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Laslow is afraid of heights.
It’s a little embarrassing, sure, but what’s one more fear to add onto the list? It’s an icebreaker. He can imagine himself telling a girl every little thing on the first date. That’s what new couples do, right?
If he thinks hard enough, he can almost see it properly. A beautiful woman across from him with her cheek cradled on a delicate palm. She’d be laughing quietly to herself, because Laslow knows he’s funny.
“My name is Laslow, I like lemon cake with chocolate frosting. That reminds me, I’m not too terrible in the kitchen, didn’t you know? I want to be a dancer, I like herbal teas best. When I was born the weather was so hot my father showed up with a sunburn. There’s not much sunlight here, is there?” He’d say.
His imagination carries him away, as it often does, enough for the woman to have a proper voice now. It sounds a little familiar; soft and sweet. He’s not sure where he’s heard it before. He's an active participant and so is she.
“No, there isn’t.” She replies with a hum into her tea, which hasn’t actually been poured yet but he can forgive his brain for that one mistake. He never was that good of a storyteller. Odin, though… well. That doesn’t bear much thought at all. Besides, she’s talking. Laslow does his best to listen more intently.
She places the cup down, her eyes- which aren’t much of anything, really, he’s not that creative- look up into his and he can feel his thoughts settle a bit more on what she should look like. They’re blue.
Blue eyes seems to deliberate her next statement for a few moments before saying it, like she’s particularly impassioned about the subject.
“I miss it,” she says. “The sun, I mean.”
“You’re not from Nohr?” He asks, actually surprised. Everyone in Nohr is from Nohr, notable exceptions aside. There’s little reason to live there unless you are. The aforementioned lack of sunlight makes it susceptible to famine, but there’s also no proper environment for certain spices to even grow. Non-imported teas are incredibly bland. Granted, he’s a retainer for the crown prince, so he has easier access to the best they have to offer… He’s getting off track again.
He blinks and he sees her face a little clearer once again. She has long eyelashes.
She nods.
“Goodness, no. I thought that would be obvious. I mean, look at me.” She laughs, a little self-deprecating.
“I assure you, my lady, I am,” He says, as if by default. It’s not really true, though, he’s been staring into his cup trying to determine what flavor this blend is for the last minute. Nohrian tea is always some shade of brown or black. He likes to fool himself into thinking he could identify them just from looking. “You’re stunning. It’s hard to look away from a face like that.”
He’s painting a pretty enough picture that he can almost see her lips pull into a small frown at that.
“Well, thank you, but that’s besides the point. I’m just… I don’t belong here. Can’t you see that?” She says, like she really means it.
It’s Laslow’s turn to frown, now.
“Of course you do,” He says, and he hopes it’s reassuring. “Why would you think otherwise?”
In his opinion, this daydream is getting slightly out of hand. It’s hard to organize the facts and keep the whole thing intact. Sometimes he feels like the only time he isn’t scatterbrained is when he’s on the verge of death or while he’s dancing.
“I asked you to look at me, before. Did you really? Are you still looking?” She asks. Her voice is a little different now, a bit more smooth than soft.
This puzzles him even more. Laslow doesn’t like feeling confused. He reckons he should scrap the whole thing and- well, no. A girl needs him, doesn’t she? A girl he made up to pass the time and entertain a silly hypothetical but one that needs him all the same.
He does as he’s told and really, really looks at her.
The only difficult thing about imagining a beautiful woman is that he specifically needs to narrow down traits he finds beautiful. Which is sooo hypocritical of him, he can hear Selena say. I thought all women were your type? And she isn’t entirely wrong.
Both things can be true. All women are beautiful in their own ways, he just… he’s having trouble narrowing down what specifically he likes. He just knows this one has blue eyes. Does that mean he has a type for women with that specific eye color? He doubts it. He can’t recall having seen ones like hers before in Nohr.
He keeps trying to focus, to stop making this about himself, but he’s in his own head and when he’s in his own head everything is always going to be a little bit about him.
He blinks his eyes open, not knowing they were even shut, and finally looks at her.
The result of his imagination mingling with both his thoughts and his feelings: she’s in front of him. And what a sight she is.
She’s got a sharp jawline, a nose that curves up just so. Her lips, which were so blurry before, are thin but not chapped. She’s got bangs that swoop down the bridge of her nose and opposite sides of her face, like she carefully recreated the experience of waking up with your hair just right. She’s got this lovely popped collar that he knows would look dreadful on him because he’s already seen himself wear it. He instinctively looks down just to check it again and he’s right.
He remembers to look back up and their eyes meet again. She really does have nice eyes. She’s not even wearing makeup, her eyelashes are just naturally that long. And of course, they’re that deep blue. He finds himself inching closer in his seat to get a better look, and it should be a little awkward to make eye contact for this long but it’s not.
He barely gets to wonder why before he notices it.
In her right eye, surrounding one of her pupils, is a slightly lighter shade of blue. It’s split in two, shaped like a teardrop and a semicircle that catches the bottom half of the iris like a ring and parts downward. To anyone else, it would seem like a trick of the light. It almost feels like one at first, until he blinks and it’s still there. She’s still staring back at him.
It’s not just a coincidence. The birthright he abandoned is staring him directly in the face and smiling at him. She’s got the brand of the exalt. Why his own mind decided to play such a cruel trick on him, he has no idea. He licks his lips, not aware of his gaping jaw until he shuts it closed. He knows he must look terribly frightened by the way she looks at him.
“What are you afraid of?” She asks, and he feels sick.
He doesn’t know how to answer that. He can’t keep the image up, and doesn't want to look at it anymore. He doesn’t know why he thought of this. He feels like he’s halfway through an epiphany he never wanted to start.
“Heights.” he says, like he doesn’t want to think of another answer, can’t.
—
His eyes snap open for real this time, and he’s staring at nothing. No one’s there. Just Xander’s office and a promise of house arrest until he learns to stop his philandering again, which he never will. There’s nothing particularly interesting about the rug at his feet, even if it costs more than anything he’s ever owned.
He’s moving before he can even process it, over to the vanity in the corner. It’s irritatingly luxurious for a country supposedly on the cusp of annihilation.
He glances in the mirror and meets his own gaze. He doesn’t know what he was searching for.
After all, Laslow’s eyes are brown.