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Even this late at night, Sixth Street seemed alive with activity.
Its residents mucked about doing this and that, hung around the shopfronts even though they'd long since closed, meandering like they didn't have anywhere else better to be. It was irritating. Meant sneaking up to the windows of Random Play's second floor was harder than it needed to be; anyone could see her, call Public Security, make a whole big scene of it and ruin her beloved Lord Phaethon's night, and God forbid she do that.
But she's still here anyway. Still glancing over her shoulder at the concrete below, making sure no one was looking at her when she cracked the window open and slipped inside. Still shutting it behind her such that it looked the same as it did before she arrived.
Belle's not here. Vivian wasn't expecting her to be.
It hadn't even been that long since she and her brother had returned to the Janus Quarter, since they'd convinced Vivian to join them for that sweet little idol group's debut, and yet Belle was gone once again, back off to Failume Heights, to Yunkui Summit, right out of her grasp. Just as soon as she'd come back.
Was it so much to ask that she stay, for once? That she slow down for a minute and let everyone else catch up? She's always moving on at a breakneck pace, bouncing all across New Eridu like she's trying to play a game of human pinball with herself as the ball, like she's trying to get in as much as she can in as short of a time as possible. She's hardly short on time, what's the rush? Why is Belle always raring to go, go, go? It wasn't fair to the people who loved her—
It wasn't fair to her. Wasn't fair to Vivian, not when she could never run fast enough to keep up.
But when had anyone ever slowed down for her?
She thinks she hears Wise peddling about downstairs, still here. Still present. Still real, unlike his awful sister who Vivian couldn't help but loathe, couldn't help but want to tear into if only it'd make her listen and stop and stay for once—
Vivian aborts the thought before its roots can grow too deep. If only because she's sure the vitriol in her chest would come to paint her face if she didn't, and for as angry as she was, for as much as she wanted to puke at the thought of Belle being gone again, she knew better than to let him see her like that. Surely he was already wary enough about her and her intentions with his sister.
He had a right to be. She'd rip out Belle's throat with her teeth if she could. But he didn't need to know that. Didn't need his concerns validated.
She sinks into Belle's mattress like its calling to her, like she belongs there, like she deserves to envelop herself in Lord Phaethon's scent even when she knows she doesn't. Even when she knows she doesn't deserve this, any of this, not when she can't even stand to have Belle leave for a day before she starts getting violent and angry again.
Her sheets are soft. Clean. Freshly washed. But they still smell like her, miraculously. She could die here and be happy, she thinks.
God isn't so kind to girls like her, though. If she can even be called that.
She's always called herself one. Has always dolled herself up in pretty dresses and heels and enough makeup to make anyone else look clownish. But when she looks in the mirror, she doesn't see herself looking back. Even without her attire to act as armor, stripped down to her barest self, she can't see it. Can't see anything but a poorly concealed animal hiding behind a mask of porcelain skin and girlish figure.
It's a stupid thing to think. She knows it is. She knows, logically, she's a woman. A person. But what good does knowing do when it won't change how she feels? What good does knowing do when it won't make her any more comfortable with the girl looking back at her from the other side of the glass?
What good does knowing do when it doesn't make her feel any less like a rabid dog when everything gets to be too much?
Her fingers sink into the fabric of Belle's pillow. She thinks she can see a few of her hairs scattered across it. Some part of her wants to collect them, bottle them up, bring them home and set them on her nightstand so her savior can watch over her even when she's gone.
She shoves that urge down. Deep, deeper, until she can physically feel the impulse drown.
But she presses her face into the pillow as a compromise, inhales as deeply as she can, chokes out a pitiful sob she knows Wise can hear, standing at the door like he is—she's sure he thinks she hadn't noticed him come upstairs. She's sure he thinks she doesn't notice the way he's looking at her, the pity in his eyes.
Vivian wants nothing more than to tear the expression off his face, claw into his skin until he stops. She cries harder instead. Burrows her face deeper like it'll make him go away.
He doesn't. If anything, he gets closer. Sits down his sister's bed and puts his hand on Vivian's shoulder like he expected her to be here. Like she was supposed to be here. Like she wasn't violating their privacy and their security by breaking into their home so often and clinging to their things with zealous fervor. Was he not disgusted by her? He should be. Anyone would be.
She feels every slight moment of his muscles as he pulls her against his side. As he guides her head away from Belle's pillow and onto his shoulder. As he lets her sink into him and mutters under his breath, quiet, oh so quiet, "I know."
And she almost thinks she's going to vomit again.
She hears her voice as she responds, hears herself whimper, "Lord Phaethon," oh so pitifully, but it's far away. Distant, like the words are coming from someone else through a thick pane of glass. She's almost tempted to think she hallucinated them. But she knows better than to think his grip on her tightened for nothing.
He was as much her savior as Belle was. Maybe even more so; he was the one that'd sent the comment that pulled her away from the edge, after all. But he wasn't the one her mind clung to.
She wishes he was, sometimes. At least she could justify it then. At least she could claim, well, he'd saved her life, why wouldn't she be obsessed with him? Why wouldn't she cling so desperately to him to the point where his abscene made her wish she were dead all over again? Why wouldn't she hang off every word he spoke, every breath he took, just to make sure she looked nothing short of angelic in his eyes?
Her devotion would mean something, then. But she worshipped his sister instead, knelt before her like a sinner at Confessional, like she were the priestess rather than her brother. Like she were the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit rather than a lowly nun.
Vivian thinks her mouth forms around words of apology. She's not sure. He shushes her before they can come out either way. She doesn't fight him on it.
It's not enough. It'll never be enough. Not for her, greedy as she is.
She pretends it is anyway. What else can she do?