themorbidsocialite | The Stoat Insists

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)

Even around the quiet singing, a pen could be heard scratching against a new page, following the melody of the song, careful strokes casting the words in perfect clarity.

Towards the last word, the snuffer had shut with a little, metal clap, turning out the candle and turning the room dark once more. The chair only barely scraped across the floor as Mementomori stood, a sharp sigh through the nose replacing the pained grunt, as if afraid to break the silence. Soft feet padded along the ground, gait uneven, drawing closer. A single board creaked right by the Tailor just as their bangs were lifted by a warm hand and a light kiss was planted on their forehead.

"Not stupid at all, luv. We'll talk more of it in the morn. Want me to stay with you 'til you get to sleep again?" The voice was soft, loving, low and melodic with the rarely heard tone. The hand lingered in the hair, combing through with a gentle caress, avoiding any tangles with ease.

The last time someone had been this gentle, they'd been gone by the morning. Tenderness like this was... maybe it wasn't supposed to be for them. Maybe they were always going to just scrape by with bits and pieces. Would it hurt less to reject it?

No. Probably not.

"Please. M'sorry," they said, without really knowing why. Their heart hurt. "Just a lil'."

One hand lifted and found the wrist of the hand in their hair. Their grip was loose, but Mori's skin was warm. The contact grounded them.

"You're a good dad. She's lucky."

A soft smile could be heard in their voice as they whispered: "Can't you be lucky, too?"

The wrist in the Tailor's light hold shifted until it became a hand, thumb rubbing along the back of the Tailor's. It angled down with a tight, then relieved sigh. He sat on the floor, back up against the loveseat, hand still in hand. "Sleep, luv, I'll stay. Hours're short 'til morn."

A squeeze, a promise repeated. "I'll stay..."

Can't you be lucky, too?

("I'm sorry. I thought you were someone else." The Garden's not for you.)

No. They couldn't. A lifetime said so. But they were too tired to want to argue the matter, so they let it be. Swallowing the emotion lodged in their throat, the Tailor returned the squeeze and tried to sleep, and when they finally did, they didn't have any dreams they would remember.

The morning didn't start with a sunrise, not that the Tailor would expect one, nor did it start with a cockerel crow or the smell of breakfast or the tittering of birds. It started, as not many things do, with a stoat biting the Tailor's nose in her sleep. Somewhere between a nibble and a chomp, her teeth sunk into them from where the rest of her body laid across their eyes.

There was another cut off shout, and a hand snapped from where it lay to grab the stoat and wrench it free out of instinct. She did not get thrown across the room, but it was a near damn thing.

The wrenching did mean, unfortunately, that the process was probably a little more painful than it needed to be. Blood beaded from the spot, and the Tailor scowled at the sleepy little beast that they now held in the air.

"You," they said, voice thick with tired irritation, "have a biting problem. D'you know that?"

Tularemia was so very sleepy, barely able to open her eyes. She gave a wide yawn, showing off the tiny, offending teeth, and licked, ending in her tongue sticking out just a tad. She squinted, bleary and still mostly asleep. How could you blame such a small beastie?

It was, however, morning, as evidenced by the brightening glow of the lamps outside and the lazily awakening bustle of the city.

And the Tailor's other hand was empty.

Grumbling, the Tailor set the offending creature back on their chest and thumbed the spot of pain. They examined the smear of blood on their thumb and then stuck it in their mouth, and glanced round the room. Their hand clenched and unclenched, empty, and they tried not to take it to heart. They usually woke up alone anyway.

Well. It was free, so they took the opportunity to prop their elbow on the cushion and try to pull themself out of the sinking plush trap. It was a better angle to take in their surroundings.

"M...Mori?"

No response. The dust motes in the air danced in the lamplight, swirling undisturbed and gracefully around each other. Silence was the only thing to greet the Tailor. Silence and the warmth of a new morning.

SNOOOOOORE!

... Or just the warmth of a new morning. The noise was profuse and almost loud enough to wake the dead, perhaps an evolutionary method of scaring predators from young.

No one could accuse the Tailor of jumping from the noise, because it certainly didn't happen and if Tularemia saw otherwise, well, she was a stoat and nobody was going to get a word out of her about it.

Clearing their throat, the Tailor sat upright fully, trying to slow their suddenly racing heart. Goodness, what a sound. What a snore! But where was its source, anyway? Had they made it back to the lounge seat at all?

Enoch absolutely could, but they wouldn't tell a soul. Tularemia, grumpy as she was, moved to perch in the Tailor's hair again, sleeping making it more nest-like than before.

The sitting room was empty, it would seem, but the snore had been so loud and so close. Perhaps if the Tailor rose to investigate? Perhaps they weren't looking at the lounge close enough and the overly opulent Socialite had blended into the overly opulent chaise lounge like camouflage.

Hm.

Careful of the mustelid on their head, the Tailor leaned over and double-checked the floor. Where Mori had been last they'd spoken.

You know. Just to be cautious.

Caution is duly rewarded, as the Morbid Socialite himself was right there, half curled on the floor under the loveseat, one hand held behind him in a way that could really only be possible, if it had previously been held up vertically and simply fell. Had the Tailor followed instinct, they would have surely stepped on him.

As it were, Mori was unstepped-on and very much still asleep. Another, somewhat quieter snore stuttered out as he breathed. That would be the source of the noise, then.

Yep. That's what they figured. Poor idiot was going to be stiff as all hell when they woke up. The Tailor clicked their tongue lightly. He hadn't needed to do that.

With an abundance of caution, and a grace that came from years of roof-hopping, they folded their limbs over the side of the loveseat and climbed over it near-silently. Their socks made no noise on the wooden floor, at least, but even still they were cautious about where they settled their weight to prevent creaking.

They were... a little stiff, from sleeping in their layers, but they would manage. They stretched, popped their neck, and then examined the sleeping fool.

Mori would probably wake up if they tried to move him. They might have been able to carry them, the Tailor was stronger than they may have looked, but the jostling? Wouldn't be good for the injuries, at the very least.

They settled for pulling the blanket free from the loveseat, and settling it gently on the body on the floor. It wasn't much. They knew it wasn't.

Hm. What to do...

Their eyes scanned the room, across the writing desk and the chest, over the armchair and the bookshelf and the lounge sofa. They gave a swift nod, mind made up, and got to it.

Mori slept for a good while afterwards, doomed to a stuff back and knees from their twisted position. Eventually, though, sleep ran out and the snoring stopped.

With a groan, Mori stirred, slowly coming out of sleep. If anything was happening, it would be best to finish up before Mori awoke fully.

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