( They are tired, both tired, rags of themselves, mildew. Drips and drops and burdened.

He should not honour their exhaustion with the fever of his discontent. Should not show the glint of his fangs, the ugly bite of his impatience. Should not answer cruelty with malice, bitterness with ginseng. They are — separate from their instincts. Polished.

At the bridge of his back, his fists curl, lower lip raked under his teeth. He breathes out. )

Yes. ( What now? )