[Flashback]If You Can't Stand the Heat(Syllke)

[Mara]

Fall 90, 509 AV

A deep huff, built up from holding his breath, flopped free and twirled with the winter-born atmosphere fashioning silver smoke that spun before his nose. The pending season greeted him with open arms as he trampled across thickly assembled snow. Avanthal always seemed to gain height at the arrival of multilayered slush, and her people adopted it as new roads and knolls in their topography. The bleached mat was as much a part of the city as it was when it would wane into a fine powder, only sugar-coating the turf. Citizens were lively, Vantha or otherwise, slipping in and out of their holds and locales of work to gulp in the harsh air. Candle flames flickered along the frames of each window and along the street’s verge. As solemn and lovely to outsiders as it was bleak to any who knew it meant the departure of their fair goddess was approaching.

Festivities were prepared, meats cured and salted and cold sweets churned and sealed in decorative designs with a flick of ice reaving fingers. Sleds skidded between paths littered with children's laughter and shouting mutts threatening to run over any who were unobservant to their course. Snow whirled clouds stirred about the peaks of buildings and sat too perfectly over the city. It was the depiction of a city turned snow globe.

Work was slackened; it usually was around this time. People were too invested in the season and spending their last moments with Morwen before she swanned her dresses chilly hem across the continent. It was an unusually calamitous time for Mara in past seasons. No work was as miserable as seeing Morwen off, and a forthcoming personal holiday in his family had always harbored its own dusky clouds. He was never offered reasoning as to why, and he had stopped asking about the veiled tears shed on the day of his birth.

His trodden path stopped at the Skyglow hold. Air plucked at his color flecked cords and the tongue of a cerise knit scarf flailed at his side. He followed the structures edge to the upper levels of the most charmingly decorated hold in the city. Ice sculptures hugged the building beams and crowned it with flawless and unwavering portraits. The windows were fogged with designs spun across the glass and candles floated in crystal bowls resting on unmanageable niches. Light danced across the bloodied halos of the attentive half blood.

He skimmed down to the sack dangling from his partially sleeve sheathed hand. Those that worked at the Whitevine hold occasionally were treated to an appreciation gift around the time of the festivals. This year it was a classic frozen treat, arranged with engraved designs of snowflakes on it's creamy face. Besides not possessing a particularly sweet tooth, the confection contained a conglomerate of berries and nuts. The cream and berries he would have possible been able to stomach with large aggregates of misused time chewing, but the nuts would never process well enough for him to digest. So he had brought them with him instead of tossing them away or allowing them to pile on extra layers of frost in their icebox.

The day was less than half-past. Mara tried to recall what he had agreed to partaking in for the day. It seemed like a dirty trick to ask him to agree to something when lying in bed in a blissful hypnotism. Still, Mara did not mind Syllke's family and their company, he was less than elegant, but they never seemed to mind his lack of input or social adept or at least it was never commented on within earshot.

He made his way inside and up to where the Vantha and his family lived. He paced to the door and rapped his ink lined knuckles over the woody frame, careful not to jostle the decorations that draped in branches about the entrance. It was so suitable Syllke was a Skyglow. They seemed to share his over the top but attractive nature.

The opening of the door, with a hurried swing, tossed his hair and chubby drops of frozen water toward the beaming smile that greeted him. Looking past the boy he could spot his family walking between the open areas, or else he may have planted a kiss upon the parted soil of his grin. He held up the bag swinging from a thumb wrapped in a mending vine. "Hey." the words were airy and soft the warmer air still thawing his vocal cords. "I brought you something." A transitory smirk stretched over his colorless lips as he handed him the bag. “It’s nothing extraordinary, I just can’t eat it.”

[Syllke Skyglow]

“Awesome,” Syllke said, with his signature grin, plucking the bag from Mara’s thumb with a hand similarly graced with twining foliage. “Have one of these instead.” With his other hand he raised a home made popsicle like confection to his friend’s lips. His family had been busy, along with the rest of the city, preparing for the fete of Morwen’s Departure, and it was a time of special treats, just like the one gifted to Mara. Not only his mother and grandmother, but his father and grandfather as well, had been bustling about the kitchen all morning, getting in one another’s way as they each worked over some special dish or sweet or refreshment. It had always been a big deal in Syllke’s home, and his hold, this last day of Fall. Symbolically it signaled the eve of Winter, a time when most Skyglows reveled in the inexhaustible supply of ice with which to make their lovely ice sculptures. Syllke’s mother had been insistent that he invite Mara over to celebrate with them, and the young Vantha had of course no objections to doing so. But he had accidentally on purpose failed to quite accurately describe what exactly Mara was being invited to – saying vaguely it was ‘oh, just a family thing and you know . . .’ Mara had either not been paying too much attention or had consciously made the decision that perhaps it was best not to know, for he hadn’t questioned Syllke further. That was much to his friend’s relief, as Syllke was pretty sure if Mara really did know the extent of this day’s celebrations that he would shy away and make excuses and hide at home. So the grin on Syllke’s face as Mara stepped inside the overly warm kitchen had the added component of Good at least he’s here, now let me figure out how to sweet talk him into staying. But Syllke let none of that slip at first, of course. Once Mara was in and divested of all extraneous exterior garments, he was put to work, so to speak. There was so much to do, and Syllke sloughed off explanations for all this bustle by at least saying that they were going to be going out later and so this was all for a dinner to come, and this needed to be pretty much put together beforehand. Aniska for the most part highjacked Mara and kept him by her side for quite a while, showing him how to make some complicated but extremely tasty dishes that contained nothing solid. She had pinched his cheek and told him he was far too skinny and needed to eat more and better food. Syllke had teased that he liked Mara just the way he was – so he could always know he’d come out on top in a wrestling match. If Aniska might have made a private guess at just what type of wrestling her son was alluding to so subtly, she made no comment. An hour or more passed and finally things seemed to be settling down, the table and counter groaned, figuratively, with the amount and number of dishes and plates and bowls and pitchers of food and drink. It was enough . . . to feed an army. Then it was time. The others departed from the kitchen and Syllke and Mara were left alone for a moment. Syllke slipped over to Mara’s side and wrapped an arm around his thin waist. “Time to get your coat on.” At Mara’s questioning look, Syllke looked a bit guilty, but also hopeful. “Trust me – it will be fun. The ice sculpting contest, you know . . . “ So, this was the ‘you know’ bit that Syllke had alluded to several days before. Anyone who lived in Avanthal would know about it. Most would have attended it one or more times. It was a Skyglow thing, but open to all. In the courtyard of their hold, a dozen huge chunks of ice – the size of small sheds – would have materialized. By drawing straws, twelve artists would have been chosen – young or old, novice or master – each had equal chance to be a contestant. When dark fell, by torch light the sculpting would begin, the artists surrounded and encouraged by the crowds that watched and mingled and gossiped and ate and drank and just generally had a heck of a good time. At the end of three hours, the judges would pick a winner, and the victor was feted and congratulated, and the losers were too as well. It was all most amiable and joyous. Then everyone was invited inside – an open house for the hold and every family of Skyglows would have prepared an enormous amount of comestibles for everyone to consume and enjoy. It was one of the most important nights of the year for the hold. It was one Syllke wanted very much to share with Mara. It was exactly the type of event that the healer most strove to avoid. “My father has been picked,” Syllke said, smiling at their good luck, a soft pleading in his color swirled eyes. “Please come with us,” he added, risking a quick soft kiss on Mara’s cheek.

[Mara]

He should have known. Put the embarrassingly apparent clues together. Of course they would go to this contest. It had eluded him because he had not attended since he was very young. How old had he been, four, five? He was not much for these communal jamborees. If he had his way, he would be at the clinic. "I don't know, Syllke."

He fumbled with his jacket regardless, shrugging it over his shoulders with a sigh. Syllke pleaded his convincing case. He found his yearning to be mannerly was overpowering his impulse to refuse. The finishing kiss upon his cheek was warm and feathery, almost modest air gliding over his skin. His eyes rolled in his skull and he scrunched the artist’s cheeks between long tipped fingers. "Alright." exasperated from being worn down so effortlessly, he required something in return. "Come to my place after though, ok?" His father would be out late, celebrating in his own way, and he was growing less found of his frequent solitude.

He released him and pivoted on toward the open door. They made their way outside. It was midafternoon, but the season made it seem darker. The clouds stalked over them, but the multitude of candle flames lit the city with thousands of twinkling stars. His hands thrust into his pockets as they caught up to Syllke's family. The area designated for the event was already filling up, people of all ages and holds constructing stands with fare and trinkets and in the center a large area with several mutant-sized ice cubes.

Mara's shoulders were rigid, held close to his sides and nails scraping at the edge of his fingers from within the fabric hollows of his coat. He despised feeling so insecure and out of his element, and watching Syllke so fluently blend into the mix. Any desire to reach out and clutch onto Syllke's hand evacuated his thoughts watching him converse so easily. A loose scowl bent his mouth into an unwilling pout. He wanted to fade into the backdrop, especially when some eyes procured his form, slipping up and down him with question brimmed whites. His stomach jumped rope with intestines until he thought he may vomit on the next person that knocked against him in the overcrowded rink. Funny, he had never though himself agoraphobic.

He began to glide to the side when something cool thronged against his cheek. He flinched and jerked away from it, before realizing who the culprit was, Aniska. She held out to him a round pale lime colored drop, and the chilly bottle that had caressed his face. She told him it to take it, that it would settle his stomach. He looked baffled, with widened eyes and a gaping mouth, as she held them to him, but he accepted none the less. How the hell she could so easily dissected him was beyond his comprehension, but he was thankful. "Thank you."

He popped the droplet into his mouth and it promptly began to melt within his humid cavern and beneath a skillful tongue rolling it over. It was mint and caused every inch of his innards to tingle as it slid over them. The drink was a tea flavored with ginger and cinnamon. He licked his lips over the film that was left behind on his mouth’s rims. It was good, and it mollified him enough to stop his searching for an area to upchuck.

He stayed beside Syllke or Aniska for the remainder of the time, quietly witnessing the evening’s events. It was nice, when he was simply standing and aware of those nearby him. He watched as they began their ice carvings, reaving chucks from the blocks and eventually something beautiful would remain. He could not understand how someone could do that. Take away material until just what you desire remains. He felt that way sometimes, like ice having its layers chipped away. He was not sure what would be constructed underneath would be as lovely though.

Leaning toward Syllke his lips met his ear in his first real attempt at conversation for quite some time. "Your father is doing really well, I'm sure your proud." he pulled back and offered him a smile. He was trying, to be social, to be cheerful, at least for Syllke. He expected it was convincing enough.

[Syllke Skyglow]

Syllke was well enough satisfied by Mara’s seemingly lukewarm acceptance – knowing how much it really took for the healer to agree to such a festivity. When Mara pinched his cheeks, and requested a ‘favor’ in return, Syllke laughed. “Of course – you know you don’t even have to ask that.” And that was certainly true. Mara had but to walk away and Syllke would follow, like some happy pup, unless and until Mara told him to go home. Well, he rarely used such abrupt terms, but truly, sometimes Mara had to be quite blunt for otherwise Syllke would indeed trail after him thoughtlessly. On the other hand, on those occasions when Mara, for the sake of his own sanity, did more gently rebuff Syllke’s everpresent willingness to keep him company, the young artist always complied readily and without complaint. He understood – as much as any extrovert could be said to understand one as private as Mara – and he didn’t want to impose on his friend’s tolerant acceptance of his noticeably more boisterous presence. All in all, they seemed to have worked out an unspoken but comfortable system of allowing for both togetherness and alone time. But with such an express invitation, of course, Syllke was not going to refuse. So off they went, with Syllke feeling as light hearted as could be – in the company of his best friend, one who had become even more than that in the past weeks. But even with the knowledge that Mara would feel an outsider, Syllke could not help but be himself – his gregarious, outgoing, sociable self. As they reached the hold’s courtyard, and began to mingle into the gathered throng, he greeted and joked and gabbed and laughed. He was indeed very conscious of Mara by his side, and he did know that the reclusive healer would feel himself to be totally out of his element, but he sensed his friend’s reluctance to be socially coddled. On the exceptionally rare occasions when they had been in a crowd together, Mara had been pretty adamant that Syllke not stand on the sidelines on account of him. So Syllke was a bit caught between a rock and a hard place. If he ignored Mara’s invective, and kept close to the healer, he knew Mara would feel himself a burden. If he went ahead and socialized as usual, he knew Mara would feel isolated, and that made him unhappy. In the end, he had decided he would do best to respect Mara’s wishes and just carry on as normal. So this afternoon, he stuck to that decision, but even if it seemed that Syllke was oblivious to Mara’s discomfort, he was not. He did try to stay close, despite the milling crowd, even as Mara seemed to sidle away whenever he could. Syllke was very appreciative of the effort Mara was making to be here, with him, and his family, and he hoped that maybe later on he could impress upon the healer just how grateful he was. That thought brought an extra glimmer to his colorful eyes. There was another who was keeping her eye on Mara as well. Since Aniska had first discerned that her son’s friend was Senesea’s son, it had troubled her heart to think that she had somehow forgotten the boy for so many years. By the time Senesea had finally given up her tenuous grasp on this life, Aniska no longer had any contact with the lovely, delicate, fading Symenestra, or her child. The entire family had become reclusive – except the father, of course, who still had to see to his healing duties. Atric was a healer of some renown, but he was an odd man. After his wife’s death, he became even stranger – moody and sullen and then downright antisocial. Aniska had stopped by their home, once, shortly after Senesea’s death. But Atric had been cold, almost hostile, and his reaction when she asked after Dra-Marvasa had been even moreso. He had made it clear that he had no wish for visitors or their sympathy, and Aniska had left him to his loneliness. She now wished that she had pressed harder, for Mara’s sake. What was done could not be undone, though, and all she could do now was to try to befriend the boy in whatever way he would allow. While the two boys had shuffled through the festival goers, Aniska would note them when they were close by. She of course stood near her husband, offering quiet but rock solid support for his ice carving efforts. At one such pass, she saw the look on the half-blood boy’s face, the pallor beyond what his normally pale skin displayed. That inward turned look of someone fighting to control some inner turmoil. Slipping away from her husband, she procured a bottle of spiced tea and a mint lozenge, and she was glad that Mara accepted both readily – she wouldn’t have let him do otherwise. But it was nice not to have to press him to take them. After, he seemed to be faring better, and the three of them passed from grandiose block to block, as the sculptures began to take shape, she and Syllke exchanging comments and Mara simply a silent audience to all that was going on around him. Time passed – swiftly for Syllke ,who had noticed his mother passing Mara some tea but thought nothing much of it. The artist was in his element and thoroughly enjoying himself, and they ended up mainly near his dad, watching and chatting away as he worked the ice. It had been quite a while since Mara had opened his mouth, and so Syllke was vaguely surprised when the healer spoke in his ear. He turned with a reflective smile. Their faces no more than a few inches apart. “Yes, I think he has a good chance to win, actually.” He replied, his voice more quiet than it had been for the past hour or so, as there was no need to be loud with Mara so very near. “What are you two boys whispering about?” came a voice from behind their position at the front edge of those watching Syllke’s father’s efforts. Syllke craned his neck over his shoulder and grinned. “Wouldn’t you like to know, miss nosy.” He smirked and nodded. “Where have you been hiding all afternoon? I guess it must take you an extra long time to make yourself look presentable.” His voice was familiar, teasing – an easy banter that clearly said these two were on good terms and nothing would be taken in the wrong way. The girl who had addressed them – or more accurately Syllke – was grinning too. She was a pretty thing, petite and with a heart shaped face and eyes that smiled just as her lips did. At that moment, her face was framed by a hood trimmed in fur, and only a smidgin of dark hair peeked out. In her gloved hand was a steaming mug. Her jacket and matching long skirt were indigo trimmed in the same white fur as decorated her hood. If one was good at judging ages, they might have guessed her to be around the same age as the boys she now regarded with a curious look. “Yes, being beautiful is such a trial,” she teased back, making a little moue of feigned fatigue. Then she giggled. “I was being kept chained to our kitchen,” she said, with a more real grimace of dismay. “I think we made enough food to feed the entire city for three weeks.” Syllke laughed. “I know what you mean. My mom made me get up before the sun.” The girl’s eyes went beyond them to Syllke’s father as he worked away shaving thin sections of ice from what was now obviously a bear. “Wow, Uncle is doing great! I hope he wins.” Her voice was excited and enthusiastic and her eyes danced with liveliness. They turned back to Syllke. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful?” Syllke nodded in agreement. “I think he has a good chance – that’s what I was just saying to Ma – to Dra-Marvasa here.” With another nod he indicated the boy standing next to him. He then laughed. “Ooops, guess I told you our secret.” His eyes went back to the girl. “Kivi, this is my friend, Dra-Marvasa.” His eyes switched to the boy at his side. “This is my cousin, Kivillik, but call her Kivi, cause she hates it.” Again he grinned and laughed and when she stuck her tongue out at him, he only laughed harder. Kivillik gave Mara an open, candid look, friendly and amiable. “Hello, Dra-Marvasa. You can actually call me Kivi, and I won’t hate it – just to spite him.” She reached to poke Syllke in the ribs.

[Mara]

The bottle revolved at his side from a slack grip of obsidian blades sprouting from peeled nail beds. He found himself eyeing everything but this new company, not to say he was not heeding their exchange. He soaked in each word of their conversations, his tongue running over the ridges about the top of his mouth. The bottle lifted, its aperture kissing him with a tilt. The liquid sloshed around his mouth, fraternizing with the faint aftertaste of his own venom before a large gulp was audible from the bubbling ball of tea descending down his throat.

Introductions were made and his sealed mouth twitched across his face, a straight line spread from cheek to cheek meant as a smile. "Nice to meet you-" His dark eyes subtly darted across her structure. She was such a dainty looking girl with a smile that nearly rivaled Syllke's. Her name hung from his lips, caught between the bars of ivory. "Kivi?" if his tone was unfriendly it was not premeditated, at least not consciously. He had no reason to find fault in her and he was not looking for any. Social grace was at arm’s length unless there was something he sought; even then it could be exhausting.

The thought that bounded across his thoughts was How much family can he possibly have? Aunts, Uncles, Parents, Siblings, Cousins, Nieces, Nephews, there were never-ending imaginable combinations, he selfishly had no need to know how many other's there were in Syllke's family tree. It only prodded at him, reminding him that Syllke had endless resources beyond him. How different they would grieve in the absence of one another? To him it was not a difficult question to answer.

Clink Clink Clink

Ice was cracking, picked off of him with chisel and mallet. What was beginning to peak from beneath the flat surface was serrated and horrid. He wanted to leave before it birthed its first breath with a long grating stretch that would shatter the entire concealment.

Mara turned to Syllke,"I'm going to get a refill." He waved the nearly empty bottle around the air, cool liquid sloshed about the pit of the container. "You two catch up" there was another awkward expanse into a horizontal smile with deadened eyes. His hand rose toward Kivillik "Again, nice to meet you."

It was simple worming his lithe form through the crowds of people, not particularly enjoyable however. Even too rough a shove was enough to bruise his body's pitiable justification for a shield. He squirmed free of the most dense area about the ring of ice sculptors and toward the edge with rows of vendors. Some were standing upon chairs or tabletops to better view the main event. It must have been nearly over. His head dipped and curved back toward to crowd. He could see just between a few tall peaks, maybe catch a glimpse of the art ahead. He should have stayed, been supportive of his friend. It had to have been important to him, to watch his father's work and see how well he faired. A ragged breath clambered up his throat and his eyes closed as wind tossed his hair across his face.

His hand slipped into his jacket and pulled free a warm silver flask. He held it in his hand, examining it before twisting off its top and pouring it into the practically bare bottle. It was the first thought he had of what his father actual educated him in after all these years. Some things are just better a little vague.

[Syllke Skyglow]

Kivillik looked at Mara as he looked, briefly, at her, his words of greeting succinct to the point of curtness. His expression was indecipherable – she couldn’t tell if he was pissed off or bored. Clearly, in her eyes, the set of his features did not welcome further conversation. That might not have dissuaded her though – she was the type of friendly soul that was willing to spend more time with the shy, the grumpy, the depressed. But it was not to be. Almost immediately, Syllke’s friend turned and left them, to get more tea, with a cursory parting phrase. Syllke had watched the exchange, knowing that Mara would not want to have an actual conversation with his cousin, or be a part of one. But he had hopes that his very best friend would at least be willing to stay put and be a silent partner in the effort. When Mara left them so quickly, though, it came as no surprise. Syllke shot his cousin a wry smile, and shrugged. “He’s a little shy around girls.” Not entirely true – Mara was as uncomfortable around other guys as he was around females – at least based on what Syllke had observed. But it seemed a simple and expedient explanation. Kivi gave a little smile back, and shrugged too. “Yes, seems that way.” Syllke was watching Mara’s trajectory, where he had disappeared into the growing crowd. Then his gaze swiveled back to the girl. “I think I’ll go hunt him down – so he won’t miss the announcement of the winner.” Kivillik merely nodded, and once Syllke had passed her, she turned her attention back to her uncle and his efforts with the ice. Syllke had to wander about a bit to locate Mara. When he found him, his friend was standing quite by himself, still swilling tea from the bottle he clutched so closely. Syllke approached him with a smile. “Looks like you got your refill. You must have quite a thirst.” He came right up to Mara, and grabbed the elbow of his jacket, without really slowing, trying to drag him forward. “Come on, let’s go. I’m sure we can find something more interesting to do, right? We can always come look at them tomorrow, when it’s not so packed back there.”

[Mara]

Mara was tossed off balance, stumbling his first steps so his boot prints depressed into the white underfoot. He said nothing, instead sipping the bitter nectar from the bottle's spout when he had caught pace with the Vantha still hiking in front of him. The murmuring laughter and steady plink emanating from the crowd was left behind, replaced with their doubled crunching steps. The streets were bare and ghostly, only a few stragglers pacing between empty buildings. The candles now looked like a vigil to a city deceased.

They strolled in silence, and he wondered if he was angry with him, or disappointed he had missed the final results. Cheering echoed behind them, obviously the culmination of the artist’s hard work was very close to an end or results were being delivered in that very moment. A guilt filled cavity burned through his sloppy front. "You didn't have to come find me," he grumbled in place of the apology bitterly tumbling between tongue and cheek "Much less leave with me."

He leveled the small distance between them. They were already in sight of his hold. His arm fidgeted free of the hold and slipped to tangle along the artist neck. "When are you going to learn?" taking a fist full of hair he crashed their faces together in a violent kiss with budding whiskey canines gnashing against sweet pink lips.

Angered, but by what, he only had clues. Angry that he had left his family for him, or that he had made him leave. Angered by his own guilt or the fact that Syllke was making him feel guiltier. He heaved away with tense temple. "I wish you wouldn't look at me like that." his tone shrunk to a timid rasp and his eyes scrambled from the soft perplexed and affectionate globes peering back at him. They were beautifully dyed rings of a true Vantha that could never betray his feelings. He circled away not mentioning the scent on his breath or his over zealously nipping fangs. Gaunt fingers wrapped around the other's cushioned palm, squeezing him tightly, until they reached the hold.

The door flung open and they slipped inside. He polished off the contents of the sloshing container and set it upon the counter. A fine rosiness tinted his cheeks from the drink. He spotted a box sitting about center of the floor, half open. Mara already knew what it was, the candles. His father had likely lugged them out and decided against striking them. He laughed a scornful laugh and kicked gently at the box as he passed. "I'm sure this is your best celebration yet." his jacket pulled from his shoulders with his sarcasm and he chucked it to the side, not even bothering to fold it as he usually would. He faced the other and beckoned him forward. “Do you ever get angry, Syllke? Do I make you angry?” he provoked him from beneath a hazy conscience as he wrapped his unsheathed arms around his neck. “Can I make you angry?” he hummed by his ear before taking his earlobe between his teeth and biting harshly into the malleable flesh.

[Syllke Skyglow]

Syllke wasn’t angry with Mara, merely relieved that his friend wasn’t going to balk and dig in his heels – literally – and insist that Syllke rejoin the crowds, his family, his father, in the race towards victory. It’s what he had expected, and it’s why he had grabbed at Mara without stopping first to propose leaving. So he was quite happy that Mara put up no protest, verbally or physically, and fell into step beside him with almost abashed complacency. The streets were fairly deserted and there was no hesitancy in Syllke’s step – no wavering over which course they should set. The ‘something more interesting’ was crystallizing into a more definite ‘thing’, and one that could best be accomplished in the privacy of Mara’s home. Of course, there was a chance that Mara’s father would be there. They’d just have to deal with that issue should it materialze. Syllke just wanted to get Mara there, before . . . Well, he had almost succeeded. The words finally came from Mara’s grumpy lips – that Syllke need not be doing this. But before Syllke could launch a counter attack with his already formulated arguments, Mara’s hand was slithering behind his neck, under his long hair, twisting those long, thin fingers into those ebony-iridescent strands, and pulling their faces together. Mara’s teeth slammed against Syllke’s lips in an almost feral manner, and the grinding kiss caught Syllke completely off guard. He tasted the booze in Mara’s mouth, smelt it wafting in the millimeters of air between them, and somewhere in the back of his mind it registered that the two – Mara’s uncharacteristic aggressiveness and the alcohol – were related. But at the surface of his thoughts, all Syllke could comprehend was that, despite Mara’s verbalized chastisement, the healer didn’t appear to be averse to Syllke’s company. He wasn’t going to tell Syllke to leave him to his solitude. And that was about all Syllke was hoping for. A toe in the door, and hopefully the rest would take care of itself. The kiss broke off as abruptly as it had been stolen from him, and Syllke’s mind was in a whirl. He didn’t even try to make sense of the question Mara had voiced, making it sound more an accusation than an inquiry. And then another indictment – one that Syllke had no means to decipher. How was he looking at Mara? If he had a mirror, he might have been able to see. But even so, it was likely that – to himself – Syllke would have seemed just . . . normal. He might not have recognized that slightly dogged loyalty, the determination not to blame, the capacity for unlimited forgiveness, the enduring affection. But still, over this chasm that yawned between them, Mara’s hand reached for Syllke’s, and together they moved forward those last few steps. When Mara raised the bottle of “tea” to his lips, Syllke watched in silence, though his eyes alternated from crimson to violet to indigo and back again. Mara was acting so odd, but Syllke wasn’t so naïve that he didn’t realize that part of this was the booze, part the festival that was too much, and part . . . himself. But the advent of fear was still far beyond the horizon of Syllke’s experience. So when Mara summoned him, there was no hesitation in his response. He stepped forward until they were almost chest to chest, and Mara’s arms twined about his neck, Mara’s hips shifting against Syllke’s even as he pulled their bodies together. Once again, though, Mara pre-empted any response Syllke could make to his acerbic questions with a sharp bite to his earlobe. It was unexpected in its almost harsh application – as if it stood as punishment for some failing. And indeed the question became quite crystalline – could Mara make him angry? At the same time, this new and heretofore unseen facet of the complexity that was Dra-Marvasa Whitevine sent a jolting reaction cascading down Syllke’s spinal cord and out to the tips of each extremity. Irritation mixed with excitement and fomented with confusion and desire to catalyze a foaming, bubbling, crackling charge of arousal unlike any that Syllke had experienced in the arms of this incredibly perplexing boy. He found his own teeth grazing close to Mara’s neck, and as his fingers balled in the fabric of Mara’s shirt, Syllke nipped, twice, before moving his lips to Mara’s. “No, I don’t think you can,” he returned in a husky voice ripe with challenge. “But I’m pretty sure you’d like to try.” He kissed Mara in a way reminiscent of the one Mara had bestowed a few minutes before, outside – hard and quick. “So give it your best shot, if it makes you happy.” His crimson eyes locked on Mara’s, a sheen of undiluted lust casting them with a bright glaze.

[Mara]

A muffled moan droned from his gorge, the lingering pang of a grazed neck slipping pleasure to his core. The peck was exactly as his had been, but now he was the one craving more. He sucked in his bottom into his mouth, releasing it with a smack. It was exactly as Syllke had intended, a challenge. Tropical storms spun inside of him, tossing about resentment, desire, and frustration.

He searched his matching orbs for hesitation or reserve. He knotted his fingers through the artist’s long silk cords, a smirk pulling back his lips. He yanked severe and quick so the boy's neck was exposed, and his nails grazed his scalp. "You would offer yourself so readily? Is it because you don't think I would hurt you?" his tongue ran over the muscle and veins impressing against smooth pale casing, perfectly exposed to him. "Or do you simply not care what happens to you?" he raked his points across the surface, watching until shivers rippled over the perceptible flesh. "Do you not care what will happen to my soul when I do them?"

Lean digits loosened their grip and he shoved him so his back smacked the solid wall and they fell away from their mutual embrace. He closed the breach again and dug his onyx hooks into his shoulders. "What if I said I hate you? Would you hate me too?" he kissed him again with the passion of coveting what was once out of reach. Their tongues tousled and hips ground together so brutishly his hips burned. Mara parted for air, darting between the other’s heavy lidded crimsons. "What will it take? You can't be so foolish that you feel no fear of what I could do." he chuckled. "No one would blame you for running from a Widow. Not even me." He kissed him again, softer, ephemerally, but the kiss hardly wavered. The emotion singed his bruising lips. He could feel those eyes still looking at him. He felt a scream filling his lungs Hit me. Fuck me. Anything but this!

He swiveled away with a primeval snarl, avoiding his face and following the cracks along the tiled ground. He did not think himself capable of thoughts of injuring, but in his upset he wanted Syllke to feel dread, to watch blood slip through slender slices and ooze across his perfect skin onto Mara's decorated fingers. He wanted him to be frightened, be livid. He could not stand the gazes that revealed he had his full trust, all his love, and all his attention. It cast light on things he tucked deeply inside of himself. He was terrified to the point that every nerve was exposed and throbbing. How could he show him, that he did not deserve him? For he surely would not have the strength to leave the Vantha of his own free will.

"I will hurt you Syllke." He kneeled before the rejected box and pulled open the lid. "You would not be the first either." he captured the flint and steel with his thumb and forefinger of either hand, striking them together so a few sparks flung through the air and evaporated in tiny puffs of smoke upon the icy stone. He took a glass dish, filled with straw and paper, used to start the fires and set it before his knees. He struck the two pieces together again, with a screech. "Have you ever watched someone die?" He kept an even pace, missing occasionally as the rigid material slid across his thumb and scrapped away thin gossamers of skin. Sparks filled the messy mop of straw and began to burn in dozens of tiny flames, functioning to discover a meeting point before burning out. "I have. I did nothing and they died." a weeping laugh gurgled back up and fell away so only his shoulders dipped.

A flare reached steadiness, dancing and growing in the crystal, casting watery spotlights across the floor. He looked up to Syllke, orange light skipped across his lavender depths, and highlighted yellow in the tips of his hair. "I think I would like it," moisture glistened in his eyes, distorting the dots of light swaying in lilac pools. "If you would kill me before I let something horrible happen to you too."

[Syllke Skyglow]

To Syllke, it was a joke. A macabre jest, perhaps – one spun out of the threads of Mara’s reeling, alcohol-induced imbalance. A scintillating, tantalizing brush against something wicked, something . . . uninhibited – unleashed. With Mara licking his throat as if in delicious anticipation of sinking his teeth into that corded flesh – Syllke’s body was aflame with anticipation of a slightly different kind – stemming from another type of appetite of the flesh. He was naïve, unsophisticated in this way – but there was some visceral response to this laying down of challenges. The feel of Mara’s harsh yanking of his hair – the brittle, acidic words spilling from his mouth – the scrape of the points of his canines over Syllke’s skin – were rushing together in a blind fury of physical arousal. It was a joke – a sensual, erotic tease of the most intense kind. But he was not afraid. And his eyes betrayed that fact. It was there that Mara saw what cut deeper than any words could hope to sink. The shoving – the violent writhing of lips against lips – the crushing thrust of Mara’s hips as he tried to pin Syllke to the wall – his bitter intonations even, flung full force at Syllke’s head – did no damage to that profound trust and affection. He had never voiced the words, but Syllke was completely, head over heels in love with Mara. This was a game of some sort, one that Syllke was eager to play. No veiled threats, no intimations of injury or pain, would ever be taken seriously. If anything, Mara’s words struck at that place in Syllke’s heart where he had recognized and desired so badly to succor Mara’s pain. That inner level of his friend that was so shielded, so hidden. But, as if on cue, Mara wrenched away – and Syllke let him go. Though he desired to comfort, he had no clue how to reach what was so far removed from any of his own life experiences. With care filled eyes, he watched Mara almost fling himself to the floor, grabbing for the box and the bowl, dragging steel over flint, setting a tiny circle of infant flames into the tinder. Mara’s morose declarations did not spark fear in Syllke – only sadness, helplessness and compassion. The flames caught and merged and grew into one, throwing back the shadows of the room, but not enough to provide any real illumination. Only Mara’s face shimmered and glowered as some draught danced attendance on the burning glow. Two steps brought him to Mara’s side. Syllke dipped down, his knees coming to rest gently on the floor. The game was so over. Every drop of Mara’s venom was now directed inward. It wasn’t the first time, even in Syllke’s short experience of the healer, that Mara had allowed some glimpse of this desolation that so beleagured his spirit. But it was the most precisely etched – and terrifying. Now Syllke was scared. But not for himself. “Mara,” his voice was soft, compelling. Syllke’s hand stretched to rest gently on the other boy’s shoulder. “You’re drunk. Come on.” His face turned briefly to the passage that led to Mara’s room. “Come to bed – with me. Nothing horrible is going to happen.” He shook his head gently, his expression kind – he grinned in a teasing way. “You couldn’t hurt a flea. You’re sad, that’s all. Come on.” Syllke leaned forward, his arm slipping around Mara’s shoulders, his forehead coming to rest against those long ragged locks.