Skyglass: Chapter 8

 MOSS

To top off an exhausting day of shopping, Phoenix made me arrive at the appointed dinner location early, in the fancy new outfit she’d chosen. It wasn’t black, so it made me feel naked and miserable, but I wore it anyway. I owed her for helping out in the grocery store, and figured the least I could do was keep my mouth shut about all her stupid machinations for the night.

In a way, I was relieved. Dinner with Marko meant I got to skip the giant party Phoenix and my bandmates were attending that evening. So I waited on the sidewalk, with my face against a wall, because it was the best line of defense I had; Phoenix had stolen my hat and hooded jacket.

I heard footsteps approach, and then, “Uh, excuse me, but– Moss?”

I turned, raised my brow, and wished I could run for cover. I was so exposed.

Marko had shaven his stubble, and pulled his hair back into a thick plait that looked coppery in the misty green dusk. He wore a collared shirt, the teal bright against his dark skin. It looked a little tight, but then I realized it was probably cut that way, and anyway, Marko was big.

It was then that I realized he was gaping at me. “You look stunning, Moss,” he finally managed. The clothes, I realized. I was going to kill Phoenix.

Tight pants–stupidly cobalt, stupidly not black–with too many pockets in weird places. A soft, woolen long-sleeve shirt that kept threatening to slip off my left shoulder, and a sleek, hoodless jacket. An inverted shelf of oyster mushrooms rough-carved from garnet hung around my neck on a piece of leather, just below my collarbone. My boots were the same, at least–Phoenix had let me keep those. She said they looked edgy, but in a sweet and subtle way, which just so worked because I was taking Marko to Edge.

I grimaced a little, remembering her enthusiasm. It hadn’t seemed…forced, but it had felt too much. Like she was hiding, or burning up on the inside–which she was. Had to be. Considering what had happened.

“Don’t lie,” I said to Marko, and started down the street toward the restaurant’s entrance.

He caught up with me in seconds; I could feel him pleading at me with his eyes. “But I’m not. I mean, for one, it’s nice to see your face. You don’t show it much. And rotting hel, Moss–those pants look really…really good on you.” He cursed and looked away, hands shoved deep into his pockets. “Sorry. I’m making you uncomfortable, and I’m probably the last person you want to hear any of this from.”

“You are making me uncomfortable, but…” I stopped and took in air before continuing. “But if I have to hear such piss, I’d rather it be from you than anyone else.”

“Don’t lie,” he shot back, glancing my way with a wobbly smile. “Anyway, um…what are we doing here?”

I shut my eyes and composed myself. “I’m taking you to dinner,” I said. “I want to apologize. I’ve been terrible, and I want you to know that I don’t hate you. So I’m taking you to Edge.” I opened my eyes and found that Marko was gaping again.

“No,” he said, shaking his head firmly. “You can’t. I’m…I won’t let you. We– Moss, if I had the money, I’d take you here, but…I don’t. And just…no.” He looked at me, skittish, like he didn’t quite get what was going on.

I shrugged. “Phoenix already took care of it. Set it all up without my permission, but–here I am.” I swallowed then, and pulled out the flowers I’d been hiding under my jacket–well, tiny, flowering saplings, really, with their roots still intact so he could plant them later. If he wanted.

To be honest: when I handed them over, and saw the fragile look on Mark’s face, I might’ve melted. Just a little. He took them gently and I swore his hands were shaking. Pisshead, I cursed him. Find someone better for you. Why had he chosen me? How stupid could he be?

“Thank you, Moss.” He met my eyes, then looked away again, tightening his grip around the bouquet. “Can I hug you?”

I just barely kept myself from tensing. “No,” I said. “But…later, maybe.”

Edge was at the heart of one of the giant trees that supported Raith’s green sky–a huge spruce with meditation pods tucked into the knots and coils of its massive roots, occupied day and night by elves. It wasn’t Ickdrizzle, the core-tree of the city, but it was one of the main hubs.

When we reached the spruce’s main entrance–a delicately carved arch cut into the trunk, lit with the light of ancient sunsets–Marko tilted his head back at an agonizing angle, gaped at the dizzying height, then looked back down, jaw a little strained. He reached up like he wanted to run a hand through his hair like he usually did when baffled or stressed, and when he found it wasn’t loose, he rubbed his face instead.

“You gonna be okay?” I asked as we stepped up to the lift that would take us to the restaurant.

“I’m all right,” he answered. “Just don’t like heights.”

Inside, I tried to make sense of the navigation panel, which was supposed to be a three-dimensional map of the tree. It looked more like a pile of broken toothpicks.

“I know. It’s confusing.” Marko prodded a green toothpick somewhere in the middle of the pile. “This one.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You act like you’ve been here before.”

“I have,” he said quietly.

“You have?” I prompted when he didn’t elaborate.

“Yeah, a couple months before we met.” The lift hummed and began to move upward; golden light from the tree’s heartwood warmed the bioplast. Marko had put a hand on the pane to steady himself, but continued, speaking with his eyes closed against the vertigo.

“A guy I once knew took me here. It was nice. We had a good time, and afterward, he told me he’d been sleeping with someone else for a year and wanted to end things between us.” He smiled faintly. “You’re not planning on doing that, are you?”

I snorted. “You got me.” Then, as gently as I could, I asked, “You want to go somewhere else?”

“Nah.” He opened his eyes, brightening as the wood-blur ceased and the lift’s door opened. “I’ve got a couple rotten memories, but the sex that night was good, and the beer excellent, so…” His smile grew broad. “Come on.”

We walked down a short passage bored through the tree’s heartwood to its core. A pair of amber doors set in glass framework separated us from Edge. I held the door open for Marko and made sure our eyes didn’t catch as he thanked me.

“Good evening,” said the host inside, waiting before a huge glass window. Edge had replaced the tree’s center with a giant tube during the restaurant’s construction. At the moment, mist beat and swirled against the crystal; according to Phoenix, the vapor would clear around dinnertime and some sort of performance would begin. I hadn’t bothered asking her what kind of performance, exactly, would occur; I figured I probably didn’t want to know.

After the host introduced us to our waiter, we were led to a private dining room that looked through a window to the tree’s foggy, hollow core. In the middle of the room was a small table set for two, the settings placed side by side so we could look out the window as we ate. A mystifying piss-ton of cutlery, platters, and crystal was strewn across the tabletop. The host took my jacket and hung it over a coat hanger shaped like a highly stylized hemlock, then pulled out our chairs.

“Are you in need of any alterations to tonight’s menu?” the waiter asked.

“Uh…” I glanced at Marko blankly, hoping he knew how these things worked. I’d grown up in the Gut; my family had never gone to places like these.

Mark shrugged and smiled easily. “Let’s just be surprised. It’ll be fun.”

“Fun,” I muttered.

The waiter reflected Marko’s smile and gestured to our table; a list of drinks appeared before us at eye level.

“No beer?” I asked, when the man had left with our order (lemon water for me, coffee–heavy on the cream, no sugar–for Marko).

“Trying to quit.”

I tilted my head at him. I didn’t know you had a problem.

“But,” he added with a quirk of his mouth, “you’re making it really damn hard for me.”

I decided not to ask what he meant by that.

When our waiter returned with the drinks, he paused. “Before I leave you to enjoy your liquids, the morning staff has asked me to inquire about your breakfasting time, and whether you had any special requests.”

I threw another glance at Marko, this one iron and sharp. When Mark caught my expression, he looked surprised. He cursed and rubbed his face again.

“She didn’t tell you, did she?”

What the rot was going on? “No, she didn’t,” I said tersely.

“Um, we’ll let you know,” Marko told the waiter, who canted his head and left us.

“Breakfast?” I repeated.

Marko exhaled slowly. “Yeah. A night at Edge is kinda…an overnight thing. See that door there?” He pointed to a sliding panel. “There’s a bedroom and a bath behind it.” He looked aside, shaking his head. “Gods dammit, I can’t believe Phoenix didn’t tell you.”

“Why didn’t you say something?” I asked.

“I thought…maybe you knew? But I–I wasn’t–”

“Oh?” I sneered. “And what did you expect was going to happen? Because us sleeping together is such a normal occurrence.” I knew I needed to calm down, that this wasn’t his fault, but going with him to dinner at this place was terrifying enough. I wasn’t sure I could handle anything more. “Maybe Phoenix was right–you want in me, and all you need is the opportunity.”

Marko looked crestfallen. “I’m not expecting you…” he mumbled. “I would never…”

I bent my head and stared at my hands, clammy and clenched below the table, wishing for my hood or a sudden power failure–anything to hide me. Marko rose while I kept my head down.

“I’ll be right back.” His voice sounded cheerful, but thick.

I wanted to say, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, don’t go. Please. I couldn’t get the words out.

I heard two doors open in succession, then the second one shut. Water running. I shifted my head. The panel was open; I could see the huge bed inside, and the closed bathroom door beyond it.

I grimaced and moved to the window. The water was still on when our waiter arrived with our food. I watched his reflection in the glass, beyond which the mists were dwindling, gradually resolving into a huge platform and shapes that looked vaguely humanoid.

“Enjoy,” the waiter said to my back. “The show will begin momentarily.”

I stared through his retreating image, and focused on the people on the platform. I counted three of them–lush, their nakedness doused in soul-paint. One was marked all over with life cycles: seed-sprout-seedling-plant-decay, over and over again. The other two showed frantic weather patterns.

In the bathroom, the water ceased. The door opened and Marko’s careful tread approached.

“Do you want me to go?” he asked.

“Of course not.” I faced him, trying to keep my expression muted. “I can’t eat all this piss on my own. Can’t eat any of it.”

We sat. I drank as much of my water as slowly as I could without seeming weird or evasive. The performers on the platform were beginning a painful-looking dance of contortion that was probably supposed to be sensual. A minute passed; neither of us had touched our food. I knew I had to say something.

“I’m sorry.” I grimaced. “All this was supposed to show my gratitude. But instead, I’ve just pissed on you.”

“I pissed on you,” Marko said, shaking his head. “I should never have said anything that night. I knew you’d want nothing to do with my feelings for you, and yet I–”

“I told you I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” I snapped. “You loving me isn’t bad–it’s just a waste.”

“You’re not a waste.”

“I wonder sometimes,” I said, poking at the chthonic food on my plate.

“Don’t say that.”

“My parents thought I wasn’t worth it,” I answered flatly. “And my existence is so unstable and meaningless that a complete stranger took over my apartment. As if I wasn’t real. And I let her!”

Marko nudged a fork toward me. “Let’s eat,” he said softly.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Come on, Moss. I’m stupid, yeah, but…I’m not oblivious.” He pinched up a blue-veined vegetable and offered it to me. “My hands are clean. I promise.”

I frowned, my bitterness mellowing into something closer to regret. He’d probably spent the past ten minutes washing tearstains from his face–of course his hands were clean. I relieved him of the blue thing, stuck it in my mouth, and tried my best not to moan. I’d put the food in my mouth to keep him happy, to apologize, but this wasn’t penance–it was rotting bliss.

“Good?” he asked, taking one for himself. “Gods damn. Here, try this.”

His next offering was some sort of crusty dumpling, which I tasted after a moment’s hesitation, and then a bite of savory hazel cake smeared with rosemary caramel. Self-loathing and nausea built as I ate, but I didn’t want to mess up the evening any more than I already had. I kept my attention on the dancers to distract myself from guilt. They were engaging in a series of rather obscene and acrobatic activities.

Marko put a morsel of glassfish on my plate. When I ignored it–I hated the slimy texture of fish meat–he tried a slice of roasted sunchoke. I ate it with a sigh. At least he wasn’t trying to stuff me. I could handle little bites.

“So, um…” he began. “Just so you know. When our waiter comes back, he’ll probably ask if we want dessert in the bedroom. The view’s better in there, and the dessert they make here is kinda…intimate. Chocolate aphrodisiacs and…stuff…” He fiddled nervously with his fork.

I almost told him we should skip and go home, but I knew he liked dessert, and I didn’t want to disappoint him–and, to be honest, I liked dessert, too. If I was going to be stupid and ruinous, then I might as well do it with chocolate.

One of the performers had foxgloves painted on their belly now, and their partner’s face buried deep in their crotch. Strangely, the scene didn’t make me uncomfortable–despite the fact that it reminded me of a disastrous incident with my second girlfriend. I slid my gaze back to Marko.

“You won’t try anything weird?” I asked.

He shook his head solemnly. “Never,” he said, voice quiet.

I wasn’t sure what he would be like (what I would be like), strung out on chocolate-covered sex drugs, but I decided to believe him. His actions had never scared me–just his words. His terrifying confessions.

“Can we…not talk during this?” I requested.

“Okay.”

“I mean it. No talking. Just, um…” I gestured to the food on the table, but vaguely; I kept looking back at the twining, distracting performers. “Keep your mouth full with other stuff.”

He stared at me for a second, a weird flush to his face.

“Okay,” he said again, quieter this time.

So we moved to the bedroom, and began to eat our dessert of candied honeysuckle and chocolate-covered rose petals, while the trio of performers fucked in the tree’s heart.

Continued in Chapter 9.

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