Sappho is not sympathetic to your plight. You don't even know why you told her.
(Because she asked, and you thought maybe it was a sort of starter, an invitation for the two of you to become hate-friends. You've lived together for six perigees, after all. It'd be about time.)
"This is absurd, even by your ususal standards," she says, propping herself up on the lip of her coon. Her hair is dripping sopor all over the side, and her face is streaked with green. Sappho takes a special pride in the fact she can sleep submerged. "When I said you need to stop being such a drab little wallflower, I didn't mean you should go trouncing through the sewers."
Some students have quadrants outside of the academy, where Proctor Sungazer can't enforce the three caste rule. But you're hlad of the fact that both you and Sappho are students, because you don't have to fret about any coloured undertones with her. You can just take the easy contempt at face value.
Lucky you.
"Catacombs," you correct her quietly, finishing your make-up. Cosmetic facepaint like this is highblood frippery, but you like the way the undereye concealer hides the black smudges under your eyes. With the rest of your paint on, it doesn't look like you've spent the day guarding your phone and vomitting from anxiety. You just look tired.
"Whatever. Who are you even meeting?" Her neckfrills lift, and she glubs out a wet pop of a laugh. Your lusus perks a scaled ear, but otherwise, he pays her no mind: he's used to looking the other way with highbloods. "Have you finally catch yourself some fronds?"
She keeps up her commentary while you get dressed in your shabbiest clothes, the ones that you won't mind getting ruined, and then when you leave the room, she follows, throwing on her robe as an afterthought. You want to tell her to go away, but she's indigo: the only thing you can do is try to control the spikes of anxiety brewing in your digestion sack, and hope that she gets bored.
She's still trailing you when you reach the gate, and spot Sipara idling at the other side. The light is too dim for you to see well outside of the grub-lit halls of the academy, and you're mostly being led by your leached lusus, but even in the gloom, it's impossible to mistake the red and white streaked figure amongst the purple and blue crowds.
"Oh, no," Sappho says, delighted, and you can't help the way you tuck your chin in as you open up the gate.
no subject
Sappho is not sympathetic to your plight. You don't even know why you told her.
(Because she asked, and you thought maybe it was a sort of starter, an invitation for the two of you to become hate-friends. You've lived together for six perigees, after all. It'd be about time.)
"This is absurd, even by your ususal standards," she says, propping herself up on the lip of her coon. Her hair is dripping sopor all over the side, and her face is streaked with green. Sappho takes a special pride in the fact she can sleep submerged. "When I said you need to stop being such a drab little wallflower, I didn't mean you should go trouncing through the sewers."
Some students have quadrants outside of the academy, where Proctor Sungazer can't enforce the three caste rule. But you're hlad of the fact that both you and Sappho are students, because you don't have to fret about any coloured undertones with her. You can just take the easy contempt at face value.
Lucky you.
"Catacombs," you correct her quietly, finishing your make-up. Cosmetic facepaint like this is highblood frippery, but you like the way the undereye concealer hides the black smudges under your eyes. With the rest of your paint on, it doesn't look like you've spent the day guarding your phone and vomitting from anxiety. You just look tired.
"Whatever. Who are you even meeting?" Her neckfrills lift, and she glubs out a wet pop of a laugh. Your lusus perks a scaled ear, but otherwise, he pays her no mind: he's used to looking the other way with highbloods. "Have you finally catch yourself some fronds?"
She keeps up her commentary while you get dressed in your shabbiest clothes, the ones that you won't mind getting ruined, and then when you leave the room, she follows, throwing on her robe as an afterthought. You want to tell her to go away, but she's indigo: the only thing you can do is try to control the spikes of anxiety brewing in your digestion sack, and hope that she gets bored.
She's still trailing you when you reach the gate, and spot Sipara idling at the other side. The light is too dim for you to see well outside of the grub-lit halls of the academy, and you're mostly being led by your leached lusus, but even in the gloom, it's impossible to mistake the red and white streaked figure amongst the purple and blue crowds.
"Oh, no," Sappho says, delighted, and you can't help the way you tuck your chin in as you open up the gate.