03-05-2022, 10:55 PM
[[CW: Zechariah has opted to fully return to the closet and it shows.]]
He loved and hated Nesah because she had his foibles, but was younger. Less experienced. Still brutalized him with her words, but no harder than he already had the callous for (usually).
Ruth, however. Ruth. Ruth had an entire book that shared a name with her, and it showed.
The letter that she had so graciously sent Zechariah at the last damned minute had, too, been opened mere minutes ago. It had arrived some time that morning, and with it a sense of dread. Thank God Nesah was still off frolicking in Paris, doing God knew what. (Probably things Zechariah would be jealous of, right up until the moment he remembered the torture that was other people – usually about thirty seconds before potential coitus).
So, with a frantic word to Mr. Benjamin to fire up the stove for no reason in the summer, and then instructions to serve something Parisian, Zechariah found himself having a staring contest with his more vivid suits before remembering his vow to not look too openly homosexual.
Drab brown suit it was, like the only thing getting sucked in Whitby was the color out of everything. Zechariah arrived at the train station an hour later, feeling his face self-consciously (for she had interrupted his second scheduled shave of the day! How dare she!) before stepping out. He looked about as thrilled as he had for years now: not, not even in the slightest. Was it the red hair, their maternal grandmother’s side burning out her scalp? Was that what made her such a mad, fickle thing?
Ah. There was a flash of red. Where was she hiding the rest of her baggage? If he just stared, would that will her back into the ether from which she’d burst?
No. He’d tried that one already, and so he approached.
“Ruth,” he said. “What an unexpected surprise!”
He glanced around pointedly in search of an escort or servant, then made a big show of spinning his hands as though that would summon up her entourage before frowning, dramatically, and finally taking a bag in hand.
“Where are the rest of your belongings?”
If he knew anything, it was that Ruth rarely packed in half-measures. He knew that from how his back usually felt after “visits” (truly, he suspected them attempted move-ins from her and Nesah both) to London.
He loved and hated Nesah because she had his foibles, but was younger. Less experienced. Still brutalized him with her words, but no harder than he already had the callous for (usually).
Ruth, however. Ruth. Ruth had an entire book that shared a name with her, and it showed.
The letter that she had so graciously sent Zechariah at the last damned minute had, too, been opened mere minutes ago. It had arrived some time that morning, and with it a sense of dread. Thank God Nesah was still off frolicking in Paris, doing God knew what. (Probably things Zechariah would be jealous of, right up until the moment he remembered the torture that was other people – usually about thirty seconds before potential coitus).
So, with a frantic word to Mr. Benjamin to fire up the stove for no reason in the summer, and then instructions to serve something Parisian, Zechariah found himself having a staring contest with his more vivid suits before remembering his vow to not look too openly homosexual.
Drab brown suit it was, like the only thing getting sucked in Whitby was the color out of everything. Zechariah arrived at the train station an hour later, feeling his face self-consciously (for she had interrupted his second scheduled shave of the day! How dare she!) before stepping out. He looked about as thrilled as he had for years now: not, not even in the slightest. Was it the red hair, their maternal grandmother’s side burning out her scalp? Was that what made her such a mad, fickle thing?
Ah. There was a flash of red. Where was she hiding the rest of her baggage? If he just stared, would that will her back into the ether from which she’d burst?
No. He’d tried that one already, and so he approached.
“Ruth,” he said. “What an unexpected surprise!”
He glanced around pointedly in search of an escort or servant, then made a big show of spinning his hands as though that would summon up her entourage before frowning, dramatically, and finally taking a bag in hand.
“Where are the rest of your belongings?”
If he knew anything, it was that Ruth rarely packed in half-measures. He knew that from how his back usually felt after “visits” (truly, he suspected them attempted move-ins from her and Nesah both) to London.
