She felt good, all things considered. The weight of going back to the house every night hadn’t felt apparent until the moment she’d checked herself and Lune into a suite near the convention centre. Standing in the lobby, a completely stuffed rolling suitcase in one hand and the air crisp and artificial-feeling, she’d realized she would never have to go back. Perhaps it was callous to feel relief, but it was true, and marrow-deep in her bones. She’d needed it.
And who better to spend the rest of the mission with than Lune, a friend, a voice of reason? Sciel does not often reach for the logic of the moment over the feelings, but it feels right, at least for the time, and Lune needs her. Helping her isn’t something she’d even needed to question.
The suite that will be home for the next little while is one of the only ones available at short notice, but it’s no problem for her credit card, and certainly bigger than they need. There’s only one bed, a “king”, but that’s fine; Sciel can still starfish in her sleep without encroaching on Lune’s space. There’d sometimes been less space between their bedrolls around the fire, even. There’s a small kitchen that Sciel has no intention of using, a comedically small table with a single chair, and a shower that seems ludicrously large. Why not just install a bath? Who knows. She likes how temporary it feels, though. Americans seem to have a fondness for trying on and discarding things like they’re in infinite supply, and the hotel feels just as disposable. When they’re done, they can just leave.
It also means whatever’s said here can stay here, too.
And how even to start?
Sciel sits cross legged in front of the open suitcase, which has a heap of clothes. Credit card, remember? She sorts through pants and blouses and long skirts and hose and pretty shoes and blue jeans, fishing around for something Lune might prefer. Lune and her dark colours –– not even a sliver of the smart purple stripe the rest of them wore. Where she’s sat, she can see Lune herself on one side of the suite, and Maelle draped over the couch by the air conditioner. No Gustave. He has a date that is not a date with his wife who is not his wife. Good luck to him.
“You’re going to have people gawking at you if we don’t put you in something less formal,” Sciel says, sober despite the wine. “You and I are similar enough in size…”
She purses her lips as she holds up a sleeveless blouse, as if dressing Lune like a paper doll from across the room. Her eyes are sharp over the neckline. It’s not about the clothes, really. It never is. She’s thinking about when the questions will start, and that she might as well open the floodgates a little herself, before she starts to feel like they’ve been opened on her.
Plus, it’s only right and fair and all those things.
“Also… I thought Maelle and I should get you up to speed on the situation. Particularly with Verso and Gustave.”
For Lune and Maelle
And who better to spend the rest of the mission with than Lune, a friend, a voice of reason? Sciel does not often reach for the logic of the moment over the feelings, but it feels right, at least for the time, and Lune needs her. Helping her isn’t something she’d even needed to question.
The suite that will be home for the next little while is one of the only ones available at short notice, but it’s no problem for her credit card, and certainly bigger than they need. There’s only one bed, a “king”, but that’s fine; Sciel can still starfish in her sleep without encroaching on Lune’s space. There’d sometimes been less space between their bedrolls around the fire, even. There’s a small kitchen that Sciel has no intention of using, a comedically small table with a single chair, and a shower that seems ludicrously large. Why not just install a bath? Who knows. She likes how temporary it feels, though. Americans seem to have a fondness for trying on and discarding things like they’re in infinite supply, and the hotel feels just as disposable. When they’re done, they can just leave.
It also means whatever’s said here can stay here, too.
And how even to start?
Sciel sits cross legged in front of the open suitcase, which has a heap of clothes. Credit card, remember? She sorts through pants and blouses and long skirts and hose and pretty shoes and blue jeans, fishing around for something Lune might prefer. Lune and her dark colours –– not even a sliver of the smart purple stripe the rest of them wore. Where she’s sat, she can see Lune herself on one side of the suite, and Maelle draped over the couch by the air conditioner. No Gustave. He has a date that is not a date with his wife who is not his wife. Good luck to him.
“You’re going to have people gawking at you if we don’t put you in something less formal,” Sciel says, sober despite the wine. “You and I are similar enough in size…”
She purses her lips as she holds up a sleeveless blouse, as if dressing Lune like a paper doll from across the room. Her eyes are sharp over the neckline. It’s not about the clothes, really. It never is. She’s thinking about when the questions will start, and that she might as well open the floodgates a little herself, before she starts to feel like they’ve been opened on her.
Plus, it’s only right and fair and all those things.
“Also… I thought Maelle and I should get you up to speed on the situation. Particularly with Verso and Gustave.”