The crowd had gathered at the foot of the stairs, pushing one another aside in an effort to get a better view. The Countess of Provence was said to have knocked several courtiers over with the sheer force of her crinolines. The atmosphere was hushed, but energetic as they whispered among each other.
"I hear he's been horribly disfigured- the Duke of Polignac shot his nose clean off," said an elderly gentleman, peering up toward the balcony and squinting through his spectacles.
"Nonsense," said his wife. "I was there if you weren't, Etienne, and it was his ears that he lost, not his nose."
"I do wonder how Polignac hit both ears in one shot," retorted her husband.
His wife snorted and continued fanning herself. The smell of the crowd- their odor and the heavy perfumes they used to mask it- was especially evident when they crushed together like this. It was never done in her day, though she would not have it said she had missed the great Skwigelf's first appearance since his injury.
"Lemme through!" cried a coarse, familiar voice. "Gaddamnit, ladies, whatcha got under those dresses anyway?" Cornichon fumbled over a voluminous skirt, and nearly fell over.
There was a collective cry of outrage. Monsieur Cornichon pushed on, beads of sweat gathering on his brow. In his right hand was a bottle of spirits that splashed the unwitting courtiers, and his left hand trailed out behind him, reaching for Marie Antoinette.
"Monsieur Cornichon," she said, lifting up her skirts to follow him. The crowd, which resisted Cornichon, parted to let her through.
"Monsieur, this is hardly necessary!" She snapped as he began to scramble up the bannister.
Marie folded her arms and marched up the stairs, her face flaming. She grabbed Cornichon by his collar and yanked him from the railing. He collapsed in a heap on the steps, and she pulled him upright, tidied his hair and straightened his coat, before taking him by the crook of the arm and leading him from sight.
The voices of the courtiers rose, each expressing greater outrage. Cornichon might be a famed drummer, and he was certainly engaging, but his behavior had grown increasingly abhorrent. They could hardly expect better from a provincial with no blood to speak of, but the Queen was truly debasing herself by showing such obvious favor towards him, not to mention exposing herself to the vilest rumors. Not that there was any truth to them, but Count Vaudreuil's valet had seen them prowling the gardens at night, and a certain chambermaid with charge of the Queen's stays had sworn that her waist had grown at least two inches.
"I'm going to plays again," Skwisgaar stated, reaching out his arm from the side of the bed. "Gives me my Thunderhorse."
Toki studied him cautiously. It had been a week since the fever had broken, and he was better, far better, but was somehow separated from reality. At least they had a moment alone. The constant visits were kind, but draining and often tedious. The courtiers would look with wonder at Toki as if to ask "Why is he here? Why was he always here?" It had become something of a mystery among the gossips- the two rivals growing friendly- and made him feel strangely ill. But they were gone now, and Dr. Meurtrevisage was off brewing potions in his laboratory, a place that was by all accounts something out of a Gothic novel.
"Shhh…" said Toki, biting his lip and trying to think. "Thunderhorse ams not here now."
"Who dares take it from me!" Skwisgaar sat upright, cool sweat on his brow, looking to the right and to the left before collapsing on his pillow again.
Toki bowed his head to conceal his smile. "You loans it to a friend of yours- remember?"
Skwisgaar did not remember, and folded his arms. "Pfft! Like I would trust any friends of mine with my guitars." His eyes darted toward Toki. "Where ams your guitar, little Toki? Go to the brooms closets and fetches it out. Be sure to wipes the cobwebs off."
Toki pouted. He wasn't sure if he liked this new turn of events, if he even liked this version of Skwisgaar- the new Skwisgaar bore a striking resemblance to the old Count Skwigelf. He felt a tugging on his hair.
"Stops that!" he snapped, baring his teeth.
"I pisses you off." Skwisgaar smiled, an alluring yet maddening smile. "Hmmm, ams still soft." He trailed his fingers down the strand, before starting at the roots again. Toki pulled away a little, but nodded as though hypnotized as Skwisgaar pressed the tips of his fingers into his scalp and combed through his hair. Skwisgaar pulled his hand away, and studied Toki from the pillow. "But ams still unbrushed." He chuckled. "You ams a wild beasts."
Toki snarled, and Skwisgaar, laughing, pulled the coverlet over his nose. "Where ams that dick, Meurtrevisage? Tells him I will needs the surgergys again when the vicious Wartooth bites my face off. "
Toki folded his arms. "Well looks at yourselfs! Your hairs ams like a pile of old hay and yous eyes ams so sunk in you look like a dead man's head."
Skwisgaar's face betrayed legitimate horror. "You don't means it!"
"I does!" Toki's eyes flashed triumphant.
Skwisgaar grimaced and pushed himself up again, groaning. "Brings me a mirror! Times for me to face the truth."
Toki hesitated. He had taken things too far. Skwisgaar was still recovering, and knowing him, he would not like what he saw. He had lost a good deal of weight, so his eyes were indeed sunken in and his cheekbones jutted out too fiercely for current fashion. He had been too exhausted to look after his hair. Some strands had fallen out, which would have been barely noticeable to anyone but Skwisgaar himself. The rest of his hair was matted, and had lost its sheen. But the wider Toki's eyes grew, the more Skwisgaar insisted.
Hands shaking, he handed Skwisgaar the mirror.
Skwisgaar's face grew even whiter, if that were possible and ever muscle in his face stiffened. Toki lifted up his hand to hide a smile. "Ams only tepmomary."
Skwisgaar's eyes bulged. His voice was thin and strained "Gods, Toki, how coulds you lets this happen?"
Toki shrugged. "Ams no bigs deals."
"It AMS!" shouted Skwisgaar, before bursting into a fit of coughing.
"I likes you like that. You looks less…" Toki paused. He wanted to say intimidating, but he didn't want to admit that.
"I looks like a corpse!" said Skwisgaar, and dropped the mirror over the side of the bed. Toki scrambled to catch it.
"Watch it, you idiots!" he said frantically. "You wants to breaks it and has bad luck for years now?"
Skwisgaar looked at Toki, holding the mirror desperately to his chest, and laughed, laughed until it hurt and he had to restrain himself.
"I ams shot in the gut and nearly dies of fevers and now I looks like the deads comes back to life. I thinks I learns to not fear bad lucks. Now helps me."
"Helps you?" asked Toki, placing the mirror very, very carefully on the table.
"Combs my hair." His speech grew softer, almost pleading. Toki took the silver brush from the cabinet across the room. Skwisgaar's eyelids were drooping, as though he grown exhausted again. Toki crawled into the bed, lifted Skiwsgaar's head and placed it in his lap. He ran his fingers through the tangled clumps of hair until they became workable.
Skwisgaar's eyes looked straight ahead as though they were staring into nothing. His neck moved gently with the motion of Toki's hands, as though it were absurdly fragile. Toki felt as though a fist was gripping his heart, but he fixated on his work, gripping Skwisgaar's hair at the base of the scalp, so he didn't hurt him when he pulled the comb through the knotted hair. From time to time, he slipped and Skwisgaar yelped in pain, but he was for the most part docile and didn't fight back.
"This fabrics ams really beautiful," said Skwisgaar dreamily.
Toki looked at him, bemused, before following his line of sight up to the rich canopy overhead. There were streaks in roseate hues intertwined with burgundy flowers.
Looking down at Skwisgaar, he marveled at the intensity of his expression.
"Yeah, ams nice. Probably comes from Holland," said Toki absent-mindedly.
"Pfft! Ams not nasty Dutch!" said Skwisgaar under his breath. The Dutch were the only ones to reject the electric guitar as 'not music' and he had never forgiven them.
"No, probablys not," said Toki complacently. Skwisgaar's hair was now free from knots, and he went over it with the soft bristles of the brush. Skwisgaar smiled gently, but his eyes were still fixed on the ceiling.
"Those patterns. They reminds me of eclectricty."
"Electricticty?" suggested Toki.
"No, eclectricty," said Skwisgaar firmly. Toki ran the brush over his head. Skwisgaar closed his eyes in pleasure. "The colors ams so bright, and they blend with the other threads, woven togethers."
Toki looked up, but all he saw was fabric. He pressed his brows together. But Skwisgaar talked on. "When I plays, I feels that." He shuddered a little.
By now Skwisgaar's hair was starting to gleam again. Toki ran his fingers over it and smiled. His fingers drifted to Skwisgaar's cheeks, and down his neck to his collarbone. Skwisgaar arched his back and took a deep breath.
"Lies down. Next to me." And Toki obeyed. He crawled beside Skwisgaar and huddled with his knees up against his chest. Skwisgaar was still staring at the canopy over head,
"My guitar is not with me, but I ams still feeling this freakish energies."
He slowly turned to face Toki. "Always. I sleeps, I wakes, I ams having a fever and still it ams there." He glided his face over Toki's so that their cheeks were touching. "Electricity." He pulled away, and looked into Toki's eyes. Toki felt himself frozen, hanging on Skwisgaar's words. Maybe it was just delusion- but Skwisgaar wasn't delusional anymore.
"This currents inside of me- it must come from…" he honed in closer, and Toki shut his eyes. "I thinks I draws it from you- it starts when we first plays together, and the current never breaks." Toki could feel warm breath on his cheeks, his eyelashes, and feel of an unsteady hand on the small of his back.
"I don't knows, Toki," said Skwisgaar, sighing, but Toki knew. Toki had been unable to access Skwisgaar, though his grueling fever, through the days after it broke, when Skwisgaar seemed at moments to forget him, and at others to be irritated by his presence. But always there was an underlying force, hidden, at times lurking in the shadows like some predatory beast, and at others breaking free in strange ecstasy. Skwisgaar's mouth was pressed against his, the lips parted but unmoving. Toki pressed deeper, strengthening the kiss, and after a languid moment, pulled away.
"I really thoughts at moments you ams going to die," Toki said, heaving a breath. He had never mentioned it, the underlying, ugly fear and now that the words came out, he was shaking, and afraid he might cry.
"Shh, little Toki," said Skwisgaar with a wry smile. "Do I really has to comfort you?"
But he took Toki in his arms and pressed him to his chest so that the beat of Toki's heart pulsed through him. Toki wrapped his arms around Skwisgaar and squeezed, tightly, his mouth pressing into Skwisgaar's shoulder. Skwisgaar shuddered as he realized the full strength and lithe agility of the young man's body. His eyes grew narrow, devilish, and he kissed Toki's clavicle with a hint of a bite. "Perhaps such comfort as this ams not such a terrible things."