damned_lounge | Oktoberfest 08' Entry, "Yellow" and "Love" by Hannah

Title: Two Ficlets, "Yellow" and "Love".
Author:

chaoticchicken
Betas: Mary
Word Count: 2002.
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Luxord, Celes, Gabranth, Heat, Argilla, and Roland.
Summary: Luxord and Gabranth play cards. The cannibals hunt.
Notes: These are kind of boring, idk. I was so uninspired. :(

Yellow.

“I’ve little idea how to play this,” I admitted with some shame, eyes fanning over the cards. The blond that sat in front of me gave me a wry smile, and I decided his face oft turned serpent-like; some burning, wicked flame behind his sky-colored eyes. I felt no danger from my roommate, but I knew – a general’s instinct, maybe; I had dealt with betrayal too much for one man’s lifetime – that this man was dangerous, could and would be, if need arose.

And yet it was quite simple for me to sit across from him, twenty-six face-down cards laid in front of me, like we were two simple schoolboys in a period of relaxation.

I found that we had many common points, and perhaps this is why I felt no danger from him – we both held a disregard for the others’ safety; there was no amiable concern between us. If misfortune befell him, I would not come to his rescue – nor him to mine. We both enjoyed this silent, unacknowledged agreement. I had gifted him with a bottle of that healing elixir I had earned through battle, but I expected no favor from him in return.

He did not, unsurprisingly, offer to repay me.

“It is much like Solitaire,” he began to explain, before his eyebrows lowered upon his brow; a condescending regard of my knowledge. “You know of that game, correct?”

I tried to not bark amusingly at him; I enjoyed – in some perverse fashion – that his dialect would distort when I was his company. I had heard him speak to his so-called friend, the one with the patch over his eye, in a commonly-spoken tongue; I supposed in terms of this world, at the very least. But when we held conversation, his words became more archaic, more anachronistic. Perhaps another childish reason to like this man; he reminded me of home, of the small score of people I left behind that some shard of my heart still beat for.

“I do,” I acknowledged, organizing the cards into a neater pile.

He looked relieved to not waste breath explaining the game to me. “I call this Spite and Malice – think of it as Solitaire, multiplied by two.” The name, once passed his lips, earned me another wry smile.

I returned it in kind; a moment of silent irony exchanged between us.

“The goal remains the same: be the first to move all cards from your goal pile into the playing pile. I’ve dealt you twenty six – keep them in a pile. That is your goal.” He stopped his explanation to deal twenty-six to himself, though he did not use his hands. The cards moved of their own accord – at least, to the naked eye – arranging in a careful pile in front of him, while the rest of the undealt deck settled neatly between us. “Now, we turn the top cards over –“

I needn’t reach my hand down to do so; the card of my goal slithered to the side, showing its face to me – a four of hearts –

“- And place it face up on the pile.” He swept a hand over the deck between us, five cards lifting to shuffle comfortably between his fingers. “Since I am the dealer, I go first. On every turn, you draw one card. Five the first turn.” He added the latter for my benefit when I returned his explanation with a skeptical glance. “The goal is to be able to play all of your cards; that probability is low, however, so focus on playing as many as you are able.”

“It sounds simple enough,” I concluded. He nodded curtly, as if it would be impossible to find a card game that wasn’t simple for him.

For some reason, I believed this.

In the midst of the other blond drawing five cards, the door to our room creaked open; neither one of us was particularly surprised by the phenomenon until the figure outside walked in.

“We’re surrounded by fiends,” her voice was disapproving; a scolding headmistress. Her slippers made no sound on our floors, but I could easily imagine the dark clicking of heels with her movements, perhaps her delicate fingers wrapped around a thin whip of wood, “and you both sit here, playing a card game?”

Luxord and I, I believe, only looked up from the cards because the sight of her was much more easy on the eyes. Had it been anyone else, we would have simply ignored them.

“Yes,” I grunted, while Luxord drawled, “Is there something we should be doing?” Neither of us were heroes, and neither of us made a secret of this.

Celes’ lips curled down, regarding us with a condescending glare. Normally, this sort of behavior from a woman would infuriate me, especially one as young as she - merely half my age. But, from her, we both took her nerve silently, though we did not balk under the gaze. “You both waste your talents while others wound themselves in the pursuit of escape.”

Luxord chuckled under his breath while I rolled over this curiously. Talents? What talents had we? This was certainly news to me.

She ran a hand through her long yellow tresses irritably, and I noticed that Luxord was as intrigued by the movement as I was. Certainly, a quiet possessiveness was lying beneath both our surfaces; we both knew if she felt it, we would certainly leave with a few frostbitten limbs.

The general took a few more steps into the room, shutting the door roughly behind her. She moved to sit on my bed, still regarding us. Luxord’s upper lip was curled with apparent pleasure, while I simply watched her without expression. Often this sort of outward façade was natural to slip into; I confessed to myself that with her, I had to work at it.

“Larsa would balk at you, Noah,” she said with a cold edge. The name made my muscles clench; my hand slammed down on the pile of forgotten cards at my side. “Knowing you waste yourself so.”

If I had been that sort of man, I would have wept for my lost charge. Without him, I barely had much to cling to outside of Luxord’s sad little games. I could only pray – pray to gods I had long stopped believing in, if I ever had believed at all – that, somehow, he had made it safely to Archadia.

Luxord had reminded me that the chance of that occurring was zero; he had been so kind to say this at the same moment he had informed me that the boy was gone from this place.

I had made a conscious effort not to wrap my fingers around his throat and burst the vessels beneath.

“Do not speak his name to me,” I said after a length and several shuttered breaths. Failure, failure, failure danced a perverted gallop behind my eyelids. “It makes no difference what I do now that he is gone.”

My fellow blond did not hide the roll of his eyes, nor the mumble of “How overdramatic.”

I could not explain to anyone why I continued to like this man.

I saw sympathy pass across Celes’ blue eyes before they froze to ice once again.

“You wallow about like a damsel in your self-pity,” she said, her eyes trailing over a game’s setup again; her eyes rolled like Luxord’s had, tired of my antics. “It disheartens me to see you have fallen so low. Where you not once also a general?”

She did not say “judge”, luckily – we both knew about Luxord’s little… aversion to the word. At times, I wondered if the man was not truly insane.

Then I realized – of course he is. Perhaps that’s another reason I enjoy his company so much.

I sighed, pushing the cards back into a pile between Luxord and I. The woman had completely ruined my competitive spirit. “Waste not your time with rhetorical questions. You know I was much more than a simple general.”

She nodded; again, the movement of her hair distracted me. And, honestly, the curves the ends of her hair touched. I did not let my eyes stray long. “I do know,” she said, and this fact seemed to sadden her.

“As lovely as this moment is,” Luxord interrupted, clapping his gloved hands together (a few days before, he had discovered his own clothing in his closet), “Are you seeing fit to join our game, my dear Celes? We could always use another player in another game.” He raised his eyebrows in suggestion.

I hoped I wasn’t imagining the disgust in her eyes.

“No,” she answered, leaving the bed and slamming the door back open. “I’ve much help to offer, and I’d much rather leave you men to something productive.”

With her gone, Luxord and I looked back to each other, shrugging simultaneously.

We were never lucky with her.

Love.

The splash of blood on his lips made his eyes glow; it was natural, beautiful. This was what love must be – something that filled you up, boiled over, made you complete.

When he was forced to jump away, avoiding a narrow blow from the giant’s paw, separating him from the meat – this was what heartbreak was.

Unfortunately, that was all the AI would know of either.

Roland’s commands were always simple, spoken in a voice that did not shake nor quiver; a born leader. Born, not made. He was what Serph would have been if he had ever reached his ultimate potential.

And if Serph had ever uttered a word more than what was required of him.

The three were a complete being; moving was instinctual, and the pale man’s orders were always precise. The AIs’ attacks were thrown without mercy; only a desperate hunger fueled their limbs now.

Heat always sank his teeth in first; he was what Roland had called the “tank”.

Argilla would keep the prey on its feet with her quick, lithe movements – and would move to the sidelines if Heat ever managed to be wounded.

It happened far too often for her tastes, because sometimes Heat let himself be hurt purposely. She understood that it made his Atma easy to release, but she was filled with something called disgust. Words like masochist and monster floated through her head when she regarded her dark-haired comrade.

And yet, she could not leave his side, nor Roland’s. Their existence relied on the fact they were together, and moved as one.

Roland’s thoughts on their camaraderie was surprisingly positive. Heat was, in his own way, controllable – not that Roland wanted that control over the AI, but he wanted to keep his fellow cannibal in check. It was something Serph had never managed, but that couldn’t be blamed on him.

It had taken a lot of time to somehow destroy the walls between himself and Heat, and now some sort of bond kept the redhead by his side.

Willingly. This was the most important part.

If he were optimistic, he could call it friendship. It had been ingrained in his head, almost – the first time Heat had hunted with him, hadn’t he warned him of imminent attack? Now Heat was more aggressive in his defense of his comrades; many times had he taken blows intended towards them, though whether to save them or to release his Atma sooner was to be seen.

And once, the redhead had cocked his lips at Roland. He had smiled, putting a firm hand on the blond’s shoulder. It wasn’t a smile like the blond was something potentially delicious and filling (though he was; he hadn’t forgotten the pain of the cannibal’s teeth grazing his collarbone), which was much more than Roland had ever bargained for; it was a smile that hinted towards some semblance of joy to be had in a planned night of hunting.

Though Heat had immediately withdrawn away from Roland with flared nostrils, flinching with disgust, he had shown admiration towards someone.

There was hope yet.

Oktoberfest 08' Entry, "Yellow" and "Love" by Hannah

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