Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Fandom: Imperial Radch
Characters: Tisarwat
Summary: Tisarwat's sense of touch.
Notes: Written for Night on Fic Mountain 2015 as a treat for fadeaccompli.
When Tisarwat was an infant she put her hands into everything, like most children across the galaxy. No one thinks twice about allowing a child the freedom to explore her environment, to learn the textures of the world for herself. But soon enough her Radchaai hands were encased in her first pair of gloves and she was taught never to show her hands in public.
Hands were private, like other things you did in private. Only barbarians walked about with their bare hands showing.
Tisarwat never became as easy with the encasing fabric as her peers, never quite adjusted to the layer between her and the world. She would never give insult to her family by defying tradition, no! Her gloves were as proper as any Radchaai's and, one might note, of a very fine cut. Elegant materials nearly as dark as her skin, impervious to any stain. Different apparel for different occasions, from stylish lace-up elbow gloves for formal dinners to the very lightest and thinnest coverings for intimate meetings, or those Tisarwat wished to become intimate. Gloves could be a signal of interest as clear as any flirtation.
But Tisarwat never forgot the feel of the world between her fingers. She longed, on occasion, to remove her gloves and trace the subtle etchings on a set of ancient dishes or tea set. To stroke the lines under her fingertips and know them familiarly, disregarding the sensation-dulling effect of even the finest cloth. To hold a weight in her hand and know its heft, the patterns and textures distinct against her skin.
Sometimes, when she felt very daring, Tisarwat would find a secluded spot within a public garden. She would admire the flowers, kneeling close in admiration, her body angled to block surveillance. She would furtively take off one glove and reach out to stroke one of the blooms. Gently, gently so as not to bruise, she let the petals glide over her fingers and palm, the delicate skin of the back of her hand. A caress as sensual as a kiss.
And back in her room, safely private, she would strip off her glove and smell the lingering scent on her fingers, and know she had truly touched something beautiful.
These days, Tisarwat goes gloved and never gives it a second thought.