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"Are you always this happy?"
It’s irritating. He’s irritating. ‘Most everyone is miserable in the Market, desperate and desolate and degraded, yet here he is, shining like a girandole, like a beacon, radiant and flashy and blinding in his luminescence.
And yet, blinding as he is to look at- how can anyone look away?
Especially when he certainly has no qualms looking at you. Always, always, looking at you. His eyes dart all over your mask, as if trying to decide what part of it to set his eyes upon. Low and lilting, as if the word is unfamiliar, he echoes, "happy?"
"There is absolutely no reason for you to be looking at me like that."
"Like what?" He asks innocently.
Like I look at you, you would say, but you don't. He doesn’t need to know that. He doesn’t need to know a thing about you outside of your deal. Mutually beneficial business partners, that’s all this is, and all it needs to be. So you swallow, feign boredom, and sigh, “you didn’t tell me we have plans today.”
“We don’t. Not official ones, anyway. No business.”
“Can’t I enjoy my day off without- why are you here?”
“Do I need a reason to see you?”
“You, Oleander? Never so much as stroll down the street without reason. Tell me, do you do this for all your assistants, or am I just that special?"
You really do want to know. He flirts with anything that’s got half a pulse and beams his too-bright beacon just by stepping into a room, so you know, you know, you know none of it means anything. Not to him.
And not to you, of course. Obviously.
"I made you some tea," he says, in lieu of an answer, "there are two types of tea leaves, you see- “light teas” and “shade teas”. The former are harvested and processed from bushes exposed to sunlight, so they have to be imported into the Market and tend to cost more, expensive and exotic as they are: Sencha, Bancha, and Tamaryokucha, for example.” You do not know these words, but you nod solemnly anyway. If there's one trait you can't help but enjoy about him, it's his obscure, seemingly random knowledge about every other topic under the sun. “Gyokuro, Kabuse, and Tencha are made from tea plants growing in shade. Darkness puts the plants under stress, and they react to it by taking more nutrients from the soil- much like pressure creates diamonds, yes? This creates a strong, smooth, full flavor- positively decadent. Try it yourself. This special blend is-"
"You’re trying to poison me.” You guess, because why else would he be telling you all this, doing all this? Murder, right? It’s gotta be. “If you're to be rid of me, there's no need for poison: no one would notice I'm gone anyway. Not down here."
"Maybe I was simply being kind."
Snort. "Right."
"My dear, are you implying that I would dispose of you after you have been nothing but useful and loyal to me?"
"Don't say loyal," you mutter grumpily, "makes me sound like a lapdog."
"Would that really be so terrible? You would make a wonderful-"
"Get out of here with your pet play kink, Oleander, or find someone else." You snatch the mug from his (large warm many-ringed) hand. You are not the type to be flustered a mere brush of hands- a whisper of a touch, a simple caress of skin- but if he really did brew a cup of tea just for you- if he'd bought some and instead of only having them for himself, went out of his way to come see you, to share his favorite blending with you, to gift you tea leaves and spend time with you- if he really didn't poison it, if he truly just saw that you've been so tired and worn-down and in need of a pick-me-up lately, then- then-
You watch the steam billow, and it is good, it is pleasant, it is delightful, letting the heat seep into your skin, letting your hands mold around the heavy, painted robin's egg blue mug. Oleander cradles his own mug, too, and he sips at it with all the leisure and lackadaisical manner of a lord, of a noble, so at ease and it is the same ease he had when he killed Lord Valentine, because it doesn't faze him, nothing seems to faze him, not really, not for long, not unless he chooses to permit it to, and there's every chance in the world that, although there's no reason or motive or explanation for why he would kill you- knowing that he could, that he has the capacity and capability and certainly all the men and resources at his fingertips-
And that he might just be immune to whatever innocuous little poison he's slipped you, because he’s an underhanded, deceptive, cheating little-
But this is Oleander. Oleander who you match wit for wit and jab for jab, Oleander who may play the role of amiable friend-to-all but is so clever, hiding behind barricades and fortresses and mounted-high walls so none can ever reach him; Oleander who has proved time and again to be reliable and you can thusly trust-
Whoa, there. Let's not push it.
You look down at the tea, at your mask reflected in it. It swirls in a rich, rosewood color, a vibrant pink found in lavish dresses and pretty jewels and heavy bracelets, the dulcet fragrance flooding your nose, a positively ambrosial aroma making your nose tingle and your mouth water.
How can you help yourself? Overwhelming and comes on too strong and makes it presence known and known well, just like Oleander. So you sip the tea. Let it wash over your taste buds, linger all along your palate, scalding heat slipping smoothly down your throat and warming you right up from the inside out. You take another sip, less hesitant, more savoring of the taste, reveling in the comforting warmth, basking in his beacon light.
You're sure he's smiling under the mask as he watches you- you hear it in the upward lilt and dip of his voice. "Well?"
"I didn't expect you- it - to be so sweet."
"I'm full of surprises."