Someone was knocking on her door. Julia opened it, and Vicious was
standing there like he didn't know what he was doing there. Ever since he'd
seen his father he'd lost all his rigid Zen composure.
"Vicious," she said. "Come in." She restrained the urge to take his hand and gestured for him to take a seat after closing the door behind him. He looked around her room in approval. It was small, and Spartan. There was no more furniture than necessary, and nothing else. No television, plants, books, or anything. There was only a Disc Player in the corner. She stood over him and he was grateful for the calmness in her face. There was no pity there. He couldn't take the look in Spike's eyes. He couldn't talk to him. Spike's life was easy, comparatively. "Do you want tea?" she asked.
"Liquor," he said.
"I have vodka from Titan," she offered. He nodded. She was in the kitchen and back within minutes. She placed a flute of vodka in the center of the table and two shot glasses on either side of it. She filled his glass, and then her own. "Drink," she instructed. He did, and then she did. She didn't ask him why he had come. She filled their shot glasses again, and they drank, and slowly the tension that had laced his chest began to unfold.
"I know about your brother," he said after their third glass. She winced, and said nothing. "I wondered why you didn't leave all this when Komodo fell."
"I didn't have anything else," she said. He nodded. "Besides," she said, "They would have tracked me down, or held me responsible for Komodo. More people I knew could have been killed."
She wasn't looking at him. She made it all sound very practical. Perhaps it was to her by now, but he suspected it wasn't, and he felt a brief flame of anger light and quiver out inside him. "I've known a lot of people, who died," he said, finally. He took the flute and filled himself a fourth glass. "The first one was my sister," he said, and drank the shot. "I didn't want to join the syndicate. I was sixteen. I thought I had a choice. My father asked me to make my choice, on my birthday, and I did, and he shot my sister in front of me. Every year, on my birthday, he kills someone. Sometimes I know them, sometimes I don't. If I've done good work he'll only shoot my maid. If not, he'll shoot my friends. He killed an Elder. He can kill anyone. Do you know, Julia, that the syndicate is run by blood? By families? My father is of the Red Dragon blood, and this is the way they train their sons." He hadn't expected to speak at such length. He turned to Julia. She was staring straight ahead, just a profile. He filled his glass again and walked to the window of her room. Walking past her, he thought he saw a glimmer of a tear on her right cheek, but he was too drunk, by now, to bother confirming his vision.
Julia understood what it was she saw in Vicious's eyes, and the rigidity of his posture, a strength too strong that he had taken on those years ago, harder than any material, but like a diamond, so brittle that it would shatter like glass at the right angle. People moved to accommodate his strength, not wanting to break it and face the shards. Unless it softened he would not survive long with it, as she had survived with the soft weight of sadness for so many years, simply waiting for the burden to lessen.
His story had been a relief to her, to know someone had suffered as she had, to know someone had suffered more. Finally the strength she'd suspected in herself had a shape, and a reason. She stood, walked over to his figure by the window. The shot glass was empty. She took it from his hand and placed it on her Disc Player. She turned him to her. His posture was stiff, but he turned without resistance.
She moved her hand to the hard line of his tensed jaw, hoping to give him an asylum within which he could rest. His eyelids lowered, considering the implications of her offer, but he didn't move in response. She moved closer to him, gauging the gaze that refused to meet hers, and under her left hand she felt a facial muscle flex. She moved her hand to brush back his hair, traced the hard line of muscle that guarded the back of his neck. Slowly, as if she were moving towards a frightened cat, she arched her feet so that she stood on her toes, and crept closer to him until her mouth covered his. She could see his eyes close and tighten, and though his lips didn't move they took in the warmth of her lips as though she were a blanket in the winter. She lingered by his mouth, then moved to the place where his jaw met his neck, then kissed the half-moon of his collar bone. Her hand slid from his neck to his shirt, and she slipped her finger to break each button from its hole until it rested on the cleft of his pants. Moving her lips from his skin, she leaned back to see his eyes still closed. She grasped his shirt and open coat and pushed both from his shoulders, then slipped the fabric down his arms. He parted his lips, unconsciously, and she met them again with her own.
Suddenly, he grabbed her arm with a hand made of iron, gripping so hard it hurt. He pushed his tongue into her mouth, violently, and she embraced it with the warm caress of her soft tongue. His other hand pulled her by the small of her back into an angry kiss with his pelvis, and she gasped at the sensation of his erection pressed against her stomach. He began to undress her, his actions hard and smooth with violence. She met him only with softness, and their energies flowed back and forth, hard into soft, violence into peace, until he released all his diamond-brittle strength into her with a sharp gasp. He fell, naked and spent, into her arms, and, serene, she traced the tips of her fingers up and down his back, which he shivered at. Vicious reveled in this new softness, this empty contentment he had not felt since he came of age with the death of his sister, and marveled that it was even possible to feel such relief. He knew it would not be possible, after this, to live without it.
"Vicious," she said. "Come in." She restrained the urge to take his hand and gestured for him to take a seat after closing the door behind him. He looked around her room in approval. It was small, and Spartan. There was no more furniture than necessary, and nothing else. No television, plants, books, or anything. There was only a Disc Player in the corner. She stood over him and he was grateful for the calmness in her face. There was no pity there. He couldn't take the look in Spike's eyes. He couldn't talk to him. Spike's life was easy, comparatively. "Do you want tea?" she asked.
"Liquor," he said.
"I have vodka from Titan," she offered. He nodded. She was in the kitchen and back within minutes. She placed a flute of vodka in the center of the table and two shot glasses on either side of it. She filled his glass, and then her own. "Drink," she instructed. He did, and then she did. She didn't ask him why he had come. She filled their shot glasses again, and they drank, and slowly the tension that had laced his chest began to unfold.
"I know about your brother," he said after their third glass. She winced, and said nothing. "I wondered why you didn't leave all this when Komodo fell."
"I didn't have anything else," she said. He nodded. "Besides," she said, "They would have tracked me down, or held me responsible for Komodo. More people I knew could have been killed."
She wasn't looking at him. She made it all sound very practical. Perhaps it was to her by now, but he suspected it wasn't, and he felt a brief flame of anger light and quiver out inside him. "I've known a lot of people, who died," he said, finally. He took the flute and filled himself a fourth glass. "The first one was my sister," he said, and drank the shot. "I didn't want to join the syndicate. I was sixteen. I thought I had a choice. My father asked me to make my choice, on my birthday, and I did, and he shot my sister in front of me. Every year, on my birthday, he kills someone. Sometimes I know them, sometimes I don't. If I've done good work he'll only shoot my maid. If not, he'll shoot my friends. He killed an Elder. He can kill anyone. Do you know, Julia, that the syndicate is run by blood? By families? My father is of the Red Dragon blood, and this is the way they train their sons." He hadn't expected to speak at such length. He turned to Julia. She was staring straight ahead, just a profile. He filled his glass again and walked to the window of her room. Walking past her, he thought he saw a glimmer of a tear on her right cheek, but he was too drunk, by now, to bother confirming his vision.
Julia understood what it was she saw in Vicious's eyes, and the rigidity of his posture, a strength too strong that he had taken on those years ago, harder than any material, but like a diamond, so brittle that it would shatter like glass at the right angle. People moved to accommodate his strength, not wanting to break it and face the shards. Unless it softened he would not survive long with it, as she had survived with the soft weight of sadness for so many years, simply waiting for the burden to lessen.
His story had been a relief to her, to know someone had suffered as she had, to know someone had suffered more. Finally the strength she'd suspected in herself had a shape, and a reason. She stood, walked over to his figure by the window. The shot glass was empty. She took it from his hand and placed it on her Disc Player. She turned him to her. His posture was stiff, but he turned without resistance.
She moved her hand to the hard line of his tensed jaw, hoping to give him an asylum within which he could rest. His eyelids lowered, considering the implications of her offer, but he didn't move in response. She moved closer to him, gauging the gaze that refused to meet hers, and under her left hand she felt a facial muscle flex. She moved her hand to brush back his hair, traced the hard line of muscle that guarded the back of his neck. Slowly, as if she were moving towards a frightened cat, she arched her feet so that she stood on her toes, and crept closer to him until her mouth covered his. She could see his eyes close and tighten, and though his lips didn't move they took in the warmth of her lips as though she were a blanket in the winter. She lingered by his mouth, then moved to the place where his jaw met his neck, then kissed the half-moon of his collar bone. Her hand slid from his neck to his shirt, and she slipped her finger to break each button from its hole until it rested on the cleft of his pants. Moving her lips from his skin, she leaned back to see his eyes still closed. She grasped his shirt and open coat and pushed both from his shoulders, then slipped the fabric down his arms. He parted his lips, unconsciously, and she met them again with her own.
Suddenly, he grabbed her arm with a hand made of iron, gripping so hard it hurt. He pushed his tongue into her mouth, violently, and she embraced it with the warm caress of her soft tongue. His other hand pulled her by the small of her back into an angry kiss with his pelvis, and she gasped at the sensation of his erection pressed against her stomach. He began to undress her, his actions hard and smooth with violence. She met him only with softness, and their energies flowed back and forth, hard into soft, violence into peace, until he released all his diamond-brittle strength into her with a sharp gasp. He fell, naked and spent, into her arms, and, serene, she traced the tips of her fingers up and down his back, which he shivered at. Vicious reveled in this new softness, this empty contentment he had not felt since he came of age with the death of his sister, and marveled that it was even possible to feel such relief. He knew it would not be possible, after this, to live without it.