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Sighing, Hitsugi leaves the banquet hall, empty tray under arm. They had weighed how dangerous dawdling might be for their cover, but considering the pair of men that passed them in the kitchen, reeking of tobacco, they realized that skipping out on work was simply part of human weakness.
The carpet absorbs the click of their heels while they walk down the hallway, scanning for a quiet alcove, an empty room, anywhere they could retreat for a moment’s respite. They had hoped this whole charade would be over quickly, but Prophecy Majik still hasn’t made an appearance, and for all that Hitsugi respects their choice to limit the amount of time they spend amongst humans, it does leave them in the unfavorable position where they have to remain there, listening to their grating voices, inhaling their stench, watching the witches flash their enslaved majiks like baubles, for the whole world to see.
Hitsugi steadies themselves with a long inhale. It wouldn’t do to lose their cool now, they’ve already sunk more than enough time and effort into this little recruitment scheme, they might as well see it through. After a moment of rest.
A little further down the hallway, they see an ajar door. Perfect. Hitsugi crosses the distance in a few swift steps then slinks inside. They shut out the last faint sounds of the party behind themselves.
Before they can even relax their shoulders in relief, a whisper of fabric followed by a familiar—though no less unpleasant for its familiarity—voice sets them on edge. “Pardon me, but I don’t believe you’re allowed in here.”
Lie as little as permissible, it always makes things easier. Hitsugi affixes the pleasant, subservient smile to their face. “Master Spica,” they place a hand to their chest, “you startled me.”
Spica Harvest—not yet a witch but close enough for Hitsugi to have learned her name before embarking on this endevor—raises from the shadowed chaise longue she seems to have been reclining on. Her face settles into a seemingly pleasant smile of its own but Hitsugi doesn’t miss the redness around her one visible eye. “I do apologize,” she says, “however, that doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.”
“I was merely searching for a quiet space to rest for a moment.” They try to make their smile more wry, careful to not let it slip into a sneer. “Even us waiters need our breaks.”
“Of course, of course,” Spica continues, not missing a beat. “As is your right! Most of the wait staff does so by going for a smoke outside of the kitchens, though.”
“That hardly helps with my need for ‘quiet,’ Master Spica.” Hitsugi stills their fingers on the tray. If they squeeze any harder, it’ll start creaking and that would be rather difficult to explain away.
Spica’s smile dissipates slightly as she gives them a once-over. “I see,” she says finally, stepping towards them. “Then I shall get out of your way.”
Hitsugi snaps themselves back into the role they’re playing tonight. “No, no, I shall seek another room, it truly wasn’t my intention to disturb you.”
“Not at all.” The tulle of her skirt rustles and her pearls clink as she crosses the room towards them. “I do believe I’ve done my share of solitude for the night. There’s appearances to keep.” Spica stops just shy of getting into their personal space. “If you could please be so kind as to move from the door.”
Realizing that it’s less suspicious to simply let it go, Hitsugi steps aside with a measured bow. “Thank you for your consideration, Master Spica.” They reach to open the door for her.
Spica’s hand closes around their wrist, while her other one shoots past them and turns the key in the lock.
“Excu—” She lets go of their arm and brings a finger to her lips. The door rattles.
“Aww! I could’ve sworn this one was open!” a voice comes from the other side, followed by girlish giggles. “That’s okay, Acchan!” The door thuds again, someone clearly being pushed against it. “We’ll just do something slightly naughty!” This exclamation is followed by more giggles that trailed into breathy, wet sounds.
Hitsugi can feel the indignation rising within them, they absolutely did not want to bear witness to two witches mating. They turn to get as far away from the door as possible, only to be met with Spica’s frozen form. If Hitsugi thinks themselves indignant, Spica looks downright livid.
It’s Hitsugi’s turn to clutch her hand and stop it from reaching the handle. “It would not do, Master Spica,” they whisper, “for anyone to find us locked in a room together like this.”
Spica’s nostrils flare, her teeth digging into her lip. She tears her hand from theirs and digs her fingers into the meat of her palm so strongly the leather of her gloves squeaks. Hitsugi wonders if she would’ve pierced skin if she didn’t have them on.
A moan broke through the door. Spica meets their eyes, the raw, hot hatred in her gaze setting them aback a little. It isn’t like any of this is their fault.
Another thud, another moan, an “Oh, Mi-chan!” and Hitsugi reconsiders the cost of making a scene. The decision gets promptly taken out of their hands, as Spica shoves them against the door. “Play along,” she hisses into their ear.
Any retort they might’ve had gets cut off by, “Mi—Mi-chan, wait. I heard—” Spica pulls them towards herself then shoves them back against the door. Hitsugi realizes what this must seem like from the other side of the door and drops their tray in shock.
It clatters and clatters and clatters, neither of them making any move to stop it, Hitsugi frozen still and Spica glaring at the door.
A deafening silence ensues, until the two—at least Hitsugi assumes they’re only two—witches on the other side burst into shrieks and laughter. “Sorry! So sorry!” comes through the wood, between giggles.
Spica takes them by the wrist again and slams their joined hands against the door. Another shriek comes through, then the patter of feet running away over carpet.
Hitsugi doesn’t know what to do next. Spica is still glaring death at the door, not paying them much attention but that does nothing to mitigate just how close she is to them. She has stepped between their legs, one hand on their lapel, the other still in a vice grip around their wrist. The various overwhelmingly floral smells that she seems to be steeped in dig into their senses. The heat of her body—another terrible aspect of humanity that Hitsugi would really rather not deal with—burrows under their flesh at every point of contact.
They clear their throat. Nothing happens for a long moment, then Spica turns her head towards them. Hitsugi feels like they’re going cross-eyed, trying to maintain eye-contact with someone who has only one eye.
She steps back, tearing a gap between them. “I do believe it’s best that I leave first.” She reaches across to smooth out their lapels.
Hitsugi’s fingers twitch with the urge to catch her hands. They clear their throat again instead. “Yes.”
Spica bends down for the dropped tray. She offers it to them. “You wait for a bit.” Hitsugi takes it. “Yes.”
She adjusts her ruffles. “Nothing happened,” she says in the end. Hitsugi finds that they cannot do much more than nod. “Yes.”
When she reaches for the door, Hitsugi remembers their role and opens it—after an aborted attempt, they needed to unlock it first— for her. “Have a pleasant evening Master Spica,” they say, then recall something they probably should’ve remembered since the beginning. “Ah, Kumugi—”
Spica waves them off. “I found her already!” She pauses before stepping out and gives them a final once-over, lingering on their face for some reason. Whatever she sees clearly pleases her because with a final nod their way she squares her shoulders and steps out into the hallway. “Goodbye.”
Hitsugi lets the door close. They press their cheek to the tray, the cool metal pleasant against their skin. Prophecy better be present by the time they make it back to the banquet hall, they can’t handle staying here any longer than they absolutely must.