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Sylvain was practiced at the art of distrust. Do unto others before they do unto you. Charming, chilling, chauvinistic at his worst. Mostly talk, slightly action, and the action that there was left a trail of trouble in his wake. Sylvain was practiced at the art of distrust.
Passion alone did not fill a stomach. Dorothea lost her mother young, but never lost the moral of her story. People and paupers were, proportionally speaking, perfectly disposable. Passion alone will not fill a stomach.
Hellos exchanged, a bow, laughter rehearsed and staged, a vow. Something or other about destiny, other or something about fate. A wink and a kiss, a hit and a miss. A solid six out of several subjects, research recorded. It'd work, and if it didn't, it would have to next time.
A means of survival and a method of manipulation. An ace up her sleeve and the only trick he knew. One hopes she'll get to fifty, one wants to be gone before thirty five. Time is terrifying, ticking and threatening.
Lying to himself.
Lying to whoever listens.
One hopes she'll get to fifty, one wants to be gone before thirty five.
Late at night, red lipstick smeared on a wet wipe. He leaves lingering lines along the side of his neck, unabashed. She cleans her lips, though they never feel clean enough.
And tomorrow? Tomorrow is the same. There's no rest for the wicked, and there's no rest for the hungry. Tomorrow is the same, and so is every day after that.
Looks that cross in the hallways, worlds apart. Emerald and topaz, mead and absinthe. She's hardly more than a rumour. He's much less than a man.
"Interested in anyone these days, Dorothea?" Strong words, but she smiles it away. His laugh rasps, the telltale sign of a man lost in lust not too long ago. "I'm serious, you know. If you ever change your mind, I--"
"And I won't." Practiced politeness, but it'll fall away soon enough with him. He doesn't care, she doesn't either. Her smile is acidic, delicate and deadly. "Good day, Sylvain. I hope you find a better hobby soon."