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Ianthe hates that even now, even knowing it's not really her, she cannot squash down this cloying, suffocating sense of warmth that suffuses her whenever Harrow's face contorts into any expression other than its familiar aggrieved scowl.
Back on the Mithraeum, Ianthe might have said that Harrow's facial muscles had become fixed in that expression, that her diet-Lyctor (Lyctor-lite?) sister had instructed her cranial nerves to sustain the dour frown in perpetuity. She might have said that, except that Ianthe knew otherwise, had made Harrow's face change herself, although only with the most artfully timed insults, had acquired an accidental habit of watching Harrow sleep during those months when their dessicated elder brother Lyctor had been out for Ninth blood. In sleep Harrow frowned still, but softer, the wrinkles shallower, exchanging vengeance for a sort of tender melancholy. At first, Ianthe had told herself it was merely the thrill of seeing a formidable competitor made vulnerable that drove her to attenuate her own rest in favor of observing that pointy face.
Later- well, Ianthe had given it a fair try, hadn't she? She had acknowledged the goal her id had already been driving her towards and settled in to play the long game, stacking the deck with painstaking personal care; Ianthe had learned long ago to expect nothing would be handed to her. Every move was designed to bind Harrow to her, the choreography gradual and absolutely inexorable. But Ianthe had miscalculated slightly. That was that.
Now Harrow isn't here and this distastefully bombastic imbecile keeps having the audacity to unleash that tacky lopsided grin at Ianthe while they're sparring. Using Harrow’s face. It's tantamount to foul play, really. Ianthe swallows violently against the thick, sweet heat in her throat; it has clawed its way through her trachea, up into her pharynx, her sinuses, electricity jolting dorsally along her olfactory nerve farther up and back back back as if its intent is to curl around her brainstem and yank. That would be fine, she decides, it just cannot be allowed to reach her cheeks. This is not difficult, this is nothing, her entire childhood in the court of Ida was spent play-acting falsehoods with Coronabeth; all she has to do now is not-blush.
Ianthe blinks, hard. Gideon's grin widens, and she lunges forward, taking advantage of the gap in Ianthe’s defense created by the Lyctor’s unconsciously dipping rapier tip.
"Wow," Gideon crows in Harrow's voice as Ianthe's weapon clatters harshly out of golden fingers. The force and angle of the disarm cause the knuckle guard to shear off a ragged shred of subcutaneous fat pad from the top of Ianthe's hand. "I thought you got swole off all that Tern-juice you drank but looks like doping still can't beat someone as naturally gifted as me."
Ianthe wrinkles her nose, flicking the fingers of her sword hand in annoyance and dissolving the remaining fat into particles. She tries to direct the resulting puff of dust toward Har-... Gideon's pant leg. "I don't need Babs to trounce you. Let's go again this time without limiting it to swords. See how you do against my necromancy, you little naked Cav."
"So you're admitting you're incapable of beating me with just rapier work? Damn right, mine's better than yours." Ianthe snorts audibly, despite herself. Gideon continues to gloat, ambling over to Ianthe's sword and kicking it further into the corner where it’s fallen. "Don't worry, you have thousands of years to improve, you might get there...eventually. Hell, I could teach ya, but I'd have to charge."
Ianthe examines her fingers absently, an embarrassing sense of relief washing over her now that the cavalier is facing in a different direction. "Sounds like you're just insecure that Harry's pathetic noodle arms still can't hold up that crude broadsword you're so fond-"
Gideon whirls, expression suddenly thunderous, "DON'T call her that."
This is... better, Ianthe thinks. The scowl is almost- but it's still not quite right, the angles of the mouth laying tangent to where they should, the crinkle of the eyes too transparently genuine. As if a gaudy carnival mask has been superimposed over the face she wants to see. It makes Ianthe angry.
"And why shouldn't I? It's not as if she's around to hear it."
Gideon growls. The sound is odd rather than threatening, Harrow's vocal folds and nasal resonance producing too high of a pitch - Gideon sounds more like an angry housecat than a real predator.
"Harry, Harry, Harry. Did you know Gideon still hasn't found a way to bring you back?"
"Shut up, or I’ll find a way to bring my fist back right through your ass."
"I'm beginning to think she likes playing dress up in your body, might want to stay and have a nice life for herself at your expense."
"Hah! I see now, you're just butthurt you lost to me." Gideon’s attempt at a snide tone is downright heinous. Her sword is up again in a defensive position, as if she can cut the next words out of the air before they reach Harrow’s ears. Ianthe wonders if she notices.
"Dear Harry, I'm only saying this because I'm concerned. What might this lonely little Cav be doing with your poor defenseless body behind closed doors? King Undying knows, Gideon lacks the mental fortitude to put conscience over libido. I mean, Cytherea established that for us already." Ianthe is pretending not to look at Gideon, but even in her peripheral vision she can tell that under the (inexpertly applied- another infuriating inaccuracy) sacramental paint, Harrow's golden-brown skin has gained a deep red undertone. So deep it shows on the wrists, around the eyes, the ears a dead giveaway. Ianthe has never seen Harrow this badly flushed before, only imagined it. Finally seeing the real thing now doesn't feel anything like the victory she’d anticipated. But she has Gideon pinned. And Corona always had encouraged Ianthe to make the best of it ‘when life gave her lemons’.
"Cat got your tongue? For someone who's always running her mouth, your silence is telling. I'm right to be concerned for Harry's virtue, aren't I?" Ianthe makes a moue of affected worry and lets herself turn fully to look into those disappointingly amber eyes.
"Shut. Up." Harrow's arms are shaking, knuckles white - both hands on the rapier? Gideon has forgotten which weapon she's holding.
Ianthe laughs. It sounds oddly flat to her own ears. Probably the ship’s recycled air.
"That's all you can say for yourself? I wonder, do you moan your own name just to hear it in her voice? Or wait, it wouldn't be that. What was that infantilizing pet name she gave you ... oh yes; 'Griddle'-"
Gideon shrieks, Harrow's voice pitching the sound up to painfully shrill, and, breaking from her frozen stance, barrels forward. Ianthe dances out of the way of the wild, imprecise thrust, surprised by how easy it is to avoid. Gideon must be really wrecked.
"I’m honestly shocked. Only a truly depraved Cavalier could take advantage of her Necromancer. I mean, even Babs never did me dirty like that!"
Gideon is glaring down at the sword in her hands, breath hissing through gritted teeth. Ianthe waits, intrigued, while Gideon very obviously counts to three in her head. Finally she manages, "I told you. To shut the fuck up. You absolute cunt."
"Make me," Ianthe says.
Abruptly, Ianthe is on the floor, staring down at the deep diagonal cut in her abdomen. It begins just under her xiphoid process, her yellow shirt fluttering open and skin peeling back in a neat, weeping red line to reveal abdominal fat, muscle, intestine - Ianthe inanely wants to compliment Gideon on bisecting her liver so evenly but the damn Cav has also punctured her diaphragm: it will be a minute before Ianthe can control her airflow enough to speak. Instead, she watches silently as the gash begins to reverse itself, edges sealing as if drawn together by an invisible zipper. Her wound closes all the way down to her right iliac crest, where Gideon has punctuated her downward slice with a powerful forward thrust, lodging the blade firmly in the wing of Ianthe's pelvic bone. Had the weapon been a broadsword, she might have been neatly cut in half, pelvis fractured. Ianthe looks up at Gideon, who is braced just above her, one hand beside Ianthe's head and the other remaining on the hilt of the rapier which sticks up awkwardly like a toothpick from an hors d'oeuvre.
Gideon is panting, staring at Ianthe's now unblemished stomach, dark pupils blown wide inside golden irises, still unfamiliar in that pointy face and... is that sweat carving little dark tracks down the white paint on her cheeks or-
Suddenly Ianthe really doesn’t feel like dealing with this anymore. She reaches up, easily tangling that long (very long now, and she had thought Harrow was a poor maintainer of personal grooming) mop of black hair between the bare metacarpals of her right hand, and drags Harrow's - Gideon's? Harrow's? Fuck it - mouth down onto hers.
It shouldn’t really be called a kiss. In fact, Ianthe decides, if Teacher or Phyrra were to walk in right now they might easily construe this as a new grappling technique. Blunt force, perhaps a type of durational head-butt designed to dislocate a jaw? Gideon has her lips pressed together hard over Harrow’s teeth and is making muffled sounds of baffled aggression while she strains desperately backwards against Ianthe’s grip. It’s like trying to bathe a feral cat.
Exasperated, Ianthe yanks Harrow’s head sideways by the hair, separating their mouths. One of Harrow’s cervical vertebrae makes an offended pop at the abrupt rotation and Gideon hisses. So she’s keeping with the cat theme. God, consistency is so boring.
“Heavenly emperor, will you just relax?”
“Are you FUCKING me right now?” Gideon’s eyes are still wide, but her expression has traded in the previous seething aggression for pure poleaxed shock. She’s disengaged from the rapier hilt now, both hands dedicated to pressing her farther away from the floor - from Ianthe.
“Did you forget an operative word there, or are you genuinely such a virgin you can’t tell?” Ianthe says, taking advantage of Gideon’s apparently glacial processing speed to snake her left arm between Harrow’s armpit and torso, looping her hand back over the skinny shoulder (still avian-light, despite several months at the mercy of Gideon’s unholy press-up regimen) and pressing her own arm outward into Harrow’s elbow. Gideon can’t fight leverage, and collapses down onto her chest, once more nose to nose with Ianthe.
“Fuck you.” This close up, some of Harrow’s spit lands in Ianthe’s eyes. Probably intentional, like the poor Cav thinks she’ll care. “Also, stop bringing my father into things, it’s tacky.”
“‘Fuck me’, ‘fucking you’...must be love on the brain, Griddle.” Gideon positively squirms at that, the movement dislodging her abandoned rapier from pelvic bone. The artificial gravity takes hold of the unbalanced sword, dragging basket and hilt toward the floor, and Ianthe gasps as the tip scoops slowly outward through her lower belly. She keeps her eyes fixed on Harrow’s face though, and doesn’t miss the way Gideon’s focus drops to her mouth at the sound. Oh, she is going to win this.
She goes in for the kill, readjusting her grip on raven hair, and bringing Gideon the last few centimeters forward so that their lips are just barely touching, breath mingling. Gideon has given up on her earlier tactic of only breathing through her nose and her mouth is open, anticipating. Ianthe murmurs, “Haven’t you been lonely? Even since before you died?” Their lips brush with every syllable. Harrow’s are rough, slightly cracked; Gideon needs that grooming routine, yesterday. “Haven’t you wanted someone to touch you like -” she punctuates the next word with a sudden twist of her left arm and a vicious pull to Harrow’s hair “-this?”
Harrow’s pinioned shoulder subluxes under the pressure of Ianthe’s hold. Gideon moans as if the sound is being ripped out of her, and in that moment Ianthe brings their lips together again. This time Ianthe is gentle, and this time Gideon responds, pressing back into her desperately.
Their teeth clack together and Ianthe tastes a hint of blood. Gideon is unbothered by this, movements inexpert and enthusiastic. There is too much tongue too soon, Ianthe has to use her grip on Harrow’s hair to slow things down a little, but at the same time it’s-...well, it’s not perfect. But it’s an approximation of something she’s been imagining for (what she allows herself to admit is) a shamefully long time.
She had gotten so close, in that empty corridor, over-playing her own tipsiness and invading Harrow’s space. She had thought that it was a sure thing, Harrow had been so uncharacteristically pliant in her rush to escape the heretical orgy happening in the dining room, also tipsy, also confused, her sharp edges all seeming to arc into Ianthe for guidance. Ianthe had set everything up for success, saved Harrow in two different ways, but she hadn’t counted on Harrow being that much of a God-damned frigid square.
If there’s one thing Gideon is not, it’s frigid. She is warm, almost feverish, small body molding them both into the floor now that she’s relented, is no longer battling to escape. Ianthe releases her hair, lets the tips of her cold phalanges trace down to that slim neck. They’re hurtling through the vacuum of space but she feels closer to solid ground than she has in a year. Not that she needs it, she is a Lyctor after all. She wriggles her hips awkwardly, adjusting, then presses a knee up firmly between Harrow’s thighs.
Everything stills. Ianthe’s eyes snap open (when had she closed them?) and she sees Gideon reared back away from her, looking...haunted.
“What?” She says. Her voice comes out rougher than she intended, but Gideon seems to not even have heard. She clears her throat discreetly and repeats, “What now?”
“I can’t-...” Gideon says, pitifully, and doesn’t continue. Ianthe knows it’s too much, but she’s become greedy after letting immediate gratification drive her this far, so she forces her knee a little higher, circles it slightly. It’s merciless, and she feels a stab of satisfaction low in her belly when Gideon lets out an agonized groan.
“I’m really quite certain you CAN. If it’s such a problem, why don’t you just imagine my sister instead? Corona would do it for anyone. Besides, I saw you panting after her back at Canaan house. We don’t look that dif-”
“You’re not the problem!” Gideon insists vehemently. And then blushes - more? Ianthe didn’t think it was possible for Harrow’s olive skin to flush any darker - when she sees Ianthe’s raised eyebrows.
“Well if the problem’s not me then I don’t see one. We’re stuck sitting on our thumbs on this ship, waiting on your Daddy’s orders. You don’t have two neurons to rub together for necromantic research, and I’m already doing all I can.” Gideon stares fixedly at the wall beside them, swallows. Ianthe is losing, and right when she thought it was a sure thing. How? “What’s wrong with a little quid pro quo? I’m giving you exactly what I know you need-” Harrow’s nostrils flare at that, “and in return you’re giving me a thing that I want very much-”
Abruptly, Gideon is off of her, a meter away and crouched in a defensive posture that says only ‘cornered animal’. Ianthe wonders if Harrow’s motor cortex ever asserts itself, even with another soul in residence, because this just doesn’t look anything like the Cavalier’s body language.
“You said it yourself,” Gideon grinds out, “earlier. This isn’t my body. I can’t do things like- like this, in it.”
OH. Ohhh. “Oh, so you genuinely haven’t even-”
“No, obviously!” Gideon is affronted. “Not everyone can just casually use the people they care about the way you do!”
Ianthe doesn’t flinch, bites the inside of her cheek instead, hard. “I think you’ll find it becomes much easier with practice,” she states, meticulously shaping each word.
“You’re such a snake, no wonder Harrow rejected-”
“Leave then. If you’re too much of a coward to accept the facts after three straight months in the driver’s seat,” Ianthe snarls. “I’m in the middle of something.”
“Real sanitary, Ianthe, this is the communal training room-”
“Oh, I’m sorry, do I look like I give a shit?”
“Fine,” Gideon stands. In Ianthe’s peripheral vision her presence seems much larger than the body she occupies.
“Fine.” Ianthe doesn’t look up, doesn’t want to see those yellow irises again. Gideon takes an abortive half-step towards her rapier where it’s come to rest beside Ianthe’s hip, smeared with dark blood and viscera. Ianthe doesn’t move to hand it to her or scoot away, and after a second Gideon just turns and marches toward the exit empty handed. As the auto-door swooshes open in front of her, Ianthe calls, “Have fun not-touching yourself!”
“Eat me.” The middle finger Gideon thrusts back through the opening at her lingers long enough to seem unhurried and yet Gideon still manages to withdraw her arm before the automated doors can snap closed around Harrow’s wrist. Fucking cavaliers.