originallutece | (no subject)

[Urgh. Mmph. She has a point there, at least. It could be worse, though only barely.]

I'll consider it. The notion of fending off questions regarding the state of my hair and eyes, constantly, doesn't sound very pleasing to me.

Tell me about your poor student.

Poor Sena. Sena, whom I'm very fond of but who values his looks dearly-- though considering he's a model, perhaps that's understandable.

[Sena, the bomb boy. Will she ever let that go? Probably not. ]

He went from black hair to grey, all in one night, and texted me in hysterics (though he didn't mean to; we rather exchanged a slew of unintended texts last month), and eventually asked for a day off.

A sign of my fondness: I gave it to him.

Oh, Rosalind. You're going soft.

[A sign of his mood getting slightly better. He teases.]

Though it was very nice of you to grant them that leeway. How is he faring with his work now?

He tries harder than any other student in that class. He's allowed a day off. And to his credit, his work never faltered.

I think he's gotten used to it, though. He cringed a little the first day back, but people took it as a fashion statement.

And I assure you that my students will /not/ receive my own hair as a fashion statement. If only I were so fortunate.

Ardyn, /dye it back/ if you hate it so much. I don't know why you and Sena both are so against it; if my hair ever changes, no one will ever know, because I'll have fixed the problem within a few hours.

Because despite what I just told you, you know that isn't really the issue. Since when do I care what other people think?

/I/ liked my hair the way it was before. A proper red. Not "purple", as you would put it. /I/ would know that it's still wrong, and I would also be living with the fact that Retrospec set this change upon me without my wanting it. And yes, I know that I am not the first this has happened to, nor will I be the last. But I dislike it greatly. Just one more feature of that other man that has been forced upon me, and nothing to be done about it.

[There's a little pause, and then:]

I know.

But there's nothing to be done except either ignore it or accept it. And given all we've heard of your other self . . . perhaps ignoring the change might be the easier option. Out of sight, out of mind, that kind of thing.

[That, or it's pushing away the acceptance of the inevitable. That his other self would continue to encroach upon him, even when he's not conscious of it. He'll wake up one day, and what else will have changed?]

It'll be on my mind regardless.

But I appreciate the offer. I may do it, and if I choose to, you'll be the first to know. It'll only be the second time I've ever dyed my hair in my lifetime.

A word to the wise: don't go for the inexpensive option. There are no photographs left from the time my college roommate convinced my to dye my hair brown, and there's a reason for that.

There's nothing I can do for your appearance, but at least I can offer you a distraction. My hideous pet has taken residence in my lap, if you'd like to see him, and naturally my evening is open, if you'd like to get a drink tonight.

How can I resist the offer to spend an evening with a cat and a drink?

Oh, and my friend.

[That's a yes, he'll be there.]

[There's no answer; he knows where she lives and what time she gets home. No, the only reply she gives is to send him a beautiful, wonderful picture.]

[AND WHAT A GLORIOUS PICTURE THAT IS.

In any case, here's Ardyn. Knock knock! When she opens up, he's there to greet her in all of his red-violet headed glory. Bright amber, golden eyes looking at her questioningly, as if just waiting for her to remark upon them in person.]

[Well, she doesn't laugh.

Actually, she looks a little startled when she opens the door. It's one thing to hear about such changes; it's another to see them in person. It's the eyes that startle her the most; his hair is different, but not so much so she can't reconcile her memories with this new vision. But his eyes . . .

Perhaps it's because gold isn't a natural color.

In any case: Rosalind stares for a few seconds, her eyes darting over his face, before she remembers herself and steps back to let him in.]

I'll take your word on it you're being honest about your physique.

[At least she doesn’t laugh.

The staring isn’t unexpected, though he does note that it’s directed more towards his eyes than anything else. Let in, he takes a steps forward and rolls up a sleeve. No coat for him today, because he thought she might ask.]

Of course.

[Even if it’s just his arm, it’s obvious that he’s more muscular than before. There’s a look of strength there, at the very least.]

[Good grief, she thinks, and skims her arm lightly over the skin. There's no real point, it's just instinctive, because right now her thoughts are tumbling over each other. Retrospec is so far beyond what she can explain with science, but still she's ever eager to try, and right now her mind is desperately trying to analyze how one man could gain so much muscle in the course of one evening.

But he's her friend, not a specimen in her lab.]

Between this and the healing, you're a medical marvel, you know.

[She turns, heading for the liquor cabinet.]

I wonder if your tolerance has increased . . . what do you want?

[Good grief indeed. It had been shock at the time, and a part of it is still difficult to wrap his mind around. He feels stronger, of course, though he doesn't feel much different besides that. Grell joked that he could lift heavy things now (as if he couldn't before), but Ardyn has not gone around testing it. Not like Rosalind might have, but he was never of the same mind as her when it came to testing.]

Don't dissect me just yet.

[Eyeing the liquor cabinet after a brief moment, he suggests:] Something very strong. We can find out if my tolerance has increased any, if you like.

[Well. Usually not of the same mind, when it comes to testing.]

[Tequila it is, then. She'll be able to handle one shot, at least, and they can see how he takes two or three. Lime and salt are subsequently produced (the former is quite the marvel; her kitchen is well stocked nowadays thanks to Fawkes).]

Regardless of your tolerance, I think you owe Noctis a drunk call.

[Tequila is perfect, and he's more than ready to feel the buzz (maybe more than a buzz) created from a night of drinking too much hard liquor. He'll speak idly, with humor, already reading the salt at his fingertips.]

You think so? I don't know about giving a student that much ammunition to use against me.

They're oddly reluctant to use it. I don't know if it's because it's we're all bonded thanks to Retrospec or if this current batch is simply kinder than the others, but none of them have been inclined towards using what ammunition has been granted to them.

[Which simply begs the question, of course, and so before he can ask, she downs her first shot. Being tequila, it's a bit of a process (and being tequila, it means she shivers a little as it goes down), and once it's done, she adds:]

Besides. Noctis knows he'd catch hell from me if he tried a stunt like that.

And what makes you so certain he'd not catch hell from me?

[He'll take his own shot while she answers. Salt first, tequila, then lime. It goes down nice and fiery, and he holds back a shudder.]

Because he's my son.

[She pulls a little face at that: wry and a little embarrassed, because she's still not sure how he feels about that.]

Or at least: he views me at a parental figure. Reprimands will be much harsher from me.

[A brow raise; it speaks for quite a bit, that she would readily claim Noctis as her son. But he'll not judge. What's wrong with seeing someone as a parental figure, after all? Nothing.]

What does that make me, then? The eccentric uncle?

[They're supposedly related after all.]

[She shrugs in response to his unspoken surprise.]

He called me Mum. We're committed to this, I suppose. And no, I rather think it makes you his grandfather; you're far too old to be any sibling of mine. You're nearly forty.

[I rather think it makes you his grandfather

you're far too old to be any sibling of mine

you're nearly forty

nearly forty

the betrayal is real.]

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