold anything at all.

He closes the distance between them without much ceremony, fingers catching lightly at the front of Kieran's flannel. Those big, unsteady eyes linger on Kieran's face, like he's silently handing something over that he normally guards too tightly.

Then the last bit of resistance gives way.