themorbidsocialite | The Stoat Insists

They accepted their cup and grimaced into it. "Speaking plainly is difficult at the best of times, when you can't tell how a person would react to your words. It's all implication with most people." Their scowl fell, eyes on the low table between them.

"There's expectation and misunderstanding. Am I a hunter that works as a tailor for a pastime? Am I a tailor who hunts as a hobby?" They shook their head. "It isn't one or the other. But to claw up society, one has to look the part. You know that."

The Tailor lightly angled the cup this way and that, watching the tea swirl round in it. "It's obvious if you know what to look for. But most people don't think to look. Not to mention a tailor isn't meant to be so..." they sighed and shook their head again, this time with real embarrassment. "So noticeable."

They'd really need to work on that.

A small scoff from Mori was directed into the air. "Yes, I am quite familiar with the inane rules and regulations of polite society and society at large for that matter. Your disdain is an understandable sentiment and, could I find method of communication and connection elsewhere, I would quite happily remove it from myself to live as I so please: picking and choosing the aesthetics and appeal of the norm over the strict guidelines and habits of its populace."

Mori took another sip of tea and turned back to his conversational partner, eyes still stained red at the edges, but otherwise calm enough to meet their gaze.

"I may not be much of a visual artist myself, but is it not the goal of the artist to be recognizable by their work? Is it not by your hand and your mind that astounding pieces of clothing are made? Not only that, is your work not, itself, a wandering acclaim to your talent, out in the public eye? Why would you not want to be noticeable?" It was a genuine question, out of curiosity and lack of understanding.

"But that's it, isn't it? The work is the thing that is recognized. The hand itself. The craftsman becomes known for that, not for--" They gestured, nearly sloshed their cup, and correctly sheepishly with a sip. They closed their eyes, and when they opened them, began again.

"You have to be able to control what people think about you. You have to know where to be subtle, so that when you decide to become noticeable, you make the biggest impact. And," they added, "if people aren't looking for you, if they don't see you, you learn more. You hear more secrets. How does a pickpocket get through a crowd in Spite? He looks like anyone else. How does a tailor make a piece for a client? They learn their measurements, their tastes and preferences, their dislikes, and if that body changes from something like weight gain or Shapeling Arts, a tailor is discrete enough not to draw attention to it. But they know."

They didn't know if they were making any sense. It was complicated.

"And... when I'm myself..."

("I'm not a pleasant person.")

"When I was a child, I was always middling of the bunch. I slipped by without attention drawn to me." Henry went off with the Face, the Gracious Widow selected sweet Gemma, Peter was adopted, and A-- "If I wasn't outright impossible, anyway. The lesson I came away with was that I should control when I'm noticed, and how I'm noticed, in which way. And yes, I know that sounds impossible and I can't control every small thought a person has on me, but I want to draw people's attention with the work I do, and not the person I am. The work is enough that people should know of me."

Mori nodded. "A selection of public opinion by only showing what you want them to see. It's not an unfamiliar concept. A lie of omission, though perhaps 'lie' is too strong a word. To curate what one sees and, thus, what one understands of a certain subject. Were I a hypocrite, I would say that such actions were needless and could not possibly bear fruit. I am no hypocrite, however. I recognize the value of changing faces, controlling one's own narrative, how one is perceived. You well know how guilty I am of such a ruse. Putting on nice clothes and a pleasant voice, choosing words carefully and making the right expressions at the right times. Like art, it puts forth to the world, to certain people, only the face you wish them to see, the one that will surely make them love you, that will surely make them understand what you're attempting to say, that will surely make them know you and care about you and understand why you are the way that you are, if you just choose the right character to play."

Mori glanced behind the Tailor, at the shelf of books. "And then you forget how to not be that character. You forget that you, yourself, are not the art. You forget how to stop the charade. Even you only know brief glimpses of who you actually are..."

Mori blinked, then chuckled. "I apologize terribly, I went on a bit of a ramble there! Take of it what you will; I don't mean to say that every attempt at putting up a front ends in tragedy, I originally meant to say that I understand the effort. I believe you should get to be both Tailor and Hunter, of course, but which way you lean and if you lean at all is wholly up to you. Take it from a Poet and Mortician, you will not need to choose only one. Just be aware of what you truly want under whatever mask you wear and I am certain you will prevail in what you choose. You already seem to have a rather extensive lead in both fields."

A worn and weary smile. Mori was always trying to understand, and impart advice, and for that they were grateful. They felt like, maybe, the Socialite didn't feel he had much opportunity to share of themself so much with others.

Or Mori was still in the habit of acting like a parent trying to gently guide a child. The smile fell in degrees, and they hid it behind their cup.

"I appreciate it. I wonder if, maybe, your rambling is an indication of you needing rest?" It was a light tease, but the hour was growing a little late. "Neither of us may have an assigned bedtime, but we both could at least do with a few hours of trying to pretend we're sleeping."

Yes, honestly after sitting in one spot for so long with little more than a cup of tea in their hands for distraction, the Tailor was finding the long hours of working and studying were finally trying to catch up to them. They didn't yawn, but they could feel the heaviness of the topics behind them sinking into their bones. They thumbed under an eye persistently.

The way he imparted advice did seem rather different from how he imparted lessons, more conversational, expecting something of a little back and forth. It was less 'teaching a child how to do a task' and more 'conversation with a friend turned heavy, one more experienced attempting to help the other'. Mature, a conversation, a sharing of the self, over the overly patient tone from before.

And then the Tailor mentioned sleeping.

It was so subtle, so easy to miss, but Mori hummed, a small smile creeping across their face as they took another sip. "Seeming awfully tired yourself, dear Tailor. Perhaps your body has been reminded how to be slow and find rest."

Good lord, the Tailor had been led into a trap. The flat was so quiet, the tone of their conversational partner so low and melodic, the lights low and dark, the tea warm and aromatic, and the armchair was so damn comfortable. Was the lampcat purring? It had curled up in a bare spot on the loveseat and its low, trilling noise was audible in the quiet of the flat. At some point in the conversation, Tularemia had given up her favorite spot on the armchair's head to the Tailor's, sleeping once more in their now mussed hair.

"I'll fetch some bedding for us," Mori said, groaning and wincing as he slowly got up, avoiding his bad side. "Which seat would you prefer as a bed? You seem quite settled into the armchair, but the loveseat is also a delight to lay in."

"That's--" The Tailor's eyes narrowed at the ploy. "You sneak," they shot, without real heat. "It's not my fault your home's so...homey."

They set their cup on the table again, nearly rising from their admittedly very comfortable spot. "You don't need to go out of your way, really," they started, arms outreached in supplication. "I've fallen asleep in much more uncomfortable spots, which much less in terms of bedding. The loveseat's plenty! I'd rather you were in your own bed for the evening!"

At some point, on exposing a little too much, they'd become flustered, even as Mori was moving. It was clear they weren't at all used to being treated with such generosity, and they didn't know what to do in the face of it.

Mori had moved to the bedroom and come back with an armful of pillows and blankets. "So, you would prefer the loveseat? Very well, I trust you know how to make a seat a worthy sleeping space. I, however, am taking the couch and you cannot convince me otherwise."

He laid one of the blankets on the loveseat along with a pillow. His tone was that of stubbornness, but he did give reasoning. "For one, the cushioning is too abrasive and flexible on my injuries at the moment. And, for another, I would rather not sleep in an empty bed. Too cold and spacious. I usually sleep somewhere in the sitting room when both of my lovers are away."

They finally looked up, faux stubborn attitude melting away to host-like amenability. "You do not mind, do you? I can find somewhere else and leave you be, if you would strongly prefer."

Caught, the Tailor pulled their hands back. "I... No, it's alright. Your comfort was on my mind. I didn't want to put you out, if you have an evening ritual, or..."

Sighing, they relented. If this was habit for Mori, it would be more impolite to force them into a different process for the Tailor's sake. Weakly, they admitted, "I just worry I'll wake you. I have a tendency to wake up through the night."

With hesitancy, their fingers went to their waistcoat buttons. "Let me just slip this off and put it with my coat in the kitchen. I'll let you get comfortable." Their hands stopped and went to the teapot. "And I'll take this with me."

Still struggling with accepting the gentleness, they absconded to the kitchen with the pot, stoat still asleep on their head.

Tularemia's tail lightly bapped the Tailor's head at the minor disturbance, but she did not stir. The teapot was mostly empty at the end of the night and barely blurbled inside with the movement. There was a door at the other side of the kitchen the Tailor hadn't noticed before, but it seemed it was not touched frequently, the brass handle unpolished and dusty.

There was the sound of shuffling on the other side of the kitchen door, a soft voice, more adjusting, a quiet "ow", and things seemed to settle down.

The pot was left on the countertop, and the Tailor quickly and quietly stripped their waistcoat to hang it on the chair. They were unbuttoning their cuffs when they noticed the door.

Their eyes went from it to the kitchen door. Their host was settling, and their curiosity was strong. They crossed the kitchen and placed their hand on the bottom of the knob, examining its dust.

A deep inhalation. Then they turned away. Mori had already divulged enough secrets tonight, entirely willingly as opposed to the other circumstances where their hand had been forced. The Tailor wouldn't pry for another in this manner. It wasn't fair. It would be an insult to the whole of the evening.

Now in just their shirtsleeves, trousers and shoes, they returned to the living space without glancing back. They'd ask later.

In the time it had taken the Tailor to finish up their task, Mori had made both makeshift beds and had stripped further into just the undershirt and trousers, his own overclothes settled on the back of the desk chair. They would need to be pressed soon, of course, but the exhaustion had started setting in and Mori was using the last of his energy to freshen the bandages under his nightclothes, slow and deliberate in the movement. He would normally be more careful about others seeing his underclothes, but the injuries needed attending to and the robe draped over the back of the fainting couch would just get in the way at the moment. They breathed steadily, eyes glued to their own side as they wrapped the gauze around their chest and stomach before moving down to work on the calf.

The Tailor hadn't seen the damage to the calf before, but the sight would be sickening to the average person, mangled and puckered with what tatters of skin remained an angry red. Unlike the vertical claw marks down the side, an almost clean drag from both paws, it was clear that the leg was the victim of the tearing, eviscerating jaws, moving, shaking, biting and ripping again and again so long as the leg was within reach.

It was clear Mori had dressed down further than the Tailor, who was undoing the first two buttons on their shirt and little more, but this was his home and they didn't find any terrible discomfort in the sight of another human body like someone more easily scandalized. A body was a body, and they saw a fair amount of it in their work.

The wound, though...

The Tailor didn't become queasy easily, and they'd seen the damage a marsh-wolf could do on a body, but to see such an injury on such a familiar face caused them to pale just a little. That was going to scar badly, and it was indeed a miracle that the muscles themselves weren't outright destroyed. They were pulling suspenders off their shoulders to leave slack at their hips, and now they approached with caution, hesitant to interrupt or intrude.

"Can I help? So you don't have to bend over yourself or pull the leg up? Or would you rather I let you handle it?"

Mori did flinch only a tad, broken from their reverie with a blink. He leaned back as he processed what was asked, then, for once, let go of his pride to allow someone in. "I can reach the upper half without bending too far, but the lower vexes and pains me. I'm able to wrap it, but not without strain. I would appreciate the help, if you would be so kind."

Mori continued wrapping the upper half of the thigh, careful not to tug the bandages too tight or too loose. Eyes flickered back up and a smile graced his lips. "So, are you aware you have a tiny guest on your head? Or has it been through sheer luck and natural balance that she's managed to hold on?"

They sat at the end of the lounge, rolling up their cuffs very loosely, and their own eyes flicked up, making them just a touch cross-eyed, as they offered their hand for the bandages at Mori's pace. "I keep forgetting she's up there," they admitted. "She's very light, and I imagine my curls, when they're loose, are easy to latch onto and tangle in. They were always hell to try to sort into place."

And any time they remembered she was there, they found they didn't want to move her. Before laying down, yes, but for now... well, SOMEONE had to get some beauty sleep.

"I imagine she's very popular with your partner's urchins. There's a fondness for weasels and ferrets, something about a small creature that slips through your fingers like slippery silk spoke to us, you can imagine."

Their hands, when they moved with the wrappings, were steady. They'd wrapped their own wounds and the other children's arms a number of times; they were no doctor, but at the very least knew how to keep a bandage from unwrapping again and again. Their fingertips touched above the anklebone, where the wrapping ended and was tucked away.

"Is that alright? Too tight or loose?"

Mori ran a hand along the leg as light as possible, seeking out and smoothing any inconsistencies. "No, no, you did very well. Thank you."

He reached up and scratched between Tularemia's ears with a finger before pulling back. "She'll be content to stay right there all night, if you let her. Or find somewhere else to sleep, like across your eyes or on your chest. It's the warmth, I believe. It's why cats and ferrets detest baths; the cold water affects them more than most due to their high body temperature. Other mustelids like stoats and weasels are much the same."

"She's hardly patient with the smaller ones, the wee kids surprisingly more suited to the fighting weasels, able to handle them quite well. Tularemia enjoys the company of the older kids who know better how to be gentle and quiet, when needs must."

Mori glanced across the way at the other seat-made-bed and gave a slanted smile. "It's certainly not my best work, but I've made up the loveseat for you. No rush, but I do ask that you sleep at some point tonight."

They glanced to the seat in question, nodding and reaching down to unlace their shoes. "It's plenty. I'll lay down in a moment, I just wanted you to settle." There was the barest moment of a hand to the ankle in comradery, far from the injury and not even a proper squeeze, before they stood and went to the loveseat, sitting to pull off their shoes proper and set them under the seat. Tulameria was gently pried from their curls to hold close to their chest.

"Oh, before I forget," they said quietly, curling back into the chair and pulling their legs up to fold into it, "there was a door in the kitchen. I didn't open it, but I was curious what it led to?"

They were already settling, clearly used to curling up as small as possible to fit into crevices and under beds, and their height aided them with it. Their clothes would be rumpled come the morning, but it was an issue for then.

The loveseat in question was magnificently plush, the cushions wrapping around them in a swallowing, embracing hug. A hand might be able to find the seam at one of the inside edges where it was restuffed every time the cushions became deflated and used. To some, it might've been massively over-comfortable. For plenty of the urchins that came by, they adored the extravagant level of cushioning. It was up to the Tailor where their opinions lied, but the fact of the matter was that they could easily disappear into it, if they curled up tight enough.

Mori quirked a smile at watching the Tailor get half enveloped, but sought to answer the question asked. "That would lead to the Unfinished Guest Room. It's a rather uncomfortable room, but it does contain a mattress and a dresser. Although, part of the wall is collapsed in around the window and we can't shut it up, or else a rather Uninvited Guest throws something of a fit. It needs quite a lot of repairs before it's serviceable to be lived in, the floor giving out in areas and the roof dripping. Until then, the only one who can really stand it compared to the rest of the flat is the Uninvited Guest. You're free to look, it's unlocked, but the discomfort of it matched with the fact the Guest tends to come at any and all hours without warning makes it a less than acceptable place to offer to any other, invited and welcomed guest."

Sinking easily into the cushions, the Tailor managed a very small frown, even as their tiredness finally caught up quickly to them. "I... only have more questions now."

But they shook their head and let it be, letting the softness of the pillow lull them, even without a blanket drawn over them.

"Later. Goodnight, Mori."

A soft smile, a fond tone, a shuffling of fabric as Mori turned over on the lounge. "Goodnight, dear Tailor. Sleep well, I pray."

A final candle was blown out and the sitting room was plunged into darkness from which sleep crept like a rolling fog over both occupants, with prayers to avoid a plague of a most insidious and mental sort. Whether those prayers would be heeded...

The thing about waking up screaming is that, if you do it enough times, you have the habit of covering your mouth quickly to strangle the noise. And when it occurred with nearly every dream, well--your body would become used to the action before your mind even caught up with it.

So the scream was in the air for hardly more than an a fraction of a second before the Tailor's hand was pressing hard to their face to suppress the noise. Their fingers curled hard into the skin of their cheek while they tried to control the ragged breathing through their nose.

Where were they? Their eyes were wide, trying to recognize the unfamiliar ceiling. At some point in the night they'd twisted onto their back, and now the soft cushions swallowing them were more oppressive than comforting. Their other hand was tight around their middle, fingers clenched into the fabric of their shirt.

Fine. They were fine. They were--They were at the Socialite's flat. Mori's flat. Right. The evening was coming back. They squeezed their eyes shut.

Damn things. It was almost every time they slept, had been for the better part of a decade. It was part of why they never stayed the night with any of the people they'd been with (save one; he was gone first). They'd never wanted to subject anyone to this bullshit. God, had they woken Mori? Fuck, if they'd woken Mori--if Mori asked--what would they even say?

Sorry, I guess I'm apparently upset that even when someone sees me as family, it's just to be second fiddle to their dead child.

Absolutely fucking not. Stupid bullshit.

They rubbed their face, looking round the room, still disoriented.

Edited 2025-07-11 06:28 (UTC)

Even looking up at the dark ceiling, it seemed to flicker with some soft color, barely visible at the Tailor's distance and angle, but present nonetheless, casting stark contrast against the pitch black behind the shuttered eyelids. And, in the silence of the night, there came a light scratching, a metal pen nib running lightly across the surface of a sheet of paper. The paper flicked, the usually silent movement of sheet against sheet suddenly ringing as clear as day.

Dr. Malodrema sat at the writing desk in the corner of the room, reading glasses perched on their nose and hair loose and uncombed, seemingly unaware of the noise made, or of the nightmare that preceded it. He would write something, flip to another sheet of paper to read, fall silent, then write again. The candle beside him was wrapped in an ornamental snuffer, set to extinguish the small, insignificant flame in a dozen and a half minutes at this point. The wax around the snuffer that hadn't been there before said that it was previously set to an hour. Soft breaths, focused and quiet. The movement of pen across page, sure and sound. It was so quiet and the gentle light cast the doctor's face in a solemn honesty and devout purpose. If the Tailor were to look, it was likely the most unmasked the Tailor had ever seen him, besides that moment of distress in the previous class. Here, the truth was quiet work, done gently in the dark of the witching hour. A man, simultaneously older and younger than he seemed, peering through previously unknown spectacles and biting at the end of their pen as they thought.

Unfortunately, looking closer, if the Tailor so chose, they would see he was utterly exhausted, even in the peace of night.

Edited 2025-07-11 07:06 (UTC)

They turned their head out towards the room, eyes adjusting in the candlelight, and some of the tension that had climbed into their body relaxed. There was a calm to this moment. There was their friend, unlike they'd ever seen.

They watched the person the doctor was in the dark, a melancholy creeping over them. Without any facade--host, socialite, advising friend--Mementomori Malodrema was a weary man. Dedicated to the thing that drove them. Brilliant, but so, so tired. Unable to rest.

If they prodded gently now, would that mask return? Undoubtedly. The person they knew was not a bad one, and it was distinctly more honest than many people would ever know, but it was not the full person. They were loathe to see this be shut away.

They closed their eyes. If Mori hadn't heard, or was giving them the decency to ignore the sound, then surely they could give him this? Pretend to sleep and give the doctor privacy?

They stroked a hand over Tularemia, who had managed to stay against their shirt despite their shifting. Her little ribbon had twisted a little, and they adjusted it without disturbing her. Unbidden, their dream returned to them, and the song in their head was persistent. It had started since Mori had mentioned the idea of different light, of fixing death, of Orpheus singing to the Queen of the Dead, and it had only grown louder in their terrible dream.

It was about a mountain.

"Mori," they began quietly with their eyes still closed, their voice hoarse from sleep and their scream, "d'you ever hear th'song about the Mountain of Light? From th'kids?"

If they didn't look, they wouldn't have to see the mask slip up, and they could pretend they were still talking to the tired man in the chair.

The scratching of pen against paper halted mid-stroke, the pure silence following broken only by a brief sputtering of the candle wick. A breath in and out, the subtle shifting of fabric.

"If I had," he started, voice low and soft and bearing the same accent they'd heard back at the closet, "I don't remember the words. Why?"

There wasn't a moment of shock, confusion, or overt worry. He didn't mention the nightmare. He didn't mention hearing the Tailor scream or watching them struggle in their sleep. If the Tailor wished, beyond the information it garnered, they were allowed to forget they had a nightmare at all, the only signs being the miniscule claw marks in their shirt where Tularemia held on in sleep and the memory of it.

"I dunno," they admitted, "Been thinking about it. S'important. Tryin' to remember."

The Tailor whistled lowly in the air, trying not to disturb the quiet too terribly with the noise. The song was old, older than they were, maybe older than Maury, maybe older than the Fall. The words were almost in reach, if they just could recreate the tune. One of many that'd been starting to slip through their fingers.

Their singing voice was always just passing, better as part of a choir or melody, and maybe it showed. They never really minded it, until they weren't part of a pack anymore.

"Up the Mountain, in the Garden, everything shines bright,
our lives were long, though we forgot, from Stone's eternal light,
now only birds and bees are there, the Mountain dreams of flight."

Another low whistle as they strained their memory. There was more. It was trying to evade them.

"A piece was stolen, a heart supplied, and..."

Come on.

"A piece was stolen, heart supplied, and so returned a King who'd died.
But then the ground around him sighed, the Wax-Wind blew. The Mountain cried.
Oh...
There is a Mountain full of light. Now death only lasts a night."

They didn't open their eyes. The room was dark now, they could tell through their lids, but they still didn't want to try to see. A hand cradled Tularemia's body protectively, but maybe it was for their own comfort.

"Knotted Socks know more'n me. Was a Fisher King. But thought... might help. Lookin' for Light Laws. Words about it. Dunno. Stupid."

Edited 2025-07-11 16:43 (UTC)

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