Work Text:
1
"Architect! Your pardon, Architect, a moment of your time--"
Laerryn lengthens her strides, staring intently at the door to the Labyrinth, coming closer far too slowly. She has to swivel her ears to catch the faint brush of footsteps on the stone behind her, but the voice rings out across the square in the muffled stillness of early morning.
"Excuse me?"
"No," she says under her breath.
"Come on, some of us aren't wearing appropriate footwear over here--"
The door creeps closer. In the distance a carrowhulk rumbles past. She spins one of the decorative buttons on her jacket pocket, round and round between her fingers.
"Please, I need your help."
So many people need her help, these days. She sort of thought that with her position would come a degree of freedom from the demands of needy staff. But now she just has to answer to politicians and bureaucrats and media as well.
He gets in front of her, dress shoes sliding on the cobblestones as he dances backwards in the face of her relentless race for the door.
"Come on, you're the first person I've seen this morning who doesn't work for me."
"I don't see how that's my problem."
"It isn't, technically, but I'm going to make it your problem, because I'm having a rare moment of self-consciousness and I've only got an hour before the morning broadcast."
"I have enough mental health crises of my own, I really don't have time to add yours to my list," she says, and then almost drops the mug of coffee in her other hand because there is no world in which that should have come out of her fucking mouth.
Loquatius Seelie beams at her. "You'll be pleased to know, then, that I suppress my mental health concerns like any self-respecting adult. But what I can't suppress is my hair."
His cloak is heavy purple brocade, interwoven with shimmering gold thread, and his eyes are wide and violet, rimmed in thick coal. The last time she'd seen him his hair had been an almost translucent white, but now it's a bluish black, stark against his pale skin. It's striking.
"It seems like you would be uniquely positioned to do exactly that," she points out.
"Yes. But the real question is should I?"
"Follow your heart," she says, flatly.
"I already did, and it led me to you," he responds immediately. His teeth are too white and too sharp. It's unnerving.
"Does that actually work on people?"
"More than you'd expect." He skips backward as they approach the door, tapping the crystal on his bracelet against the panel, swinging the door open and gesturing grandly for her to precede him.
"Why the fuck do you have access to the Labyrinth?" she asks, entering and then spinning to face him, blocking the hallway.
"The press is just as important to the functioning of the city as any of the mechanical or arcane components. I take my responsibility to the people of this city very seriously. You'd be amazed the doors that open for me."
The thing is, she doesn't think she would be. For all the charm and arrogance he paints over it, she recognizes something in his words that sparks a mirror in her own heart. This city is hers, and there is nothing she honours more than that responsibility and gift.
"It doesn't suit you," she says.
"You don't think so?" he asks, skipping conversational tracks right along with her. He pulls a lock forward over his shoulder, fingering it thoughtfully.
"You should be... bright," she mutters. "That's what you do, right? Shine a light on the truth, etc."
"You're not wrong." He flicks his hair and when it settles it's a rich gold to match the threads in his cloak. "Better?"
"Yes."
He nods, shifts his weight. "Well then, thank you for your assistance, Architect."
"That's what I'm here for," she says dryly. "To keep the city going."
He bows very slightly, then turns back to the door.
He's just outside when she calls out, hating herself all the while. "Hey. You should... like..."
She gestures helplessly, trying to mime pulling the top part of his hair up and back, then reaches back to her own shorter hair and demonstrates. "With some kind of... flowers, maybe."
He'd been nodding along, but when she mentions the flowers he blinks slowly at her like a cat. "Why do you say that?"
She frowns. "It was just a thought. Put whatever the fuck you want in it. It just seems like it'd suit you."
His face goes blank for barely a second, features fading away, skin losing what little colour it had, eyes gone opaque and unreadable. But then he's back, and if she were a different person she might think she'd imagined it. "I'll see what the interns can scrounge up," he says, cheerfully.
2
The sound of applause and cheering comes faintly through the walls with embarrassingly auspicious timing. Evandrin's speech must have gone over especially well.
Loquatius --"Call me Loquatius, please, if only so I can watch your face do that every time you have to say it"-- drops his head to her shoulder and trembles with silent laughter.
"Fuck," she says. He slips one hand out from under her dress to draw a checkmark in the air.
She's watching the delicate white flowers that had been woven into his hair lose their battle with gravity and drift gently to the dusty stone floor. She's got one hand still tangled in his hair, dislodging even more flowers. Carefully she untangles her fingers, stroking a few strands back down. Resting a hand on his upper back, she can feel the heat of his skin radiating through his shirt and vest. Beneath the fancy clothes and peacocking attitude he's surprisingly slight, bones like bird wings under her palms. It makes something cold and quiet creep up inside of her, something protective and possessive and humbled that she's only ever felt for the city. She doesn't know what to do with it; doesn't know what to do with this man who is barely an acquaintance, who sparkles and charms every eye in the room and basks in the attention but keeps circling back to her.
In her heeled boots she's a fraction taller than him (as it should be), so when he finally pulls his face out of her neck and meets her eyes he has to look up very slightly. His eyelashes are very long.
"Well," he says. "That was absolutely better than staying for the speeches."
She wiggles her jaw, pulls the shoulder of her dress back into place. He takes a step back, leaning down to retrieve his breeches. When he straightens up she reaches out a hand to touch his chin, angling his face towards her so she can cast prestidigitation. He's already wiped his fingers on the inside of his jacket, because he's a horrible gremlin man.
"Never stay for the speeches," she says.
"Unfortunately that's often the most important part of a gala for me," he says. "At least the boring ones, which this definitely is."
"They should give you copies," she says, a little surprised at the inefficiency.
"They should," he agrees. "But not everyone has the appreciation for the press that you do. How's my hair? Presentable?"
She stares at him, baffled. All of the flowers have fallen out, and only half of the hair gathered in the jewel clips is still held in place. Sweat sticks a few strands to his forehead, and she'd somehow managed to create a snarled little mess right at the top of his head. "Absolutely not?" she says, incredulous. "Were you expecting to-- that's not how it works. You don't... go back after you sneak out! Nobody needs those rumours."
He pouts. "There was going to be a water show."
"It's gonna be bad," she says. "I know who's responsible for it."
"Well," he huffs. "That's disappointing. I don't even have alternate plans for the rest of the evening."
Laerryn bangs her head back against the wall. "You absolutely do, shut up. False modesty isn't attractive."
"Not so much false modesty as seeking clarification."
She pushes the hair off his face. "Fine. Yes, we're leaving together. No, we're not going back to the party." She hadn't really realized she meant it until it comes out of her mouth. She's just fucked this man in the coat check closet at a shitty party and she's not feeling bored or panicky, which are basically her only two post-sex states. She wants to be somewhere else, but she wants to be somewhere else with Loquatius.
"Excellent," he says. "Your place or mine?" and then, immediately, "I'm sorry, that was stupid and not what I wanted to say. The performance is just automatic, sometimes."
She blinks slowly. "Thanks."
He glances away. "Yes. Well."
"You want to get drunk?" she asks. He nods furiously.
"Very much so."
"Great," she says, grabs his hands, and casts teleport.
3
"I'm sorry, am I boring you, Architect?"
"Yes," says Laerryn, absently, before her brain can properly filter the question. On the other side of the conference room's stained glass windows, Quay is slowly shifting his hair through shades of blonde. He lands on a soft gold, like sunlight, and Laerryn tips her head slightly to the side, holding up a hand slightly. He pauses as she studies him. Finally, she shakes her head and he moves on.
"Well, I'll endeavour to make my updates more entertaining in future," the Helmsperson says.
"I think we should talk about what value we're really getting out of these meetings," says Laerryn. "Because they aren't a productive use of my time."
Quay darkens his hair to an almost brown and shifts his eyebrows to match, and Laerryn physically recoils. She shakes her head hard. The Guildmaster of municipal systems glances up from her documents and follows Laerryn's gaze. Quay drops out of sight fast enough that he can only have dropped straight down onto the floor, and Laerryn has to focus very carefully on not laughing.
"Well, we get from life what we put in to it," says the Chief Artificer, who shouldn't even be at this meeting, what the fuck?
Quay pops back up and his hair is an almost silver white, falling loose around his face. Somehow he's managed to get a smear of oil on his cheek. Laerryn studies him thoughtfully.
"Why don't we set up a meeting to brainstorm a new format for our update meetings," says the Helmsperson. Laerryn could learn their name, but if half the things Quay has heard about their "qualifications" are true, they won't be the Helmsperson for much longer.
"You want to have a meeting about a meeting," says Laerryn, flatly. Quay flips his hair and it reminds her of Patia's magic.
"A meeting about innovation. Identify, ideate, investigate, innovate."
"Great," says Laerryn. "You let me know when that's happening and I will definitely be there for sure. Now I have to document the results of an important experiment."
She sweeps her belongings into her bag and strides out of the room. Quay is waiting just out of view of the windows.
"I was in a meeting," she says, pointedly.
"Physically, sure. But spiritually, I have my doubts."
"I don't have to tell you the kind of shit I'd have to deal with-- you can't be a distraction from my work."
He crosses his hand over his heart. "I would never."
And the thing is, she believes him. "This colour is good," she says, instead of anything else that might want to slip out.
"Yes, I think I like it."
4
"Absolutely not," says Nydas, as soon as they come out of the house. "Turn right back around and make better choices."
"Which part is it that's really getting to you?" Patia asks, from where she's perched on the ledge that runs alongside the twisting, precarious stone steps that lead up to their house. "Because personally the 'last night's makeup' look is deeply troubling."
"Fuck," says Laerryn, bringing a hand up to her face like she'd be able to feel the smeared paint. "I... remember washing this off last night?"
"It's the hair that I find troubling," says Nydas. "The boots are also bad, but I've known Laerryn for long enough to have given up on that battle."
"What the fuck is wrong with my hair?" says Laerryn. She can feel her own pulse drumming a lethargic, heavy beat against the inside of her temples.
"You're fine," says Patia.
"Oh," says Quay. "You don't think it's whimsical?"
Laerryn had opened her eyes once so far this morning and regretted it immediately and painfully, so when she actually looks over at Quay she has to do a double take and then take a few steps back. "That's... too many colours." She squeezes her eyes shut again and breathes carefully and deeply.
"It's fun!"
"You can't-- we shouldn't be able to see in that spectrum. There's too much hangover."
"Oh, I wish you hadn't pointed that qualia out," says Patia faintly. "Loquatius stop."
"This is the happiest day of my life, I just wanted my hair to reflect that."
"Your hair is reflecting a number of things, and happiness is not one of them," Patia says. "For the record, this is exactly why we told you to be ready an hour early, I will accept an apology at any time."
Laerryn had even set an alarm. She's fairly certain she'd slept the first part of the night, swimming up just far enough through the boggy soup of consciousness to hang, suspended in a shitty trance for the remainder. Now the early morning sun is merciless through her eyelids and she's expected to make body language and clever banter happen even though it feels like if she moves her facial muscles the resultant pain will be debilitating enough to bring her ongoing functionality into question.
"We're here, aren't we?" Quay says. "Besides, we've already done the performance wedding. Nobody should mind if we're late to the wedding that's just for us."
"Did I try to hug the street last night," says Laerryn, horrifically aware of the answer.
"You are the heart of the city and you keep the blood pumping through its veins," Nydas says, grinning. "You just love it so much. You can feel the energy running through it all the time."
"I do remember that," says Quay, who is, as always, blissfully free of morning after consequences. "I also remember trying to pole dance with Evandrin's sword, which, in retrospect, could have ended very badly."
Nydas waves a hand. "That's what Zerxus was for. To make sure nobody tried to Mend anyone else's body parts."
"Listen," says Patia.
"Quay," says Laerryn. "Your hair. You're so pretty-- it's very bad. I will throw up on you."
"Fine," he sighs. "You spoil all my fun."
"Are you still high?" Patia demands.
"High on life. And love. And primal terror that everything I love is about to be ruined, but don't worry about it."
"I'm sorry?" says Nydas.
"Haha," says Laerryn, hurriedly. "A funny joke to cover a perfectly natural sense of anxiety because marriage and have you ever wondered why they call her the War Queen but I don't sleep, I meditate, so let me assure you-- we're all fine here. I'm going to go wash my face, Quay, come help."
"Yep," he says, almost before she's finished speaking, and together they flee back inside.
5
She slides into trance, as she has most nights as of late, still holding her quill and hunched over at her desk. She only realizes this when Quay wakes her, warm hand on her shoulder and the faint scent of alien flowers.
"Sorry," he says softly, " I didn't realize you were resting. I wanted to ask if you like this braid. But that’s not important, you'll ruin your neck, at least use a more comfortable chair, come on."
She'd never bothered with a bed until Quay. She's tranced in far worse positions than this and her body has, for the most part, survived just fine. For given definitions of fine. Yet Quay is always insistent that she care for herself in these small, inconvenient ways.
She doesn't notice until he's walked her over to the bed that he's already? still? dressed for a formal occasion. Not eveningware, so it must be closer to morning than she'd realized. Blearily she tries to remember if he'd told her about something special, but in all honesty she's not even entirely sure what day it is.
"Patia called again," he says, sitting beside her on the bed.
"Mmhm."
"Yeah," he exhales softly. For as much as Laerryn now looks at their friends and experiences a sinking, hollow, unapologetic sense of guilt, Quay looks at them and sees potential threats. And he doesn't even know what's at stake. Just thinks it's her reputation, her wellbeing-- and, by extension, his own.
He strokes a hand over her back. "You should get some more rest," he says. "I'll be back... at some point. Though you'll probably be gone by then."
She has been burning for the last six months. With discovery. With guilt. With desperation. With grief. The fire under her skin never goes out, only flickers and smolders and flares with no pattern or predictability. It has been a long time since she felt cold. But she feels it now, looking at Quay perched in his finery on the edge of the bed, mask already in place. The distant chill of loneliness comes first. A sense of loss, of isolation. The inches between them a symbology of forgotten dates and sharp words and secrets.
But there's a different kind of cold that chases the distance away. Something quiet and immutable and steadying. She reaches out and touches his back in a mirror of his hand on hers. Even now, years apart from the people they once were, he feels like something fragile under her palm. She knows he isn't. Has leant on his strength in countless ways. But he is the city's voice and the city is hers in every way that matters, and she knows (from shameful, hilarious experience) that he will go down before her in a bar fight, and he is preparing to step out into the world with everyone at his feet but no one by his side.
"No," she says. "No, I'm awake. How much time do we have? I'll talk my latest energy conversion issue out at you while I get dressed."
+1
She's just leaving the Magisterium, a puzzle cube in one hand, a coffee cup in the other, when she catches a glimpse of Quay down an intersecting corridor. He's chattering into a sending stone, flipping through a folder of papers while he walks. She hasn't seen him outside of his broadcast in six weeks. It should feel stranger than it does, but hadn't that been the entire fucking problem?
She walks faster, turns to follow him, uncertain what she wants to say, if anything, but unwilling to let this moment just slip away. She catches his attention just before he slips out the side door, sunlight through the window striping the marble floor in warm gold.
"Hey!" she says, just loud enough and sharp enough for him to notice. He freezes. "Yes. You."
He turns slowly to face her. She drops the puzzle box into a pocket and makes a gesture like pulling him towards her. He arches a polite eyebrow, but strolls back down the hall to her, all false courtesy and warmth. She hates the masks that aren’t him.
"Can I help you, Architect?"
She bites her tongue, hard. He looks good and she knows it's a lie but she can’t see through it and it's making her hands shake and her words into pebbles.
And then she sees it. His fucking hair. He's obviously been running his hands through it, and there's a section right at the back that's puffed up so much it looks kind of like he's grown a second, tiny head on top of his real one.
Her hand shoots out before she can stop it.
He doesn't flinch.
The relief, more than everything, rams her in the chest and makes its home in her ribcage, bulky and jagged and undeserved.
They have hurt each other in a myriad of ways as of late-- with their words and their actions and their lack of either. And Loquatius Seelie, who gave her his true name like it was her right, who sees everyone on this plane as a potential friend and everyone on this plane as a potential threat-- he doesn't flinch.
Carefully, she pats the hair down, combing her own fingers through it to straighten the disarray. He stays still beneath her hand, gaze bemused, smile distant.
Once she's got it as good as it's going to get, she takes a couple steps back. Her words are gone, but Quay has always had a surplus of them.
"Thank you," he says. "I was a little worried I'd have to find someone else I could trust to give me an honest opinion on my hair."
She shakes her head. His smile gets the slightest bit more real.
It's a start.