07.03.3013: War of the Roses
Summary: Soleil and Nitrim have a showdown on their past relationship woes and their current tension.
Date: 03 July 2013
Related: None
Soleil Nitrim 


Soleil's Apartments - Palace Towers, Landing
This suite is a dreamy wonderland, a fantasy of deep sea wonders or outer space enigmas. Everything is black. The walls, the modern furniture, the floor, the bed and its linens and curtains. Then in the midst of the black, water tanks, full of strange aquatic creatures from the depths of the Havenite oceans. The light of the room is ultraviolet when on at all, and most of the aquatic creatures glow, or pulse light. One of the tanks actually possesses water that seems to itself glow, the bioluminescence of a thousand microscopic lives. It is altogether a stunning display, some dreamed-up conglomeration of different environments that somehow work in harmony. The haunting sound of water echoing, as if in a deep cave, the reflection of rippling water, bluish upon the walls, the chill of space, the captivating wonder of alien worlds.

The suite includes a luxurious bathroom that extends the aquatic theme, a bedchamber, a study that also serves as a sitting and media room. The only part of the suite that departs from the deep sea and outer space mystery is reached via a winding staircase, which leads to a small terrace with a fairytale-like feel. From there, epic views of Landing can be taken in, along with a wonderful view of the stars above at night.

July 03, 3013

Scanned, frisked, and thoroughly checked over, Nitrim has bypassed all of the security inspections required to get access to Soleil and her chambers. Having heard the news of her relapse, he's come bearing quiet tidings for the woman he's been seen often with in the tabloids. Now it's her turn to face the paparazzi, to the tune of potential drug use. Led to her door by a servant, he stands before it and taps lightly at the door. "Soleil?" He introduces himself. "Soleil…it's Nitrim."

There's a lift that exits directly onto the floor with her suite, and when the door slides open, granting him access, he's met with an eerie and dark world. Gods know where she found her interior decorator. The lady's maid who escorts him leaves him to navigate the rooms, but it's not hard to find Soleil, who is in what appears to be a sort of media room, sitting on something vaguely like a couch. She's dressed in boudoir clothes, which for her is something like a faded tshirt washed into obscene levels of comfort and a skirt of an appropriate length— last night's unannounced visitor got her in trouble with her female chaperone when it was discovered just how short her shorts are. Nitrim's more official visit thus requires a bit more concession on Soleil's part.

She glances up as Nitrim comes in, before speaking to the large viewscreen that dominates a wall, where the figure of someone who is clearly a doctor sits with datapad in an office chair. "He's here, so check in at 20:00 yeah?" she clarifies.

"Yes, lady Soleil, and remember your positive repe—"

Soleil doesn't let him finish, gesturing at the viewscreen so that the entire image dissolves into a view of 3-dimensional space, and the doctor's voice breaks off.

She turns to Nitrim, almost expressionless, and not saying a single word. Now he can see just what the full and unveiled weight of a stare from Soleil will feel like.

The soft carpet of the room crushes gently beneath Nitrim's boots as he meanders towards where Soleil sits. Ignoring her private business with the doctor, he quietly inspects the room as he strolls. Passing a table, he reaches down with his fingertips to drag them over the wood. Even in the strange ultraviolet light that makes the room what it is, he seems comfortable in the dark. He always has been.

As the call comes to an end, he shrugs his heavy coat off of his shoulders and moves to lean against the edge of the table. Sliding on hip onto it, he loops his thumbs into his belt buckle and watches as she dismisses the wall-vid.

The turn of her head is, to him, like the slow rearing of the maw of a dangerous creature setting its sights on its next meal. Their conversation, this conversation, may have been long coming, and the ice water in her stare is something that Nitrim meets with Khourni bravery and unstirred calm.

Nearly a full minute passes. The tension in the room reaches a crescendo before Nitrim opens the negotiations.

"How are you feeling?"

"Not like dealing with bullshit, Nitrim," she replies, her voice cool like the blade of a knife that got left in the ice box. "You keep asking how I am, and I keep not answering, which should make it clear that how I am is none of your concern." She unfolds her legs and rises from the couch, the pleated school-girl skirt falling into place without a single wrinkle or crease. From a well-concealed shelf, she draws a bottle and pours herself something to drink. "I'd offer you something but we're in a dry state here and I am sure you're not into juice." She returns to her seat wit her glass of slightly fizzing purple liquid. "What do you want?"

The Khourni lordling's fingertips tap against his belt buckle, and for just a short moment he looks back to the door from where he came, considering leaving. His lips flatten and a soft sigh escapes from his nose as he looks back to her. In one sharp, final motion he jerks his head upwards to her, as if to greet her again. "Look…Soleil…" He starts, gently pressing the side of his fingertip against his eyelid to quell an itch. "…now that we're working together at some point this cold war's got to end or we're going to end up coming after each other with knives." His hand drops back to his belt buckle, he settles in against the table comfortably again, a wealth of carpet separating the two of them. "I wanted to check up on you and make sure that you're doing okay, and I want to put whatever this nastiness is between us to bed, for the benefit of both of us."

She regards him over her glass, cold and aloof enough to chill a bonfire.

"I can figure things out," she says at last, voice level. "I mean, I can figure out pretty much everything you would say in explanation, if I gave you a chance to explain. 'Things happened I didn't expect. I meant what I told you /when/ I told you it. I care about you, I didn't mean to hurt you. I want to be friends.' Maybe also some, 'It was never gong to work out anyway. We're not good for each other.' I don't think you're stupid enough for 'I can't help that I found someone else' but who knows, I think you are pretty stupid."

She stops to take a long drink, wrinkling her nose at the fizz that creeps up it.

"or maybe you're smart. maybe you figured out some little vassal widow with an army actually did have more to offer you than the lackey of a losing princess. Maybe she's just /precious/ as can be and taught you things you never knew about love. Blah blah blah." Her gaze slices through the room. "None of that matters to me. You fucked with me and that's all. You're the one that leapt on the chance to marry me when you didn't think you had a better chance. I was smart enough at first to be restrained and keep my feelings in check. But then I faltered. So if it makes you feel better I am just as angry at myself as I am at you."

Nitrim's eyebrows lower and his jaw tugs as he clenches his teeth together behind closed lips. Her cold tone, her disrespectful demeanor, her hurt, and her outright anger at him come in the form of a wave of syllables that are a death of a thousand cuts.

"Is that right?" He finally says, his smoke-lined voice filled with an oppositional tone. Sneering, he pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and holds it up in the air to her in the universal look of can I have these in here? before he continues. Without waiting for a reply, he slips one of the cigarettes into the corner of his lip, unlit. It bobs up and down while he fires his return shot.

"So you've got it all figured out then? You know, you must not have paid as good attention as I did to you when we were in each others' minds, because not a fucking one bit of that has anything to do with who I am or how I think. How about this?" He pauses, folding his arms across his chest. "How about you told me no and were putting yourself in danger with Princess Janelle as I was putting you in danger with the Red. How about you sending a fucking call-girl to my rooms but then getting pissed off when something happens that you didn't like? It's bad enough that I sent a widow to pray at the fucking Chantry, Soleil, but what's worse is the mixed fucking signals I get from you. You want to marry me? I offer and you say no. You send me a prostitute? Then get mad that I fucked some other girl." He points to his boot. "I'm not going to tell you that I'm not guilty of being fucked up and difficult but you can't say that either, so don't you dare act like you're the only one that's been constantly banging their head against the brick." Fuck it. He lights the cigarette. "And how dare you act like what happened wasn't genuine. If you want to forget it, fine, but I'm not some fucking predator."

She sets her glass down hard enough to splash liquid, rises, and paces over to Nitrim to natch the cigarette right out of his mouth. "No /smoking/," she says, tone on ice. She carries the cigarette back to her drink and drops it in, where it sizzles only briefly in the remnants of the glass. "Nitrim, I don't care where you put your prick as long as you come out clean afterwards. You do something profound enough with some widow that the people are talking about it, that's not coming out clean. And after I told you no— I told you a lot of other things, didn't I?" She turns to face him.

"Whatever Ariana has told you about me, I don't sleep around. It was a /big deal/, but now I feel like a notch on your belt. I'm not going to be 'one of the girls' you fuck.

She stabs a finger in the air, "And I would have been there for you. I don't know how I could have /possibly/ made it any clearer. You asked me, I told you no, but we talked after that. We talked about trying to make it happen. THAT was where we stood, not in doubt and uncertainty. And it's from tere that you went off and had a relationship so profound that you made some poor widow question her undying love for a corpse. I didn't feel so special to you after that."

Nitrim's lip tugs closed as he holds that slight bit of smoke he got off of the cigarette as she steals it from him. When she turns back around to face him, the edge of his lip opens and a small stream of smoke drifts out. There's only one place for it to go, of course.

"Don't talk about her like that." Nitrim warns, eyes shifting into something more feral. "Just because you're mad at me doesn't mean you get the right to talk about her like that. I did what I did, and like all of the other selfish, stupid things I do I ended up with not one but two women the victim of Hurricane Nitrim. So, please, at least give that, alright?"

Letting out a cleansing breath, Nitrim runs his hands over his face to collect his thoughts. Up and over his head his hands go, leaving a few strands poking awry. His eyes open once more and settle onto hers.

"Ariana didn't tell me anything about you and I never considered you an easy target." Nitrim's voice lowers, trying to rub some understanding into their conversation. "I don't keep notches. I don't keep count. If anything whatever my experiences have been up till the point where you and I were together they were blind, pathetic masochistic things that were no different than the shit I was dropping into my eyes. The damage has been done, Soleil, and I want you to understand that I see this wake of destruction that I leave and I'm trying to do better, because I'm hurting people that I give a fuck about now. I can't do it anymore. I can't. I'm on unfamiliar ground and I've been fighting myself over the wheel. But…you're right. I'm sorry. It's just like I cracked open some fucking box and I don't want to shut it. I need it. My life is in there somewhere. Just…" He sighs, folding his arms once again. "…be as mad at me as you want. If you want to fucking hit me? Hit me. Just don't let your anger at me get in the way of the others we've pulled together."

She watches him, eyes as icy as if they were reflecting glaciers. A long moment passes, full of seconds, each perhaps like little lifetimes. Conceived, born, dying. Lots of them.

"I'll talk about her however I feel like talking about her," she says at last, voice eerily cool. "You exposed her to that. You can fuck around with sex, Nitrim, but you can't fuck around with /feelings/ and hope to keep all the damage contained or directed. You opened a door, then you went and opened another door, and let a fluffy little bunny and a big angry cat out of their cages. It's all well and good to not want the carnage between bunny and cat, to want to bear the blame because you opened the doors, but the consequences aren't really under your control. It's why you don't /do/ things like that in the first place." She turns and settles down on her couch again, draping her arm over toward her glass but remembering it's not really drinkable anymore. She leaves her fingers barely touching it.

"I've never been anyone's significant other but I happen to think I'd make a pretty damn good one. A girl who doesn't mind if her lover sampled the wine at other bars. I just had one requirement— that I was /the/ girl. Not one of them. You should have known that. It's the least that I deserved from you."

Nitrim stares. The patch of skin just beneath his nose tugs in an almost angry sneer, but he stops short of outright gnashing his teeth at her. Instead, he flexes his fingers, leaving the familiar clack-clacking of his rings against each other.

"Yeah, you were a good one." He says flatly, glancing back towards the door, then to his coat. Letting the words float in the air like a body from a hanging noose, he loses the ability to speak in favor of the million conversations he could have with her. The traffic jam inside his head takes over. He reaches for the coat and folds it over his forearm.

"Before you go into battle, be it detox or the Hostile, you have to be prepared to die. You have to know for a fact that you might get run through, smashed, disabled for life. The only way to cope is to envision it and welcome it. As for Devon, Soleil, I didn't know I was fucking with her feelings. I didn't want to get my skull caved against some rock and fuck with yours either. The tabloids took care of all of that for me. All I did when I messaged you was try to mitigate whatever suffering if I didn't make it back." He pauses, shaking his head softly. "I'm sorry that I hurt you. I truly am."

He turns to head for the door. "I'm going to be going to Ignis, to the Pit, to train under Sir Flint. He says I'll find myself through the training with the Ash Legion, and I hope he's right." He looks over his shoulder to her. "You're right about one thing, though, Soleil. You deserved better than you got."

"Before you go into battle, perhaps to die, it's probably not wise to break the heart of someone who would die for you. It's probably not the memory you want to leave her with for the rest of her life."

She shifts, putting a hand to her forehead, then switching it to put the back of her hand there. She takes in a breath, emits it slowly. "I don't know how to cope with you now, Nitrim. I should make you pay, dearly. I could make you feel like scum on water. But that doesn't help me. Really, not much will. So, what you wanted when you came here, I don't know. Friendship's not really something I can give you at this stage. And I can't really wish you and Devon a happy ever after either."

"Devon and I aren't a couple, Soleil, nor are we going to be. It was never discussed. Whatever trouble I've caused the Granthams, or discomfort, I'm going to have to work through with them while I squire for Flint. She's a guide, really, and a friend, and I feel sorry that she misses her husband so much. That's her business, though, not mine to discuss." Nitrim stops near the door, fingers wrapping around the handle. He turns his head back to look to her with a grim expression and a dry, pained smirk.

"Soleil? I just owed you an apology and an explanation. The lashing I got, I deserved. I came because I knew you were in rehab and I wanted to pay my cares. So many people walk into conversations like these to make themselves feel better. I'm not that guy." He turns the door handle and slips one boot outside. "Just take care of yourself. Heal the wounds you've got. Get better. Less razor, more white light. Maybe one of these days you'll call me a friend again, but until then I just wanted you to know I'm not here to fight you, especially where our circle of friends is concerned."

The door closes behind him.

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