[ P ] a secret starting to rust

She should've asked about the woman at the lagoon. She's a goddamned idiot—but what harm could it do, she'd thought. In what world would that same woman, scorned by Senka's now-lover, end up at her doorstep with Senka's drunk husband on her arm? There are many ways that she'd thought of her infidelity being discovered, but this did not even make the list. Worse, she's not even certain if her husband is coherent enough to precisely connect the dots—but come morning and the return of his sobriety, understanding will dawn. Augustine Scowcroft is not a stupid man.

She'd shut the door in Isolde's face with a faint sneer, and when she turns towards Augustine, she cannot quite meet his eyes. Wordlessly, she guides her stumbling and swaying husband to the curved couch in front of the cooling fireplace, pushing him onto the cushions before she walks across the room to the bar. When she returns, Senka presses a glass of water into his hands, and then settles on the opposite side of the couch, eying him warily.

"August, I—" she falters, bites her lip, sucks in a breath. She doesn't know how to have this conversation, despite all the time she'd had to consider how she might go about it. There's no good way, no easy way, no way that won't be utterly heartbreaking for them both. Because a part of her does still love Augustine—that young, innocent girl with stars in her eyes still loves him. Misses him. Wants back a taste of what they used to have. Senka finally settles for, "I'm sorry," because wherever this conversation goes, however it ends, she is sorry.

Not for finding herself a stolen piece of happiness, because she's damn well earned it, but for how it will destroy Augustine to know that he had her, and he lost her.

how strange,
to dream of you

even when
i am wide awake

code // art

your veins are full of ice-water

His invitation was crushed, dropped, tore up, burned up, shoved back into his face as Baptista slithered his way from the situation at hand and Isolde's drunken tongue was quick to strike. She uttered an insult, a shot, cast a pebble that wouls strike the already cracked glass and ultimately shatter it. Ears would flicker, an obnoxious ringing sensation crowded in his ears, his mind being trapped by the ringing as he dove back into the bits and pieces of isoldes stories-her lover-ex, maybe lover, whatever- the man wrapped in obsidian, amethysts to adorn the dark face. A woman- a woman Isolde did not know, did not recognize- but a woman that would soon be claimed by a face, the same face Augustine would turn his head to look over. As he let mismatched hues cascade over her body, his front door would slam shut, leaving just him and his wife In the seemingly less inviting scowcroft home. Her touch would end the ringing in his head, silence screaming louder in his head than the ringing ever would or could. It starts off like a slow burn- her touch- and then almost instantly does he pull himself away from her as her touch only begins to get hotter, and unfortunately so. He let's himself collapse slowly into the peice of furniture, his eyes no longer on his wife, but rather on the bar that she walked over to. She would return with water- a great choice... for someone who might actually want water. August I... his mind drifted, not entirely due to the circumstances that were likely to be explained, but thay was a good part of it. Did he care what she had to say? Was there a benefit of the doubt to be given? Maybe. But tonight, he is thinking only of himself, and to himself. As she seats herself, he stands up, and his body sauntered away from the couch and closer to the bar. The water he'd been given is placed on the bartop, while he makes it around the corner of the bar and pours himself his own drink-bourbob, not water. Before he takes the first few sips, he is forcing hinself to not connect the dots, not now. But theres an apology falling from Senka's lips, and he looks at her finally. If anyone is sorry, it's me-" he pieces together his thoughts outloud as he sorts through the mess of his other thoughts inside his head. His lips part, only for a second. But if what that boozey lawyer lady said was true.. " his mind has already veered, a straight shot for all the things he doesn't want to think of, doesn't want to admit to himself. There was a twitch in his lap, a growl being shoved back down by yet another drink. How long? he mumbles as he reaches for the bottle this time, ready for whatever she may throw at him- hurtful or not. typentype "

code & art

Senka sighs softly, watching Augustine return to the bar. She hates this version of him, the sloppy drunk who can't keep his paws off the bottle; it is the only version she is privy to see these days. But she's well aware that she's in no position to chide him, so she simply watches him over the back of the couch, her heart in her throat. It's interesting, how she notices his inebriation so much more in recent history; she wonders if that's because he's gotten worse, or because she's had exactly one sip of alcohol since the first night Odysseus had come here. No one has questioned her sobriety, but it's been a lifeline for her.

"If anyone it's sorry, it's me." She wants to ask—for what? Has he noticed the way she breaks a little bit more every time he denies her? Every time he disappears into the night, only to come home reeking of alcohol, to consume more when he returns? Is he sorry that Senka has gone from a flower reaching for the sun to a wilted rose, curling in on herself? Is he sorry that he can't save them?

She wants to ask, but she doesn't.

She does not want to be cruel.

Swallowing the rising lump in her throat, Senka clings to her composure and meets his gaze across the room. "Since autumn," she answers, her voice more composed than she feels. Slowly, she slides off the couch, rounding the back of it and crossing the room towards him, her nails clicking softly on the hardwood. Senka stops in front of him, keeping a short distance between them—though she's not certain if it's for his benefit or her own—and tips her chin up to him, her eyes glassy with tears unshed. The fact that this has hardly begun and she's on the verge of crying is a bad sign—and out of character for Senka.

"This—us—we don't work anymore, August. You see that, right?" It is the only thing Senka sees when she's with him now. She sees him losing himself to the bottle, to his job, to the underbelly of Sussex. She sees them fighting with increasing frequency about his insistence to go fight, begging him not to, him going anyway. She sees that month she spent alone in these haunted halls, meeting Odysseus, the wallowing of her self-pity beginning to turn into the knife-sharp blade of her anger.

She isn't angry anymore, she supposes.

When it comes to Augustine, she's apathetic.

And she will live as a shell no longer.

how strange,
to dream of you

even when
i am wide awake

code // art

your veins are full of ice-water

He isn't angry- not outright- and yet he wants to be; he wants to shout, yell, insult her, tell her just how stupid she is in her choice- all of her choices. Instead, instead he is honest, mainly with himself. Senka made many choices, and ultimately her choices would drive them straight to where they are now in this moment. But he can't hate her in these choices- every choice she's made has, in some way, been forced on her by himself. He offered her a choice when they were first wed: a hidden freedom, or a forced commitment-either would be accepted by Augustine at the time, not quite privy to the idea of being wed to someone simply because they were chosen for one another. But he would still save face for the public, for the sake of his father and the last name that he carried the weight of all too often. As of late, any choices she made were because of him- and he knew this to be true, and hid it from himself with the help of liquor. As he began to faulter, she would try to pick up the pieces endlessly, and his own pride wouldn't let him accept her notions of help. And with every piece she tried picking up, he would take back and let it crash at his feet. His own absence, his avoidance, his inability to face the demons in his own mind would force Senka to make the choices she did- it was, and always has been his own fault. He watches her as she begins to draw closer, his heart would begin race despite the depressant he feeds it, and an unmoved facade meets her own gaze as harks swivel to lightly pin back against his crown. Since autumn. He feels his own stomach twist and turn, leaving him to fight a sneer that twists on his lips from the hate he begins to feel, from the regret he is fighting to keep out at bay rather than let it wash ashore all at once. When he decided to run off to war, despite her pleas, despite a close friends warnings and scolding, he still went- in the guise that he wanted to do something that made him feel like he actually still had worth. But really, it was his scape goat, a way out if his fate was decided on the battlefield, something he made sure Senka would benefit from in the case he was given the easy out to all of his problem. This choice was one of the final nails in the coffin of this marriage- driven by his own paw. He only let's his gaze linger on her olive hues for a moment, ears flicking as her voice is once again the only thing that takes up the space between them. "This—us—we don't work anymore, August. You see that, right?" Right . he mutters, his eyes lost somewhere in the silence that lingers anywhere but near her face. He slides his drink along the bar and to the end with him as he moves, making his way to stand infront of the fire place that is still dying-atleast until he finds a smaller log sticking out from the embers and uses a paw to shove it around. Stirring the coals with a quick shove of the piece of wood, igniting small bits of the fuel slowly. There's a moment where he moves closer to the heat that begins to radiate from the small pit, his face is nearly uncontrollable as the warmth overwhelms him, hues easily built a glassy layer and shed said layer all at once. His jaw would clench as he fought to stop them, cut them short and let any sign of his moment of crying dry up from the heat. We barely worked to begin with, " he begins to lie, begins to separate himself from her, from them, much further than he ever thought would be possible before. He ignores the years of time spent together; he ignores the moment they both came home, with his last name tacked on to her first, the corny awkwardness that came with such an arrangement, the laughs shared as they began bonding as they sat on opposite ends of the table or room. He ignores every moment he spent dedicating a piece of him to her, providing her with any want or need imaginable, only wanting to ensure her own happiness in a choice she really had to no say in. He ignores the fact that he doesn't want to admit that any part of this conversation was happening. He paid no attention to her finding a form of solace from this hell she didn't deserve in another man. His stomach would continue to twist into knots as his face twisted and contorted as it fought to keep the ache his heart was so desperately trying to convey across a hardening Visage. He fights the desperation he feels, the need to beg and plead as if he could actually have her for even just a moment longer- but he couldn't have what was no longer his. He's careless lately, reckless. And he is no different now as he trudged past the screaming voices in his head that tell him to be vulnerable, to do whatever it is he needs to to keep her with him, selfish as it may be. And he isn't thinking when he chooses his next words so carelessly: There's still time- to make sure a divorce is necessary but only because we.. don't work anymore, not because of-well- " he let's a small laugh huff past his lips, his eyes still on the small fire, leaving any insinuating shots left to the imagination. That was his only option, and he didnt want a million other reasons to be embarrassed tacked on to his divorce- one sought out simply because he and his wife "didn't work anymore", not because she was sleeping in another man's bed or, by some chance, ends up carrying said man's children. His face is still hidden from her, not quite yet able to speak to her the way he wanted to -needed to- without letting himself break apart. That was all he had going for him in this moment- he was holding himself together, not coming undone, but it was a fight to do so. typentype "

code & art

"Right." He drifts away from her again, and Senka lets him go this time, leaning her hip against the edge of the bar. She's chased him for so long, pined after him, begged for him—but that naïve version of her is gone now, the stars dimmed from her eyes. The glasses are no longer rose-colored. But she had loved him, with the purity of a girl who would make the best of her situation, and his "we barely worked to begin with" has a muscle in Senka's jaw ticking. "Don't do that," she says firmly, but not harshly. "Don't belittle what we had." Had, not have. Because it's gone now, that spark of magic. She is not the same girl anymore, and he is not the same man.

They have both grown, and rather than entwining like the roots of a tree, they have each diverted to their own paths.

"There's still time," he says, and she resists the urge to roll her eyes. He has no idea who she is anymore, what she's done, where her heart lies. "Right, because your boozy lawyer friend is going to keep her mouth shut," Senka snorts derisively. No, she'd seen the burning hatred in Isolde's eyes as surely as she'd heard it in the venom of her tone; she wants revenge. Senka just isn't certain yet if it will be aimed at Odysseus, herself, or both. "Would you like me to pretend I'm still happy here?" Unsaid, but clear as day: she isn't happy anymore. "You can't even look at me anymore. Is that because of my guilty conscience, or yours?"

Senka has straightened where she's standing, but she doesn't move; with each word, her voice grows confident with certainty, and unbidden, anger. He has stonewalled her at every turn, pushing away her every effort to connect with him, and now he wants to tell her there's still time? "There was time, Augustine. There was months of it. You spent that time cozying up to the Thieves' Guild and fighting in a war to bolster your own pride." Senka lets the information she knows fly with lethal accuracy—for all his attempts to keep his associations hidden from her, he failed. And his crimes are just as damnable as hers.

how strange,
to dream of you

even when
i am wide awake

code // art