ximilialog | ascending to the stars as one.

( at some point in the evening, rhys finds himself at mal's room — with a gentle rap, rap on the door, he calls out in a sing-songy voice. )

Mal-a-million? ( the huff of a laugh. ) No, Mal-a-billion. ( and a more genuine bark of laughter. ) Fine, okay. My darling Mal. I've something of the upmost importance to discuss with you.

( his ability to keep a conversation going, one-sidedly, despite that the door is still firmly shut, is either delusional or entirely impressive. he grins charmingly at anyone passing by, unbothered. )

Actually, it might be better suited to the training room. You can take a punch, can't you? Not that I'm upset with you, of course not, how could I ever? I just think wine and cheese pair together, don't you think? Come, come. I grow ever so cold, not seeing your beautiful face. If you think ignoring me will send me away, I'll save you the time and let you know you are entirely mistaken.

Edited 2022-09-18 12:39 (UTC)

[ months into his stay on the station, mal is on stranger to visits from rhysand. at first he'd been shocked, then annoyed, and now it is becoming a thing he has warmed up to.

he opens that door, crosses his arms over his chest and rolls his eyes. ]

Why do your nicknames never make sense? [ he still asks with dryness in his voice as rhysand laughs to himself and thinks he's being clever. those numbers mean nothing to mal.

but at the mention of discussing something important he tilts his head, curious. then he's lost again because rhysand makes as much sense as a sheep walking on its hind legs, wearing a bonnet. ] What are you even saying, Rhysand? What do wine and cheese have to do with taking a punch.

Unless you wish to wine and dine me before I punch you in the face? [ sparring, he means, truly. his tone does reveal a hint of mischief and teasing, so he's not actually planning to punch rhysand anymore. he may have, once, from the utter irritation. ]

( being marvelously high fae as he is, rhysand has largely gotten used to the exceptional senses that are all implied with mystical creatures of the forest or, in his case, the mountains. still, finding himself finless and back in an oxygenated place, rhys sees his nose tickled by his re-improved senses. everything is vibrant and sharp and far too sensitive — essentially, this fairy boy finds himself with the first ever case of allergies known to faekind, and is none too pleased about it.

he sees yennefer hanging out in the common room, which generally means he'll go be obnoxious in her direction and pray to be on the receiving end of some of her mire, which feels just a little like basking in the sun's rays. unfortunately, he's in a bit of a grumpy mood, and almost decides to ignore her entirely — except.

rhys has never really noticed before, but she smells good. unapologetically, he leans over the couch she's sitting at, and takes a whiff of her scent. )

What is that? It's good. ( he sniffs again. ) Is that perfume? Yenny, I want some. I'll trade you.

[ Yennefer's adjustment post-mission has largely to do with what she now lacks, rather than gained — going from being in possession of several additional limbs to now her normal four has been something of an adjustment, especially since she keeps mentally reaching for certain things and then only realizing after the fact that she doesn't have the extra appendage to grasp it.

She wouldn't normally be found in the common room, save for her current enjoyment of a mug of tea — she has every intention of returning to her room or finding some diversion in the sunlight room to take in some false rays — but Rhysand finds her just as she's taking a slight sip, which means there's a delay in between him inquiring about her scent and outright sniffing her and any form of reply. ]

Trade me what, exactly? [ Her tongue darts between her lips, briefly, as she fixes him with a steady look. ] Perhaps I'd prefer to not let you go around this station smelling of me.

What? I'm offended. ( he does look properly affronted by that statement, besides. who wouldn't want rhys to smell like them?

he will simply have to spiral about it later. for now, he takes a grand leap over the back of the couch and plops down a bit too close to her, leaning his weight into her arm with a mischievous grin. )

You know I adore you as I would a sister, Yensie. For you alone, a most generous offer. ( pause for dramatic effect. ) Well, what should you like? Come look in my box of curiosities and have your pick. ( he gives a thoughtful pause, head tilting. ) Well. I'll tell you if I won't part with it. Sentimental reasons and all that. But mostly your pick.

It could prove somewhat disconcerting if they're expecting me and instead are greeted with...

[ She trails off, not certain she needs to complete the end of that sentence when she's already gesturing to him with the motion of a hand.

When he proceeds to vault himself over the back of the sofa and immediately plant himself right next to her, heedless of all the places in which they make direct contact, she refuses to relinquish any space to him in return, asserting herself while delivering a measured look in his direction. ]

Just like that? I suppose an even trade is fairer, though I wouldn't select anything that you couldn't bear to part with, if only to keep you from pouting about it after the fact.

( he lifts his brows in an admitted bit of delight, deciding to keep his own conclusion to that sentence soundly internalized. it would go something to the tune of someone uniquely pleasant, though a second thought has him changing his mind with a little wiggle of his shoulders. if he smells like yennefer, he'll have to act the part of her as well — it means being both completely impossible to get along with, and being outrageously charming. he doesn't foresee it being any particular hardship.

popping up languidly, he offers his hand to help her up, head inclining in the direction of his bedroom. after a beat, he frowns, eyebrows knitting. )

I am a High Lord of the Night Court. Actually, people back home find me quite terrifying. I do not pout. You must have me confused with someone else.

[ Yennefer merely fixes him with a look that more than implies the issuing of those titles in that order is essentially lost on her — clearly, it's all meant to have some level of significance where he's from, but she's far from the type of woman to suddenly overcorrect herself, or steer herself into some modicum of respect, solely because he decided now was the time to trot it out in front of her. ]

Is that supposed to mean something to me? [ She says it dryly, with all the energy one might exude while also briefly examining their own fingernails for any intrusive speck of dirt — but rather than go that far, she merely reaches out to take the hand he's offered to her, having no qualms whatsoever about taking advantage of his wordless effort to assist her in getting to her feet. ]

And you were one facial expression away from pouting, for the record. It seemed only a matter of time before you switched to something that looks a little more like... [ She tilts her head, making a display of examining his face with a minute shift in her features. ] Desperation?

I am positive you know all those words individually.

( he says, with the sole intention of being as much of a nuisance as faely possible to yennefer. to be honest, he's not bothered at all if his station means little to her — well, maybe a little, but only because it's more than a little jarring, to go from being universally feared as the terror in the night court, to being the much more realistic version of himself, who teases at women who love to bite back. he's happy not to be lord, careless as that sounds, and though he'd never say as much out loud. he isn't always grateful for being terrifying.

positioning yennefer's hand soundly in the crook of his elbow, rhys uses all his suave charm to guide her towards his room with an air of grandiosity, not unlike a carnie hoping to awe-inspire a few saps into giving up coin. in this case, it's perfume. )

I have no doubt you are quite used to seeing a look of desperation on a man's face. ( he grins, delighted by the thought. while yennefer mostly just tolerates rhys, rhys thinks she is absolutely one of the most fun people on this ship. ) I shall warn you ahead of time if I'm ever desperate enough to show you mine. It may just petrify you where you stand from the beauty of it, and I would never want you to look the fool.

Knowing and acknowledging significance are two entirely different things, my Lord.

[ Said with all of the dripping sarcasm that such emphasis would imply, but he has revealed something potentially interesting about himself to her — perhaps without even really meaning to. It's a fact that she'll store away for the future, possibly when the subject comes up all on its own without either of them having to intentionally nudge the conversation in that direction.

Regardless, she allows herself to be guided into step alongside him, even permits him to collect her hand and bring it in for her to clasp against the bend of his arm as they head away from the common area and presumably in the direction of his room without further preamble and at a relatively relaxed pace. ]

Eventually, it begins to lose its impact. [ Her fingers gently curve against the crook of his elbow, something veering close to a sigh in the tone of her voice. ] You see one man's look of distress, you've seen them all. Not even your features could render it uniquely for me.

( his lips curve up, predatory in a way that suggests either court jesters or prowling cats. he corrects: ) High Lord.

In any case, I shall love proving you wrong with the effect of my good looks. We will just have to see who's right in the end.

( it'd be foolish to doubt a woman as self assured as yennefer — really, he doesn't. rhys just takes a certain amount of pleasure of rising to every bit of bait and tossing it back to her, demanding something worse.

it's not a far walk to his room, and rhys opens the door for her with flourish. inside houses what could possibly only be described as a mad warlock's hoarding chambers — the space filled with bobbles and gems and all manner of useless things one might describe as curiosities. diamonds from braccia and strange collections of dishware from kilnan. a horseshoe from scorpion's bend — several horseshoes even, making some kind of wreath of metal. hundreds of different things from several different worlds, like a ximilian museum, except 1. closed to the public and 2. housing the rather lush looking sleeping chambers of one high lord of the night.

he gives a grand gesture inside, batting a loose bit of velvet from the back of his head as he welcomes her inside. )

Welcome to my treasure trove. ( does he have a hoarding issue??? maybe so. )

There may be no need to wait for that.

[ It's good-natured, but with enough of an insistence that indicates Yennefer isn't under the impression she'll be having her mind changed any time soon. Still, it wouldn't be Rhys if he didn't make the attempt to provoke her even in the slightest ways, and she keeps herself linked by her arm through his, permitting him to escort her on.

The space of the room is distinctly more cluttered than her own — but then again, as she quickly reminds herself, he's been on the station much longer than she has, and clearly has used the time to take mementos from previous worlds. It wouldn't be a pursuit she'd elect to complete herself, but she can't deny the fascination, especially when there are clearly artifacts here from missions she was never present for, and she lets her arm slip from his as she ventures further into the room, reaching out to run her fingertips over the shape of a horseshoe. ]

Do you ever think about the possibility that eventually you might run out of room for all of this?

( it's an unfortunate time, nearing if not directly on the dot of midnight. a lone fairy stands in the middle of the kitchen, defeated by man's gift of technology. he has been here for months — not standing in the kitchen, but on this station, yes — and he is no closer to uncovering the secrets of the microwave now than he would've been at home, where their solution to electrical issues is, of course, magic. he frowns, deeply.

and then he is at daisy's door, knocking sheepishly. when she answers he's wearing a pout, holding a microwavable brownie in his hands. he holds it out to her, expectantly. )

Daisy dear, have pity on me. I am entirely without fault except for this one little thing. I need you.

[Thankfully, for Rhys, Daisy is still very much awake when there’s a knock on the door. It’s not a familiar sounding one either, which piques her interest.]

Hey what are you—?

[He cuts her off and that’s when she notices the brownie, not quite understanding what he means she asks…]

Are you drunk?

[It seems more logical than him not being able to use a microwave. Because who the hell doesn’t know how to use one of those?]

( there's a weighty silence, where upon rhys squints his eyes, pulling a face in something like offense. )

How could I possibly be drunk? I want a brownie, not a fist fight.

( he rattles the box in front of her, as if to say see? how could you ever be suspicious of lil ole me? )

I cannot work the microwave, it is too strange. I need your modern touch.

[Daisy looks openly confused,]

What does that have to do with anything?

[He’s got to be drunk. Or high. It’s the only explanation.]

Are you seriously asking me to make you brownies? Now?

When I get drunk I want to fight. Don't you?

( he gives an exasperated — see: exaggerated — eyeroll, strong enough that it rolls his head, face pointed upwards in a prayer for patience. )

Okay, fine. You can have one. Will you help me now?

Not unless someone pisses me off.

[Daisy says dryly, crossing her arms over her chest when he rolls his eyes. She doesn’t have anything better she’s doing right now, so with a roll of her own eyes she grabs the box from him.]

You better pay attention because I’m not doing this again.

[Moving past him the door slides shut behind her as she starts making her way towards the kitchen.]

( success is a notable emotion that courses through rhys, hands coming together in the most textbook from of prayer any holy text might write down in instruction. he trails after her, his steps much lighter than they had previously been, with the promise of gooey sweets on the horizon. )

Pay attention. Yes, absolutely.

( see: not at all even a little bit. )

You know, back at home, the House would generally take care of all this for me. I've never really had to learn how to cook outside of camping, but that's not exactly fine dining.

( he imagines the look on azriel's and cassian's faces if he should whip out a tablecloth and candelabras on one of their missions, and snorts privately to himself. not worth the extra space really, but for a laugh? entirely worth it. )

That makes so much sense.

[Daisy says dryly as she continues the walk back to the kitchen, thinking that maybe she’ll grab something from there to bring back to her room. It’s not like it will take long to show him how to use the microwave.]

Grab the ingredients it calls for on the box.

[ The common area had been a problem when Drift wanted to leave the southwestern wings because it was as advertised — common, communal, and gratingly unavoidable. Of course, there was a workaround to this problem. You don't successfully sequester yourself on a relatively small space station while being the literal size of a two-door vehicle without a sense of creativity. With his human guise, Drift had planned to powerwalk through the common area at a pace most would consider too fast to attempt conversation without risking the embarrassing sting of being flatly ignored.

Only instead, as was the fate of most plans, things changed. Drift was halfway across the common area when his long strides were stopped short when a familiar scent caught him like a stage man's curtain hook, abruptly reeling him back.

Powder-soft, floral notes take the edge of something tart and sharper. Lilac and gooseberries. — Drift's first instinct is to walk fast and be prepared to dodge projectiles.

Only, instead of catching ravens featherdown hair spilling over the side of the couch where a figure lounged was someone else entirely. Drift occasionally had trouble telling humans apart, but he knew Yennefer well enough to know she wasn't entertaining the idea of shearing off most of her hair and going wider in the shoulders. The smell was too suffused to this person to be an incidental brush-off as well.

Without any preamble, Drift moved behind the back of the couch and leaned forward. A hairsbreadth from Rhysland's neck as he sniffed once and deep like a curious animal. ] Well, that's new.

( he startles in the way only something of nature would, seizing up with tension in his shoulders. he's far too dramatic to make a satisfying yelp in repose of an attack — far more likely to say yes, i've been waiting for you while his heart hammers on the inside of his chest, bruising his ribs. luckily, he settles after a moment, violet eyes sliding to meet drift's gaze with the glimmering amusement seemingly only capable in a creature born half from nature, and half from the very idea of mischief itself.

like maybe all of faekind was just a very handsome joke the mother decided to play on humans. they are probably no longer laughing — but rhys is. he's grinning bright, sharp, and swiftly planting a kiss on drift's cheek before he can pull fully away, soundly closing the book that was balanced in his lap. )

I'm in love with you, too. I've just been waiting for you to notice.

[ Even though Drift had instigated things when Rhys had breached the small distance between them with a feather-soft kiss to the cheek, Drift had reeled back immediately. His disgruntled huff would have impressed any irate bull sizing up a toreador. Only Drift wasn't going to be baited by the red flag Rhys was waving with a showman's flourish in his face and let the comment slide.

— Rhys was young for his species, wasn't he? If it took thousands of years for a Cybertronian to emotionally mature, who knew how long it took for a fae? ]

Last I checked, [ Drift stared Rhys down and tried not to draw parallels between the only two people here with violet eyes, ] Yennefer isn't the type to share.

( while not unsettling drift is its own disappointment, rhys finds himself grinning anyway, to his prodding. it's a pretty intimate gesture, to notice someones perfume — really, to zero in on it from across the room like a puppy leaping on its own shadow. very interesting stuff. rhys decidedly tucks that bit of knowledge away, for later inspection. )

Oh, but she shares everything with me? How odd.

( giving it some exaggerated thought, inevitably rhys lets out an ah of realization, nodding with the sway of someone who understands the very meaning of the universe. naturally — )

It's because we're best friends, of course. I think she finds me very comforting to be around. Though, who could blame her, really? I'm delightful.

( if you ignore all the glaring and the pointed jabs and occasional threatening glint in her too-familiar eyes, this might just be true. )

Really? First time I'm hearing about this renowned friendship. [ Drift's tone wasn't accusatory, mostly wryly curious and actually wondering if there's any truth there. He and Yennefer weren't gossips and rarely spoke about anything more personal than the weather, but if she felt strongly about someone — positive or negative — it usually came out on its own. ]

You're something else, sure.

( there is a storm cloud brewing above one high lord's head today. were they on terra firma proper, the mountains quake with his penultimate discontent — but as they are not, he has to settle for his angry footfalls leading him into the kitchens where he, inexplicably, opens up a freezer door and quite petulantly throws a novel inside it. ice flakes off on the cover, and he thinks good.

the bad feeling does not abate, surprisingly. his steps next bring him to the living area, where upon he sees the evil doer herself sitting on a sofa, also reading. it's lucky for him, because her attention is distracted by what he imagines to be a entirely filthy, and probably very satisfying book. swiftly, he plucks it from her lap, quickly replacing the book's place with his head as he sprawls out beside her, letting the novel lay face down on his chest instead. )

I take back every endorsement I've ever spoken on your goodness. You are, in fact, sinful and unholy. ( dramatically, he sighs, resting the back of his hand over his brow. ) How could you, Lili. How could you take the first book in a series home, and not the rest of it. I'm shattered. These pieces are all that remain of he who was once Rhysand.

( turning, he presses his face into her stomach, groaning. ) I must be consoled. A fairy can die from discontent, you know.

[ the slip of tongue doesn't miss its target. home strikes too true, even as she's left floundering in the wake of pages rocked out from beneath her nose — nestling into the spine of a book that's become a home within a home within a home, both escapism and familiarity tied up in her novel's leather spine. equally commonplace in this little cozy corner of the world they've claimed, that still sends shock through her system when she realizes the comfort she's found in it, is the disgruntled wrinkle to her nose, in all of its silent objections to his behavior.

barn cats, alina muses, are likely born with better manners. ]

You put limitations on how many I could bring back.

[ a rule he's bent out of shape each time. a restriction she's never once regarded. but she hides behind that excuse all the same as she snatches the book from his stomach, in those near-disastrous seconds before he rolls over and nearly claims it as a casualty beneath his weight. lightly, she thumps him on the side with its edge, and resumes her search for the same paragraph that had absorbed her minutes before his grand entrance and subsequent performance.

curtain closed, as far as alina is concerned, though she hasn't disregarded a dramatic encore. her mouth twitches, helpless to hold back her amusement at his expense. ]

If there's no ending, you should try your hand at writing your own. "They all lived happily after."

[ the way she's begun to write hers, away from the author of destiny. a blank page is its own exhilarating freedom, an unwritten chapter, the chance for unexplored possibilities. idly, she cards her fingers through the night-black spread of hair flopping across her stomach, warmth seeping into obvious humor once she continues, ]

If you're feeling particularly morose, we'll say they all drowned in a tragic sailing accident. The end. Feeling better yet?

( there's far more satisfaction to be found in the sway of alina's fingers than the pages of a book, anyway. maybe it's immediate that he no longer cares about the cliffhanger he's been left on, given the way he just melts across alina's lap like a boneless kitten, taking up as much space as possible just to suggest he's cute enough for pets. which, of course, he is. had he the proper parts, he'd be purring against her, cozy and content.

as it is, though, he can milk his displeasure a little while longer. well — attempt to, at least. he is in fact so pressed against her stomach because he's hiding a smile in the folds of her clothes, despite his size feeling small enough that he could fit just perfectly right here, in that little patch of skin under her breastbone. )

I do love when you're wicked.

( of course he does. however — his poor heart cannot tolerate an unhappy ending, and he tickles his fingers up her side briefly in reprimand, peeking one purple eye up to her in thought. of course, he's blocked by the book from seeing her perfectly — he plucks it back out of the way accordingly, turning it to face him. )

But, no. If they die I'll just have to write a story on the afterlife, until they find their happiness in the Great Cold Beyond. ( he sighs dramatically, eyes glancing over the page without actually reading anything. ) I'll just take the ending from this book. Let me guess — lots of orgasms, maybe a few cute, fat babies? Love eternal? ( he grins. ) Yes, that's the one. Let's skip to the end.

( he holds her page — of course having no real intention of ruining the book for her — and flips to the end. )

Hey —

[ it pitches reedily, a taut note of offense — the air of an orphan who has been made to share too often. she frowns childishly, fingers clinging like hooks in the earth before they finally relent to his tugging. even then, she feels some defensive need to justify herself and the dreams of simple domesticity that fill some of the pages that sit on her shelf.

simple to anyone other than alina starkov. some lives can only be lived in the safety of books, after all. the normality of an existence others have taken for granted. the type of love that isn't realistic, dwelling only in the stanzas of poems. ]

You think that's all I read because you've seen one or two — [ multiple. ] — unsavory books in my collection?

[ a burn kindles in her face, creates a hearth in her cheeks. her only redemption is that the pages he sifts through are a testament to her varied interests; it's clear, as some of the illustrations flit by in his perusal of its pages, he holds extravagant stories of adventures in his hand. another ill-fitting dream for a bird like her, who has only ever seen the inside of her cage.

none too graciously, she prods her fingers between his ribs. ] Give it back.

ascending to the stars as one.

— mal.

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— yennefer.

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— daisy.

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— alina.

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