Submission (#6908) Approved

Mo has no qualms with his private estate in Palu’au.

In fact, the low rising veranda spaces and hidden reading bungalows have always been a welcome escape from his relative’s tenacious scheming. Tucked up in the dancing palm trees is a never ending supply of fruit snacks for moments spent alone, waiting for the familial discord to temper.

They always found him one way or another. But watching the sun fall beneath the ocean’s horizon, swallowed up by slowly pulsating waves, induced a calm in him while he waited; one that helped when a maid finally dragged him back inside, or if, gods forbid, his father was the one doing the finding.

But his recent and reluctant trip to Strynhalde and its welcoming frozen winter has made the heat pouring out from every inch of his surroundings absolutely unbearable. The meandering sandy dunes that surround the water’s edge reflect heat and haze alike, and what limited shade the large fronds provide are constantly in flux, casted shadows of chilled relief chased just out of Mo’s reach.

“This sucks.”

Glancing over, Mo watches Yihua lean forward into his book until his head is smeared against the pages. It’s some sort of insipid romance novel–the kind of tragic love story that leaves Mo disgusted, the kind that Yihua has favored and will continue to favor even past this life.

They’re resting in the cloying heat of the main patio on the estate. Just behind them lies a reasonably well-furnished seaside kitchen and dining hall that has mostly only ever seen respected business partners and the immediate family. The memories Mo retains of the space are all tinged with a dark ichor that can’t be washed away.

It’s also one of the only areas completely untouched by the fire that decimated most of the estate a year prior–though he wishes that it wasn’t. He would set the space alight himself if it weren’t for this godforsaken miasma making it impossible to travel.

The stench of it oozes up and around the shoreline. Coconuts and plantains that normally sprout around the entire property with magnificent splendor are shriveled and rotting. They also have a tendency for separating from their weak stems and falling onto unsuspecting ‘nin wandering the grounds, and Mo has been the victim of many a fruit.

Mo glances at the palm tree covering the patio. The melancholic afternoon hangs around his head like a wreath of uncertainty, and he wishes a stray fruit would send him quickly to sleep. Tied to the thick wooden trunk are the pair’s pomu lanterns, decorated lazily a couple weeks ago in various shades of blue and peach. They dip and bob in the gentle breeze, tied together halfway down their cords. Mo’s own lantern was an oval of gold trim and floating pink adornments—pearls, the same kind that are looped around Lihua’s—and the fabric of it is an array of rich, icy blues. Lihua’s is more of a light baby blue, with white lace trailing from top to bottom. The crystals inside are almost identical.

Watching the lanterns is relaxing in a way that Mo doesn’t understand. All he knows is that he’d like to chain Lihua’s skin to his own just as tightly as the cords are tied together. He’s just started to close his eyes when a snap startles him. Lihua slams his book on the wooden flooring with a disgruntled whine.

“That’s it!” The kittom cries, and thrusts his body onto two paws. He throws a quick right hook and uppercut, before kicking out at the tree. “I’m! Bored!!”

There’s a distant curiosity as he watches Lihua cycle through his chaotic energy, casually allowing the stars to align until the cosmic karma the rat has been gathering in the past few hours of blessed silence falls atop his skull from the tree above with a dull klunk!

In the form of a half-rotten coconut, of course.

Sighing, Mo shakes his fur out a bit—resigned to a less peaceful afternoon than he was hoping for. Lihua is still moaning in pain when Mo smoothes a paw over his head, feeling around until he finds a bump.

“Foolish,” Mo murmurs, pressing his lips to the spot. “Come. We will get rid of this restless energy a different way.”

Lihua looks up at Mo with those watery eyes of his, small sniffles of snot draining from his nose. It’s pitiful. The kittom has always felt akin to a small, timid animal that you can’t help but want to cradle in your palms, kept away from the world and its horrors and pains.

Pushing the kittom away, Mo bares his teeth and growls. Just a little bit; enough to get a small eep! out of Lihua.

“What now!?” Lihua cries as Mo chases after him. He circles Lihua like a shark. Mo scents the salty air—burnt wood, tangy seafoam, and his companions earthen, electric musk. Mo pounces. “Ah!”

The two of them whirl around the deck, stepping off into the hot sand and pricking their paw pads on stray shells. They can’t go too far—the miasma is still too prevalent—but the game of tag circles back onto the estate before long.

Lihua’s cottoned onto the fact that Mo is (mostly) just playing around with him. Whenever Mo gets close enough to clench his claws in Lihua’s soft fur, the kittom does that scared-giggle of his and darts away after a moment or so.

Eventually they pass back across the threshold, and Mo gets his arms around Lihua’s waist. The kittom gives another shrill shriek as Mo knocks him down and onto the velvet couch, crashing down on top of him.

They catch their breath like that. It’s not exactly the outing he’d like for it to be, but leaving for Strynhalde and having snowball fights isn’t feasible right now. They’ll both have to settle for expending energy with less enjoyable pursuits. Much like the cleanup of the house will be a workout and a hassle, keeping Mo’s mood from plummeting into abysmal levels is an exercise in and of itself.

“Feel better?” Mo asks, jabbing his elbow into Lihua’s stomach.

He grunts.

“Maybe. Just a little.”

And before Lihua can make any more comments, Mo pulls him back onto his feet. Pushes him to get him moving again, and smiles as Lihua gives him another whine.

Then they’re off again, playing games of tag until the sunlight dies.