Motes — 2362

Motes played.

Tonight, she played hard. It was a Big Motes night. It was a human night. It was a grown up night. It was a night for hovering somewhere between twenty and twenty-five. It was a night for standing as tall as Beholden, as tall as so many of the other Odists, yet far more lithe. Tonight, she dressed up in her finest crepe-cotton blouse and gauzy skirt, and she braided for herself a fresh crown of flowers — marigolds, this time — grown by Beckoning and Muse, A Finger Pointing and Beholden’s long-lived up-tree instances A Finger Curled and Beholden To The Music Of The Spheres.

Tonight, Motes played in hedonism. A night at a restaurant out on the town, where she stuffed herself with two Chicago-style hot dogs. “Drag them through the garden!” She laughed — and she was always laughing. “Everything but the ketchup!” A night when she ate all of her fries, and even mopped up the last of the fry sauce with a fingertip.

Tonight, she played drunk: a beer with the dogs, drinks made fizzy with champagne and sweet with floral liqueurs at a pop-up bar, then fruity drinks served in tall glasses with taller straws at the venue before the headliner started, the thump of the bass from the opener echoing up through her feet, pressing at her chest, leaving a warmth in her belly that verged on sensual. Tonight, between sets or whenever she felt like she needed a break, she would waft back to the bar and order a vodka soda or some other ridiculous drink meant more to hydrate than taste good.

Tonight, Motes played as hard as ever, letting that warmth that was building low in her belly be her guide as she latched onto a dancing partner, a solidly built mustelid of some sort — an otter? A mink? — who wound his way through the crowd in a fluid motion that was dancelike even when the music had stopped. It was a night for letting him dance closer and closer as the sets progressed, a night for letting him press a pill to her lips and beneath her tongue. It was a night for letting him push his whiskery muzzle up beneath her chin, letting him show her just how sharp his teeth were against her throat, for pressing close enough to feel just how thoroughly he shared in her excitement.

Tonight, she let him take her home. Tonight she let him pin her to the bed, paw on her shoulder and teeth on her throat. Tonight, she let him draw blood.

And then it was a night for sitting on his balcony and talking while the waves of whatever drug he’d given her continued to roll through her in languid pulses. “It is like someone is brushing the underside of my skin with satin in the best possible way,” she said, and he laughed.

They sat and talked, legs dangling through the bars of the balcony’s railing over an impossibly high drop, her ears filled with the chatter of an impossible myriad of monkeys some balconies over, startled from slumber by their arrival, her eyes filled with the black and gold of an impossible city built into a cylinder. He pointed to a building in the distance down the length of the cylinder, told her how that one was filled all with gardens, all flowers like those in her hair, now crushed lopsidedly from her forgetting to remove the crown when they fucked. He pointed up to the gentle glow in the sky, golden stars made of lights from so many buildings just like this one, told her that the sun here was in a long, thin line, that it turned on slowly from one end to the other so that one could see dawn coming from down the tube, could hear birdsong come on like a wave, and then turned off in the same direction in a linear sunset. He pointed from one end of the cylinder to another, the bounding walls marked by arcane symbols in neon, and explained that nearly a quarter of a billion people called this home, then laughed as she asked, “How many do you think are fucking right now?”

They added one more to that number before they slept.

And in the morning, she woke pressed against him, limbs all wrapped together and the satiny subdermal waves of sensation still lingering. She dismissed it easily and slowly disentangled herself from the still sleeping mink — fisher? — and started to pull stuff from the exchange for breakfast. Cold, cured meats and fish. Cold cheeses. Cold vegetables, fresh and pickled. Dense, nutty bread. Small pastries.

They sat on the balcony once more, out in the bright sun, and ate their breakfast together, talking of only the small things.

“Is this the type of thing where I get to know your name?” he asked at one point.

She leaned over to kiss his cheek and smiled dreamily. “Nope.”

After breakfast: a shared shower, a few minutes of comfortable silence, a promise to never see each other again, a kiss, and one last piercing bite to the shoulder “for luck”, leaving fresh stains of red on her blouse to join the ones from the night before.

With that, she stepped back to the theatre. It was early yet and there were no performances, but she hoped that there would be someone there to greet her, someone there to witness her coming home, disheveled and bloodied, rumpled with bent crown, looking pleased and sated. Play is magnified by being shared, yes, and witnessed. She wanted to be seen, marveled over or doted upon. She wanted her joy to be acknowledged.

Empty foyer.

Empty ticket booths.

Empty auditorium.

Empty stage, but for one skunk, kneeling in the center with a clipboard and script laid out before her in a neat arc, a bank of three different colored highlighters resting in her lap.

Where so many of the skunks of the clade had the stark contrast of black and white fur, hers was the warm brown of cinnamon with the pale cream of white chocolate. Where so many of the other skunks had black noses, black fur fading seamlessly before them, hers was far more pink, more easily seen twitching this way or that at some scent or another. Where so many of her family had long, poetic names, hers remained simple, a remnant of some more complicated past.

Motes traipsed down the long, shallow steps of the auditorium aisles, all but skipping in that long-running afterglow. “Sasha!”

Sasha lifted her head and squinted out into the relative darkness of the rows of seats, grinned, then sat up straighter, brow furrowing. “Motes, Jesus. What the hell happened to you?”

Hiking herself up onto the stage, undignified, she plopped down into a cross-legged sit before Sasha. “A fun night out is what. There was an otter.”

“An otter did that?” Sasha asked, raising a brow.

“Sharp!” she explained, miming fangs with two fingers.

She laughed. “Right, right. I did not know you were into the slinky types,” she said, leaning forward to gently probe at the side of Motes’s neck and shoulder, investigating the shallow puncture wounds that had been left behind. “One of those ‘looks worse than it is’ things, seems like.”

Motes sighed dreamily. “Yeah~”

Sasha snorted. “We are of a type, are we not, dear?”

“Mm? How do you mean?”

“A little bit of pain to spice things up.”

“Or a lot.

“Yes. I believe that might well run in the clade, even if it was not exactly Michelle’s thing.”

Motes nodded. “I do not remember that from phys-side, no.” She paused, head tilted and grin slowly growing on her face as she leaned closer. “Does that mean that you like that too?”

Sasha looked back down to her papers, picking up an already neat stack and racking it against the stage, a transparent attempt to hide a blush or hint of a smile. “It has come up once or twice, yes.”

“Oooh, Sashaaaa~” Motes said, laughing. “But wait, does that come from May, True Name, or E.W.?”

She looked up once more, rolled her eyes. “Can you really picture May being into such pain?”

“Not at all. What about E.W., though?”

“Perhaps,” she replied, thoughtful expression on her face. “There were some times in the past.”

“True Name, then?” Motes said, sounding skeptical.

An eloquent shrug was the reply.

“Well, huh,” she said, grinning still. She could feel the limerence for her form starting to fade, could feel the humanity begin to itch, so she waved the topic away. She had been seen, had been witnessed; that was all she had needed. “But we can talk about that later. I need to re-skunk. I want to keep this shirt, though.”

“Alright, dear. I shall look away.”

Motes shimmied out of the blouse and folded it neatly on the stage before forking into her usual, smaller, soft-furred self once more. Once more, she was clothed in familiar corduroys and a bright blue t-shirt, leaving behind so flower-child a vibe. Younger, as well, back to that comfortable, comforting expression of youth. “Okay,” she said once she was done, rolling around to lay on her belly and poke her snout at one of the piles of paper. “What are you working on, anyway?”

Sasha smiled, tipped her clipboard forward to let the skunk see the stage diagram. “Blocking. Planning. Memorization.”

“Scheming!”

She laughed. “Well, perhaps that as well. Scheming about dinner. Scheming about coming home to Aurel. Scheming and dreaming.”

Motes nodded, carefully turning one of the piles around to read a few lines from the script before setting it back in place. She kicked her legs lazily in the air above her, feeling her tail brush against them. She hummed a tuneless song. It was all part of the ritual of settling back into being a skunk — this engagement with fur, these childlike acts — in leaning intentionally back into her presented age — somewhere around twelve, today.

She was startled back to awareness by Sasha’s voice. “What are you thinking about, little skunk?”

“Mm?”

“You seemed deep in thought.” She smiled affectionately. “Or perhaps blissfully without.”

Motes stuck her tongue out at her. “I was thinking about how I was talking with Dry Grass yester– the day before yesterday. She was telling me about Hammered Silver being a b-word.”

Unexpectedly, Sasha winced, carefully setting down her clipboard with exaggerated care. “Yes. I am sorry, And We Are The Motes In The Stage-Lights,” she said, voice and movements stiff, contrite. “It was never my intent to create such a schism in the clade.”

Pushing herself to hands and knees, she crawled around the piles of script to kneel beside the other skunk and hug around her shoulders. “It is okay. I do not think it is on you,” she said hastily. “Dry Grass said that that was just a…um, a last straw, not even the biggest thing.”

“What did she say was?” Sasha asked quietly, shifting an arm around to hug Motes in turn.

“Me,” she said, shrugging. “Or, well, she also hates me, but the biggest bit was that I call A Finger Pointing ‘Ma’, and that she is with Beholden.”

After nearly a minute of silence, Sasha said, “Years back, centuries ago, Jonas started a project of making intraclade relationships taboo. It was a measured process intended to keep something taboo while the rest of the System settled into a comfortable non-normativity — or even queer-normativity — on most other relationship and identity fronts. It was a bit of discomfort to strive against.” Another pause, and then, “Well, and because he was setting me up with May in the form of Zacharias to gain leverage.”

“Gross.”

“Very gross. I am glad to be quit of him, even if there are times that I miss the work. All of that to say that Hammered Silver bought into that hook, line, and sinker. She truly believed that it is some horrible taboo to get in a relationship — romantic or familial — within one’s own clade.”

“But she is,” Motes protested. “She is in a relationship with Waking World!”

Sasha snorted. “Do not let her hear you say that. She would say that she is not, that it is a partnership, it is two actors playing their parts: she, the mother; him, the father — dad jokes and all. They are roles in a long-running production.” She winked conspiratorially, adding, “Though I am not sure that Waking World would agree with her. I think he very much thinks of himself as her husband, of the both of them as very much in love with each other.”

Motes furrowed her brow in consternation. “She does not make any sense,” she said. “She hates Ma and Bee for dating and hates me for being their daughter and all the others for being my siblings or whatever, and then she marries Waking World?”

“Perhaps her performance is so convincing that she is fooling us all. Perhaps she is simply fooling herself.”

She scoffed. “Probably the second.”

“Almost certainly,” Sasha said, ruffling Motes’s mane affectionately. “But it is fine. I have not spoken with her in more than a decade.”

“I have not in more than a century,” Motes said proudly. “So I win.”

Sasha laughed and turned the ruffling into a noogie. “This is not a competition, Motes,” she chided. “But if it were, then yes, you would win. She has cut off even A Finger Pointing.”

Squeaking and laughing, the skunk sat up, pulling herself away from the knuckles grinding against her scalp. “I thought they were on better terms, though. Ma met with her once in a while, even.”

“When she found out what I had done, Hammered silver cut all contact with the fifth, yes?”

“Mmhm. Did that include Pointillist?”

“Ohhh yes. I think Hammered Silver is more mad with her than any of the rest of the stanza.”

“God,” Motes muttered. “She really does sound like a total b-word.”

“She is a lovely person, in her own way,” Sasha said gently, then added, “Which is a bitch, yes.”

The smaller skunk giggled helplessly, slouching down until she was able to use Sasha’s thigh as a pillow. “Okay, but why does she hate Ma, though? She is, like…the nicest person in the whole world.”

“She really is, at least to us, but she is also uncompromising to her very core. She stood up for herself and Beholden as a couple, she stood up for you as you are, she stood up for your dynamic as a family–” Sasha took a deep breath through gritted teeth. “And she stood up for me — she always has — for which I am endlessly appreciative, and endlessly frustrated that she should have cause to.”

“So Hammered Silver is upset that Ma has principles,” Motes said flatly. “Okay. Got it. Good good, good good good good. Wonderful.”

She laughed. “Yes, apparently. A Finger Pointing had some tense meetings with her early on when it became clear — at least within the clade — that she and Beholden were in a relationship, but that tension became the norm when you started to poke your little snout–” She tapped at Motes’s nose-tip, getting a smile and a chirp. “–out into the world, which led to a tacit agreement that they were essentially just meeting up to collect data on their respective stanzas, and then only when A Finger Pointing agreed not to talk about you.”

Motes fell silent for a long minute, then two, and eventually rolled onto the other side so that she could bury her face against Sasha’s side. “Well, that makes me feel like garbage,” she mumbled.

“Hush, little skunk,” Sasha said gently. “That is between A Finger Pointing and Hammered Silver. A Finger Pointing had to make a tactical decision: maintain contact with the clade, be the glue that binds so many of us together, keep tabs on Hammered Silver and her ilk; or tell Hammered Silver to kick rocks, she was going to talk about her Dot as much as she damn well pleased. Tactically, she chose to agree to not pass on information about you. Strategically, this gained her a better sense of the sixth stanza — and, to a lesser extent, the seventh later on.”

She nodded, pressing her face all the firmer against the stage manager’s belly.

“A Finger Pointing loves you, Motes, deeply and truly. Do not ever forget that. Hammered Silver can absolutely go kick rocks and go suck an egg and go eat coke and any number of other antiquated idioms. Your ma believed that even then, and when Hammered Silver requested that she not speak of you, in that moment, they ceased being friends and became instead polite adversaries.”

“No, I believe that,” Motes said, voice muffled against Sasha’s blouse. “I do not blame her. Hammered Silver put her in a stupid position, so she did what she had to because she has principles.”

“Right, and those principles go beyond just the three of you. She was thinking of Dry Grass, too, yes? And of Waking World and of Fogs The View and of Time Makes Prey, and of all of the other, nicer folks she has spoken to in the sixth stanza on the sly. Many have continued to shun me, which is fine, so be it, they value their relationship with Hammered Silver more than Dry Grass does, but at least they are still talking with A Finger Pointing.”

“Yeah, true. And at least Dry Grass is still here.”

“That she is.” Sasha smiled, nudging Motes on the shoulder. “Now, come. Let us get you home, yes? Get you some food and let you crow about your exploits to anyone who will listen, yes? Show off your blouse, yes?”

“Okaaay~” She sighed dramatically and pushed herself up to her feet. “I had breakfast a bit ago, but I want pizza or a burger or something greasy.”

Sasha laughed, forking another instance to take Motes by the paw, letting her down-tree continue working. “I am sorry that this topic has been nipping at your heels these last few days, little skunk. I have probably shared more than A Finger Pointing may have wished, but she and I will talk, and you will get your pizza or burger or pizza-burger and talk about things at your own pace, dear.”