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There's an untouched cup of coffee that sits on top of the countertop, quietly waiting for a pale hand to stretch out—at at least, the bare minimum, graze its fingertips against it. Instead, the handle is like ice, and will not be bothered with for the next hour or so, maybe even more.
At eleven at night, the lights were all turned off, leaving the Ægir sitting on a firm, edging on uncomfortable, wooden chair that was soon beginning to burn against her spine, and the skin that stuck to her back muscles. A grimace formed on her lips, eyes narrowing when she crossed her arms.
Red eyes did not drift away from the door, only lifting once she heard the sound of the metal door shifting to open up her living compartments to the rest of Rhodes island.
She wasn't tall—Always stood with slightly bad posture, which Weedy would never hesitate to point out with a simple 'fix your stance'—and her hair was as white as ivory horns. Today, she had tied it back into two ponytails, the long locks curling around one another to imitate a drill like shape. Weedy was always a big fan of how long her hair was, not to mention running her fingers through it.
Despite Tuye's lack of care for surroundings, and sometimes the people around her, her hair always seemed to share a different opinion. It felt like a lambs wool, fluffy to the touch, yet when you press the pads of your fingertips against it, like silk spun from a spider themselves.
Tuye was late. When was she not late? She always had plans that were bigger than the palms of Weedy's two hands. Plans that made it harder every single day to comprehend just whom she was roommates with, plans that made it abundantly clear to Weedy that this girl ran on the essence of chaos, instead of well-thought out scenarios.
It was destructive, irresponsible, and a total hazard to all of Weedy's schedules that attempted to avoid hijinks like this. It was bad enough that Thorns had a serious problem with being incapable of blowing up some section of his lab, but Tuye was like the cherry on top. She had always found enjoyment in the way Weedy would scream in a high-pitched tone as she jumped out of her hiding spot, scaring the ever-loving Gran Faro out of Weedy. Or, when she would let crumbs of potato chips fall onto the ground, miserable to pick up when they clung onto carpet.
Her seat grinds against the hard, cold floor of their dormitory, brows slightly furrowed when her mouth opens to say something. Maybe, she'll shout at Tuye for how late she is once again, and how Weedy was worried that tragedy had struck her. Perhaps they'll take a shower together, and the Ægir will press her lips onto Tuye's forehead, the skin as gentle as cheesecake, and whisper how much she loves her. Weedy doesn't think she'll ever find the courage to commit to such an act of the dangerous 'l-word'.
So, instead of walking over and clutching onto Tuye's arms, shaking her relentlessly like a blender, she shuts her mouth. Weedy's lips press into a thin line as ruby eyes stare into hazy purple ones, like they're both waiting for the other to start something. Even a tiny argument that they'll forget about in the next hour, maybe tease each other about it next morning. Tuye drops her messenger bag onto the ground, the same place she does every time she comes home, and walks straight past Weedy as if she were nothing but a mere inconvenience.
The grey-haired woman's fists clench, her pale knuckles turning whiter as she feels an overwhelming surge of frustration. It's not like Tuye to let Weedy seethe in silence, for she has always preferred the loud nature of Rhodes Island over the quiet ambience the infirmary has to offer. The very same ambience that Weedy used to fawn over like a schoolgirl in love when she first came to Rhodes Island. Nowadays, she finds herself longing for some sort of conversation to linger in the background, even when everything is supposed to be quiet.
The consequences of living with Tuye, she assumed.
It was so easy to blame Tuye for the reason she behaved nowadays. She used to be so picky about messes, and the most particular of details. Ever since Tuye's kisses became more sloppier, and her lipstick began to stain her skin for longer, Weedy felt like she was no longer the same person she was before meeting the Forte. Tuye was like a disease that hits Weedy in all of the right spots. From the flush on her cheeks when her teasing strikes her temples like a soaring baseball, to the way Weedy starts to brush her fingers against her own lips after her gaze falls upon Tuye's lips for a second too long, Weedy isn't even sure that she wants to stop being sick at this point.
The Ægir made her way over towards the countertop, taking the cold cup of coffee and pouring it down the sink. She glances over at the cabinets, eyes narrowing slightly. Weedy grips onto the handle, carefully opening the door.
On the left is every single tea known to Sargon that Tuye had selected, ranging from slightly bitter to ones that soothed burning hot sore throats. Each tea had a distinct flavor, aroma, and lingering aftertaste to them. For a girl like Weedy, she never got used to these variants of tea. Every single packet was bursting at the seams with unique clashes of tang. She pondered for a moment, standing as still as a statue until her thin fingers gently grazed over each packet. The packaging was the same, just different colors and labels for each unique type of tea. Weedy's eyes narrow by a fraction, before reaching for a lavender-colored one.
Lavender. It was Tuye's favorite color. She had always been a fan of the paleness, and how gentle it was. For someone as loud, and rambunctious as the Forte, there were moments where she would throw herself onto the couch after a long day and snuggle up to Weedy without saying a single word. A plead that would never escape her lips of quietly asking her roommate to spare her some attention after all the trouble she's been through. Weedy used to jokingly refer to Tuye as a minx, with the way she seeked affection like those fictional creatures would. Despite this, her arms always found their way wrapping around Tuye, seeking the same amount of comfort back.
Weedy's gaze drifts towards the bathroom door, a thin line of orange light peeks from underneath it. The light spreads to the rest of the room, fading away before it touches the sofa. She can hear the soft pit-a-pat sound of water hitting the floor all the way from the kitchen, echoing throughout the entire dormitory. Tea requires hot water to be used, she reminds herself. She needs to focus on the task at hand, and not how Tuye is purposefully taking her sweet time in the shower to avoid the Ægir-shaped elephant in the room. The Weedy-shaped one, per say.
To the right of all the tea packets that Weedy could ever ask for are several pots, and pans of several sizes and handles of varying lengths. Atop one of the pans sits quietly a kettle made of steel, rusting near the bottom from daily—almost every three hours or so—usage. She takes it out of its shelter, placing it atop the stove. It's a routine she's grown comfortable with. Weedy will brew two cups of tea, the aroma eventually brings Tuye over to sit in front of her. Then they talk endlessly about their mundane days and how one of Tuye's pranks is seriously going to give someone a heart attack.
Walking over to the refrigerator, a strong cold breeze entering the room as the door swings open. There's countless containers all labeled with post-it notes, with some of them displaced out of the meticulously organized set-up Weedy decided on ages ago. Vegetables go on first rack, all of Tuye's favorite snacks that need chilling are placed upon the second rank, and the third rack contains several types of meats that are wrapped in a thin layer of air-suctioned plastic wrap. It's the order that everything is supposed to go on, but as it turns out, someone has clearly been tossing their snacks carelessly. Some of the large packaged ones sit on top of cabbage, while others lie flat on fowl, balancing carefully.
Weedy exhales a soft, light groan. She can't be bothered to muster up the energy to reorganize everything, let alone this late at night. The Ægir snatches a bottle of water, shutting the fridge slowly with her ankle as she turns back to the kettle. The cold liquid drizzles into the steel pot, slowly at first before it is dumped entirely of. Weedy places the kettle on top of the stove, and turns it off.
Soon, it will be warm, and Tuye will come out of the bathroom. She'll ask Weedy in that same mild tone of hers that lazes over with a slight slur near the end what the special occasion is for, to which the Ægir will quietly shrug it off. Weedy will make it appear as if she just wanted to spoil Tuye rotten today with good tea, and lively chatter. They'll laugh about it when they're older, and remark how dumb they were behaving several hundreds of nights ago. It'll wash over, because what else can it do? Weedy is at a point where the amount of times she's seen Tuye come home, or came home late herself to the sound of nothing but the ventilation's low whisper in her dormitory doesn't even fit on her fingers anymore.
It was supposed to be a little prank, or she thought. Weedy knows of how Tuye's mischief can range from hiding Weedy's headband in the morning, to lying about who blew up the lab with a foreign substance. The type of chemicals that only Thorns would know about, and heavens above knows there's always a chance he's in on the prank too. Yet, this time, the prank didn't seem funny after a day, maybe less than six hours. Weedy had her gaze screwed onto Tuye like a hawk about to jump onto innocent prey, waiting for her next move. An apology? A hug from behind? Maybe a burst of laughter, followed up by teasing?
None of it came, nor would it ever come for the next five days.
Kal'tsit had once told Weedy—as well as a plethora of other Operators most likely—that when it came to sharing a dorm with another Operator, the chances of your lifestyles colliding with the other would be common. After the third request to change her roommate—because the two others had habits that Weedy could never get used to—Kal'tsit sat the grey-haired woman at her office, and said nothing aside from sliding a beige file. This beige file only contained a picture, a name, and what department they were assigned to. This individual just so happened to be Tuye, who was one of the newer Operators that had moved into Rhodes Island a couple months ago.
Disagreements with Tuye weren't uncommon. Every passing day, there would always be something to bicker about. It was as mundane as who was washing the dishes, or more demanding matters regarding missions, files, and if all of their information was up-to-date or not. It was unnatural if they didn't find anything to argue about, especially with how their life styles contrasted each other to extreme extents. So, to Weedy, this was nothing but a simple disagreement that could be resolved as quickly as it started.
If only it were as simple as it were thought of. Weedy didn't even know what she had done wrong, therefore, constantly hit a dead end whenever she thought about figuring out what could've possibly led up to Tuye giving her the silent treatment. Talking to her was out of the question entirely, since every time she had saw the Forte, her expression had a faint scornful aura. It was the type of expression one would wear if they didn't want anyone to point out how pissed off they were, but still wanted to get the message across. Tuye's face would reek of a dark looming atmosphere that could change any room with a casual ambience to a damaged one.
This new change in attitude was the opposite of what Tuye used to do whenever she walked into the dormitory. Usually, she'd be bursting at the seams with excitement, ready to nag Weedy about their next mission together. Pearly whites would reveal themselves as she rambled on and on about her day, and how she allegedly knew who would be coming to their next mission. She never did, always shamelessly lying with an obvious carefree tone to her voice. Though, the Forte would refer to these as 'predictions', like she were sent from the heavens to come up with such baseless sentences. These were the only types of sentences that Weedy managed to find herself chuckling at. Tuye was like a witch that could cast any spell she wanted at the flick of a hand, and Weedy was her susceptible victim doomed to be cursed for five generations forward.
She could have moved out, or requested for another roommate. She should have the moment the Ægir found out how much of a slob Tuye was. But, there was a rushing current that kept pulling her towards the annoying woman. There was a mysterious treasure that hid beneath that thin dress, and long locks of hair that curled around Weedy's arms like a snake. It would have been so simple to get over it, but instead, found herself with a deep craving for more. Maybe it was the way Tuye's ears twitched at the mention of Weedy's cooking, or how whenever she went to Sargon, Tuye always made sure to bring back at least a couple of trinkets for Weedy to keep in her room. Clutter, Weedy called it. Knowing that it was nothing but a pain to dust, and clean if it ever got dirty, she would continue to stock her shelves with these tiny decorations, and stare at them whenever she found herself thinking about Tuye.
Weedy opens up another cabinet door, taking out the first mug she lays her gaze upon. A light purple cup, with several lavenders painted over them. Originally, it was a plain ivory-colored cup that she had picked up from a thrift store during one of her missions at Iberia. After some deep sanitation, and making sure there were in fact no hidden Seaborn in the clay, she sent it off to one of the local artists of Rhodes Island. The trade was straightforward. Weedy gets a personalized mug, and the artist gets their pay of 120 LMD.
Just like life at Rhodes Island is—hetic, and an uncontrolled environment—her mug would fall into the ownership of Tuye's instead. Every meal would have the same mug without a single beat missed. Usually the white-haired Forte wasn't picky with anything, especially which tableware she was going to use, but for any sort of drink, she would always dive headfirst into the cabinet to snatch the lavender mug. Weedy didn't budge, nor did she ever speak up about how cute it was.
The tea bag hangs over the cup, swaying slightly before coming to a rest against the walls. Weedy carefully picks up the kettle by its handle, pouring the hot liquid into the mug slowly to prevent another accidental burn. She's not sure if she would like to deal with another scorching scar that would sting for days, even more whenever she wore gloves. Once the water fills up to about half, and engulfs the tea bag, she turns the knob of the stove off, and sets the kettle onto a cold burner.
Light bleeds into the room, escaping from the bathroom as steam follows behind like an ominous mist. Weedy turns around, her stern red eyes softening to something more gentle. She places the lavender cup onto the dinner table, and lets out a deep breath. It's the kind of breath you hold in for days, waiting patiently for the results of your health examination. The type of breath that leaves you gasping for more right afterwards. The Ægir inhales sharply, before taking a small step forward towards her, to Tuye.
"..Can we talk?" Weedy gestures at the lavender mug, and those purple eyes of her never leave Weedy's more passionate red ones.
"Yeah," Tuye brushes the towel around her ear, "We can." Her voice is soft, like the rain of a Monday morning at Iberia.