rehandle | saltburnt inbox

My health and wellbeing is just fine, thank you for asking.

I offered you a way to have what you wanted. But you feel entitled to mindless obedience. Pass.

Silco. You're experimenting with things that you've already identified are capable of altering one's body beyond the quick fix capacity of any modern medical supplement I've heard of. You don't know that you're fine.

I know what sick feels like.

At this point I've gone through withdrawals at least three times, in escalating severity. I suspect those who are deliberately using this might die if they stop abruptly, but could taper to something more managable. Part of the problem is it's difficult to be precise with dosage of a topical cream.

You're fucking with me.

[ He's not. He knows he's not. But he's so incensed that he can't not account for the possibility. ]

This would have been a more pleasant conversation if I was.

Stephen.

You've gone through withdrawals of escalating severity at least three times, you think cold turkey would kill people, you're still using this shit, and you're fine because you're not actively sick right this second.

No.

[ Immediately, violently defensive. ]

Are you listening to what I'm telling you? You need to make sure the clinic has a supply of this drug in the most measurable form you can manage, extra staff for the incoming burden, and at the very least extra saline and — whatever you use to treat epistaxis.

[ Mental notes made, calculations set running, intrigue at knowledge and terminology tucked away, impressed with the assessment of the situation, thoughts already moving to the local clinic staff rotation, to wondering if they'll heed him when he issues a warning, to whether the manor is already as they speak adapting to accommodate pending needed. But all of it goes on the back-burner within the bounds of this conversation, because - ]

I hear you. Do you hear yourself?

How is this any different to the Shimmer you supply me with weekly. I know my own limits.

You tell me you NEED the Shimmer. You have prolonged experience with it, and I have enough involvement in the process of reproduction to have faith that it's as stable as it can be, for what it is.

You don't need this. We don't know what it is, we DO know it's being introduced by the manor at the eventual detriment of everyone using it, and that using yourself as a test subject any further than you already have isn't going to get us any closer to understanding its base components or the consequences of use than observing those who are going to keep using it anyway will.

[ Pause. Wait. ]

Are you addicted?

I don't think it's chemically addictive — those who are concerned with their appearance might find it so, or I suppose avoidance of withdrawal is a kind of addiction. Neither of which apply to me.

And you're right, that there's little more I can learn through applying it.

[ A better reason than just, because I say so. He's considering it now, at least. Judging how much of his resistance is pride, how much is intellectual curiosity, and how much is the whisper of the substance itself promising him perfection. He's a vainer creature than he thinks he is, after all. ]

[ He lets that sit, giving himself a minute for the cloak of obstinance to slip from his own shoulders as it's slipped from Silco's. Starts typing again before it's been so long that he might risk seeming as though he's ignoring him, not looking to start another fight. ]

Sorry. I know I can be abrasive.

I'll help you look for a laboratory. You're right too, it's worth us understanding what we're up against.
Just please stop using yourself as a subject.

[ Sorry and please and he caves instantly. ]

All right.

Your opinion is important to me, you know.

[ Oof. Like a kiss right to the ego. ]

I didn't mean to devalue yours.

It's not that.

I'm concerned you'll presume to have authority over me just because I showed weakness in our more intimate moments. I hate being told what to do. I'd rather roll the dice on this place's impermanent death than be forced into capitulation.

Showed weakness when?

[ He's not sure he's had many less obliging sexual partners in his life, which is proving to be half of the joy. ]

I presume to have authority over any and everyone where my expertise is relevant to the topic at hand. It frustrates me when I'm shut down in situations when I know my experience qualifies me to act or advise decisively, and I'm not kind about making that known. That's on me, the amount of my life I've devoted to my vocations, the extent to which I value my own opinion as a result and the limited time I've spent caring whether or not other people like the way I speak to them over the course of my career.

It had nothing to do with you. Or the sex that we have. Which, by the way, is not a weakness.

Edited ('or indirect' a lie) 2025-01-17 13:14 (UTC)

I see.

[ Not very forthcoming, but he needs to go chew that over a little more. Resist the urge to reflexively start arguing. So there's a pause. ]

All dynamics are a power struggle. With you I lose more frequently than I don't. That's all I meant. But thanks, for explaining.

Are you sure? As I see it, you always equalize pretty quickly. But even if you didn't, it wouldn't make a difference. I'm not in the habit of assuming that winning a game is any kind of reflection on where we stand when we stop playing.

[ Because they have been playing. Playfighting: losing isn't a real loss. Nobody's taking anything from anyone, doing any harm. Passing pleasure back and forth, sex or not, is a gift, not a reflection of standing. Still... ]

It might be something to talk about. If we're going to carry on.

[ The mortifying ordeal of being known aside, things are clearly already more complicated than their easy in person exchanges would suggest. Better they both know where they're coming from. ]

[ He's got just enough ReSculpt in his system that he has to sit with this, too, talk himself down off the ledge of that if. ]

There's a lot we should talk about.

[ Vander's arrival. Jinx's instability — the slow but seismic shifts in their dynamic. Silco's Resculpt findings. Strange's time in that other world. And sure, the sex. ]

Are you free for a meal before my withdrawal starts? If all goes as usual I'll be poor company by tomorrow morning.

Yeah. Let's eat. Out, or something more private?

[ 'Out', like the various options the house has to offer are ever really that.

A strange flare of nerves shares the face of its twin, excitement, and they flip back and forth, unsure which is which for a while. He stifles them both by laying back on his bed. Smiling faintly, breathing deeply, rubbing thumb and finger lightly over closed eyes. The newness of this makes even the prospect of uncomfortable conversation seem appealing, a compliment - sign of mutuality fizzing in his chest. The looming reality of Silco's hopefully final dance with ReSculpt withdrawal doesn't go forgotten, pocketed for later. ]

Privacy. Preferably not my rooms, which have no such thing guaranteed. If you're craving something in particular, I've found the staff are typically willing to go and fetch it.

Mine then. Give me a half hour and I can open a portal.

Do you have a favorite here? If it's going to be a while until you're eating comfortably again, you should make the most of it.

Steak.

[ He still finds it insane that he can just have red meat however he wants it, whenever he wants it. Really, a lot of the food here has been blowing his mind, the one thing he's really been letting himself enjoy, even if he sometimes misses Mystery Kelp Noodles.

Stephen isn't the only one who's a little nervous; Silco has had a minor glow-up and is deeply aware that either Stephen won't approve, or worse, he'll be disappointed when Silco's more haggard features return. He showers, wears a suit, absolutely doesn't moisturise. Smokes a nervous cigar out on the balcony. But he's ready by the time the portal appears. ]

[ Steak it is. He puts in an order with a roaming member of staff before seeing to the rest of getting ready, and by the time the portal winds open, he's waiting in what one might politely call a deconstructed suit: suit trousers, smart shirt with its collar loose, sleeves precisely folded. Business casual wasn't really what he was going for, but a suit jacket (not the one he'd abandoned to its fate at the bar the other night, though that had made a mysterious reappearance later the following day via a polite knock at the door) does at least hang around the back of one of the chairs beside a table that hadn't been there when Silco last was. A nod to the further steps he might've taken if he weren't a. dining in his own room, b. busy organising that room to be a dinner venue suitable for a lesser last supper. And a conversation.

He takes a second once Silco's through to look him over, note the differences in his face forged by this place's latest ploy and file them into curiosity, concern, thoughts of a younger man he never met. Then he smiles his welcome, pulse kicking for a moment as he wrestles past his nerves to lean in, tilt his head and greet him with a kiss to the corner of his mouth. On the side where his eye burns brightest. ]

Food should be up soon.

[ It's not quite hello, but he's already covered that, and he steps aside to sweep an arm with enough drama to try to offset any tension toward where their table waits.

The table itself is just right for two, not too elaborately laid, Stephen trying to strike a balance between Silco's rejection of the house's aesthetic and his own nervous urge to over-prepare. Antique, wood, inlaid with delicate constellations, he's spared the table a cloth and set out only coasters, napkins, cutlery. A bottle of red and a pair of almost artfully worn-in candles make for a muted centrepiece, and he'd banished the suit of armor to the empty adjacent room so the whole thing could nestle safe in the corner where shelves full of books, trinkets, more scattered candles line the walls floor to ceiling. ]

[ The kiss, in particular, takes this from a business meeting to something outside the bounds of Silco's experience. A brush of Stephen's beard, the mingling of their colognes (his own courtesy his Secret Santa, expensive and masculine.) His fingers flex, throat and ears pinkening a little — more obvious now that his skin is pale rather than greying.

He's brought his notes, scribed by hand into a leather-bound book, days and dosages and effects, mapping data onto graphs, three distinct points so the ratio of usage to dangerous side effects and withdrawal symptoms is a clear upward slant. Whether or not Stephen thinks he should have done this, it's done, and maybe there will be something of use in there. He sets that aside, though, for Stephen to peruse later, and takes a seat. He knows they aren't really here to talk about the ReSculpt. ]

This is nice.

[ The compliment is a little stiff, but not insincere; he just feels awkward about exactly how nice it is, this private table for two — for him. He'd wanted privacy for their conversation, overlooked how that would come with intimacy. He shakes out his napkin.]

How've you been?

[ Since they've kinda covered him, and he really would like to know. ]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject