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You're bad at asking people things. Situationally you're bad at asking people things. Tis a fact that never ceases to be disgustingly hilarious when you yourself are a never-ending well of burning curiosity and want.
You want, you need, to know everything there is to know about a person. But most especially the people you're…close to.
You want their whole life story. You want the dark secrets and fears that keep them up at night. You want the hopes and dreams that keep them going. You want the things they've never breathed to another soul, the things they swore they'd take to their grave.
You want to dig your nails in and slowly rip it out of them piece by piece til their whole soul is laid up on a pretty silver platter for you. Til you get to the raw, bloodied core of them. Til you know them better than they do.
Nosy.
You're nosy in ways that border on the absurd. Nosy in ways that loop around to embarrassing.
…Maybe it's the degree of want that makes it so difficult. The knowing that you're going to pry a little too far and they'll see the freak you are.
So. You're eternally grateful that the High- Mak- Bachus.
Bachus. His name is Bachus. (his name is Bachus and you are his moirail. his name is Bachus and he does not scare you. his name is Bachus and you do not fear this all to be a grand trap.)(only one of these is truth. but perhaps if you repeat them often enough you can will it to be truth.)
You're eternally grateful that Bachus often takes pity on you.
Either by allowing you in your own meandering backpedaling way to arrive at what you actually want to ask or simply…knowing.
You still aren't sure how he does it. It…unsettles you, admittedly, if you think on it too long. But then again you suppose what rights do you, gods most voyeuristic soldier, have to judge huh?
…you feel as if this is one of the times where he knows.
Part of you wishes he would come out and say it. Pluck the words off your tongue instead of forcing you to spill them yourself.
But no, no you have to sit and stare a hole through him. Picking at your nails, at your arms, in some attempt to settle your racing mind, to get the courage to just get the fucking words out of your fool mouth and-
“I got something on my face, brother?”
…..ohhh he thinks he's real funny don't he?
The smug grin he's leveling your way says yes, he thinks he's an absolute riot, everyone should be oh so delighted to hear his jokes.
The look you're trying to keep restrained says I Cannot With These Fucking Clowns Oh My God.
‘Course you're not fool enough to say it either. Just think it really hard in his direction instead. As if you can beam it directly into his skull (you begin some days to fear it may be too thick for that) while trying to school your expression in the meantime.
Trying be the key word you think. (“... I'm not that obvious.” “..Whatever you say lil man.” “I. I don't like the way you said that?”)
“I have a query.” (“No, really?”) “...That was sarcasm.” (“Yes baby.”) “Hm. Rude. Anyways.”
He's still smiling but it melts into something less smug bastard and much softer. Way he does where he's cognizant of his fangs, tries to keep from flashing too many of em. Muzzle all propped on one paw, book temporarily discarded to fix you with his full attention.
You're torn between conflicting sensations immediately.
Something small, soft and wanting begins to ache in your chest. Something that says you could fall in love with him, pity him proper, in another life. (it isn't fair, to you to him to either of you to use and be used as you are.)
And yet at the same time you immediately want to dig your nails deeper into your skin, tear out the ants that have begun crawling under them. It's too much when he looks at you. When you feel so seen. Disgusting, disgusting, you want him to look away.
It takes more willpower than you'd like to swallow down all those feelings to ask, words near blending together in their rush to leave you, “Can I see you without your paint?”
He goes dreadfully still then, expression one you don't know but dark. And for but a moment you fear you've terribly miscalculated.
Yes you wished your curiosity sated, that was the primary reason for your asking but. But for as bewildering as you find it you know the paint is important. To them and to him most of all.
And you had thought, well, the twins had shown you their bare faces (and Jaekel a touch more than that-) in an astonishing show of trust. And they were your friends (they, they had to be, why else would they- unless this was another ruse- a thing to use against you later in disgust-) so surely it was something to be shared amongst quadrants?
But ohh that was your first mistake; you had thought. You thought of him as a troll first, as a man, as your faux moirail, as an equal to you, instead you trespassed in front of the fucking Ringmaster and-
“Yeah. Yeah, ah, alright love.” His voice almost cracks in its softness, and the way he looks at you..
Hah- hah. You've miscalculated for all the wrong reasons he's- (out of one spiral into the next isn't that fun isn't that fitting in this fucking place you're going to be sick how can he look at you like that- how can he stand to look at you like-) slipping into something more concerned now.
You rush to pretend you can be casual, knowing damn well you're fooling no one, and wave off any worry. “Damn, sorry, you took me, like, off guard for a second there cuz I didn't expect you to say yes. Youuuu must really like me huh?”
“Yeah.”
You don't stumble on the landing when you slip off his stupidly giant bed, and you certainly don't freeze fully deer in the headlights. He responded so calm, so casually you just. You just.
You just remind yourself how to walk again. Hum instead of making a further fool of yourself, clamber up into his lap like you were made to be there. It's getting easier with each time you do it. More familiar. (settles slowly the ache that lives under your skin that you try so hard to ignore.) And it's..kinda cute the way he always goes to help. You've seen what those claws can do but he's so delicate when he touches you.
Only once settled in do you blink up owlishly at him. “...I didn't think this one through. Hm.” (“...ya wanna go to the ablution block?”) “...yes please B-JESUSMOTHEROFFUCK-”
You're all but yowling at him, clinging to Bachus on reflex as he stands up and takes you with him with absolutely no warning beforehand. Oh you immediately hate it. Your feet are too far from the ground, oh god how does he live like this, no wonder you see him on all fours more often you hate it.
You feel rather than hear, for he's determinedly trying to smother it as if a problematic lover, the way he laughs. A deep rumble in your bones, in your teeth.
You sharply tweak the ear you grabbed by accident in your flailing before the shame at your own impulsive audacity catches up with you.
It just makes the rumbling deeper, longer. Fucker.
(god. how does he do that to you? distract you so thoroughly all your fears slowly return to their background static in such a way that you forget where you both stand?)(or maybe its something wrong with you.)
When he sets you on the counter you feel no small amount of relief. …and no small amount of longing to still be held.
As you watch him a small part of y- ohh you fucking hate clowns. You could write an essay on your hate, you could power a small country upon the energy it would produce.
Because he has, what can truly only be described as the world's biggest shit eating grin as he pulls so, so many goddamn handkerchiefs from- he's.
He's not. Wearing sleeves?
Y'know what. Yeah. Okay. Fuckit. This is your life now.
You have a homicidal, you'd argue megalomaniac as well, (possibly genocidal question marks) casteist old clown doing bits at you in his bathroom.
Bits that are not making you laugh. Nope. No siree. Even if you're having to bite your cheeks near bloodied to keep quiet it still counts as not laughing as it just- he just keeps going-
“Okay, fuckin, oh my god enough- enough you maniac, gimme-”
He's definitely laughing, too pleased with himself and your reactions by far. You're rolling your eyes and definitely not smiling. You would argue in any court of law that no one can prove you have a stupid little smile as you dampen one of the stupid cloths with stupid clown makeup remover.
Just like no one can prove you're having to fight the urge to thwap it wetly against his stupid face. To cover up the way his eyes crinkle in the corner, the way his nose scrunches up in a way that's almost cute.
You tamp down the urge, it slowly dying on its own as you lean in, feeling…something as he obligingly leans down. His laughter trailing off, his expression shifting to one you can't read again before his eyes close.
You swallow, press the cloth to his cheek, watch the way he twitches minutely, his breath hitching..and gently drag.
He lets you. Lets you do it again, and again.
Slowly. Gentle but firm enough to remove the paint properly. Sweeping across his cheek, the bridge of his muzzle, up his temple. You're not, you're not taking your time okay? You're not enthralled by the way his breath evens out, the way you slowly reveal grey chitin with darker healed scars.
He's just. He's just giant that's all. And it takes so much time to remove it all even on your own face and of course you're gonna do a good job and-
And.
And you're frowning. Just a little. You swear you've been working at this one patch, and it's doing something because the shade is- ohmygod.
It hits you. With all the force of a truck it hits you, eeking out a wheezing almost pained sound.
The HighBlood has pale little facial marks. On the corners of his mouth, on his muzzle, like some baby goat. More are slowly revealed as he lets you continue. His claws flexing unconsciously against the counter, breath stuttering only when you pause.
You should be more scared about that with the way he's boxed you in.
You can't find it in you to feel afraid in the slightest, when he's got a darker nose, darker eyes and pale under them and ohh you're gonna lose it. Oh. Oh god he's cute. The man gives you nightmares still and he's fucking cute.
God. Damnit.
You will deny to your grave, deny under any interrogation, any further noises you make at this realization.
You will deny to your fucking grave that upon seeing his fully naked face your first reflex is to reach out, to lay your bare palm to his now bare cheek.
He starts at the warmth of you before leaning further into you with a sigh. When his eyes open he blinks slowly, as if in a daze. You'd swear his pupils were somehow blown even wider.
“...you ain't so scary under all that paint, huh? Ain't nearly so scary like this…” You're only half aware when you say it, your thumb moving back and forth in a clumsy unpracticed tempo.
…but it's true. Without that death’s mask looming down at you, even with the scars, he feels…softer. (feels like something you could love feels like something you might oh god oh no oh please-) he feels…
Younger.
He. Is.
No that can't be right, surely he's not- (he's bigger than the other purples you've seen but he doesn't look like the violets- wouldn't be a one to one to one anyway but he-) he can't be.
He's the Grand HighBlood he can't be that young? (all this fucking time you thought-)
“Bachus?” “....hm?” He's still blinking at you slowly, oblivious to your internal screaming match with yourself, ears drooping- (he's got widdle white spots on his ears- you're going to scream and or die.) “How. Old. Are you again? I don't think I ever..asked.”
“Shiiiiit, littlest brother over here making a motherfucker think when he's feelin all nice an chill. Downright cruel and torturous they be to me huh.” He's smiling again, head crooked to the side. “Bout. Hm. Twenty-seven? By your reckoning if I did my math up alright.”
“...”
“...Baby? Jackal…? Lil love you uh- you aight? You're kinda…you're making a face.”
“Bachus. Can you set me on the floor please.”
He obliges, not without a touch of worry, especially as you proceed to silently sit, then lay on the floor.
Roll yourself onto his rug.
And very, oh so calmly, oh so politely even.
Scream into it.
(he's clutching the countertop like a lifeline as he howls with laughter at your ranting, concern quickly mutating into raucous amusement at your own misunderstanding of things.)
(“You thought-”) (“Twenty fucking seven- the whole fucking tiiime-‽”) (“All this time spent thinking me old as shit-”) (“Twenty! Seven! Two! Zero! Seven!”) (“Kinda cavern snatcher you think I am-”) (“We're the same fucking age? They put you in charge of things? When we are the same fucking age? And I don't even trust myself, I wouldn't trust you to do taxes- they are letting some kind of fetus be in charge- that's what's fucking wrong with you you're in your twenties-”)
(“Soooo is now a bad time to tell you that me an JJ went to college together?”)
(“..... I'm Fucking Killing Myself.”) (“Baby no baby waitwaitwait-”) (“I live in a fucking house of snakes and lies run by- release me harlot-”)