Eysin: The Giggling Curtain | Ch. 13B - Vegas-B, Part 2: The Howling Night With Literal Time Fuckery
Comedy on Eros meeting French Existentialism. Hyperreal absurd: fulcrum sorcery and a silent mission, fever dreams of Optimus Prime, the howl, and a gentle un-undressing farewell. (What's chocolate?)
He has locked her hips with effortless fulcrum sorcery she never saw coming.
The last time she tried to move he bit her thigh.
Not gentle.
With the same savage enthusiasm he once unleashed on the marzipan apples.
Teeth claim, punctuation marks on living skin.
She dissolves into whispered, giggling apology:
“Sorry-sorry-sorry-sorry!”
Arkion snarls low, amused, dangerous.
She can’t jerk, can’t escape—can only arch, fists ripping fitted sheets from their corners like she’s trying to tear the bed out of reality itself.
One more rule: in this cabin that’s basically just a bed—the walls are cardboard. They don’t know how crowded the floor is. Crowded enough that this area is filled with someone’s cigarette smoke.
So the idea is to sustain the silence.
No moaning.
She whispers, face wet from tears of suppressed laughter and the wet want that’s just fucking not getting touched at all. Her thighs are trembling. “Come on…”
“Or what,” he whispers against her skin.
He lowers his mouth—hot breath.
Just the faint brush of nose, the ghost of tongue—never quite arriving.
“Come on,” she can’t laugh or the bed will rattle with her movement. So she laughs in long exhales, and whispers in suggestive impatience, “The elephant—is in the room!”
“Elephant?” He chuckles low. “You have no idea.”
Now there’s one impatient growl that’s a shade louder than a whisper:
“At least you had apples to take it out on! Come! On!”
The bedframe answers her impatience with a faint, traitorous nag.
Behind the wall, a chair’s leg scrapes the floor—a shift of weight in the quiet cabin.
He growls—vibration sending sparks. “Apples had it coming.”
“Apple—”
A slow lick drags up the slick heat, getting a taste of her want.
That one shut her up. Only for a second, though. “Appl—”
Another lick—hungrier, deeper—outlasting every shiver.
She comes like a quiet supernova.
Twenty minutes earlier, on the roof…
They are on the roof (the spot that got mentioned earlier).
The view sprawls: armada lights bobbing like fallen stars, mist curling off the waves, a good Alephira joy humming through the air — violet auroras from Eysin’s third ring painting the night in soft, impossible glows.
The bottle is empty.
Arkion pulls out the small wooden box from Tessa. “Wedding gift from Tessa.”
Eysin’s eyes soften. “She was… so beautiful.”
Arkion nods, voice warm. “Every lantern you see light up here. The amber glows, the reds. That’s all her — The Dragon. Incredibly powerful zerker, and she uses it to give warmth and food to anyone who enters and behaves.”
Eysin laughs, delighted. “And she’s Bratka’s wife!”
“Alright,” she says, grinning, “what’s inside?”
“I don’t know, looks like some kind of candy.” He guesses, popping the lid. He sniffs, eyebrows rise: “I think this one is called chocolate.”
“A chocolate?”
They each take one — dark squares, melting slow, forgotten sweetness bursting sideways into whimsy.
Eysin’s eyes go wet with delight. “Wow—”
The third ring joins in: a soft chime, then music swells—drums below twisting into soaring violins (that were never there), weaving through the mist like living threads of pixie dust.
Every soul on every barge hears these sounds this time.
Dancers pause, look up, grin like they’ve been invited to the universe’s punchline.
Right on, Sister. They sing in spontaneous choir, voices twinkling like stars in a fairy tale sky.
Eysin closes her eyes, and then her sight is everywhere.
Little cartoon animals (the most harmless look she could imagine) flicker into view: squirrels scampering across decks, playing pranks—tugging at sails, juggling squid skewers, winking at passersby with big, goofy eyes. Boats sprout eyes, hulls giggling silent as secrets, bobbing like enchanted teacups in a mad tea party.
And as she senses all of it, she feels the warmth of the atmosphere. Somehow it feels the safest place she’s ever been—like a hidden glen where worries melt away.
She hides her face in his chest.
“That hit of chocolate shows no mercy.”
“A gastronomic expansion,” Arkion mutters.
“Gastro-nomic?” She is not familiar with this word.
“Gastronomy… You know?”
Eysin tries to catch her breath from the visions.
“Oh man, I feel like something big is trying to get out.”
“That’s your soul, Sister.”
And then, right on cue:
the loudest, wettest, most unmistakable trumpet blast of a toot that does not sound like a trumpet at all—and it definitely came from one of them.
They freeze.
Then collapse sideways in helpless hiccups of laughter, rolling like kids in a slapstick cartoon gone gloriously wrong.
“If that’s a soul escaping, brother, it’s got timing.”
Arkion deadpans: “Nah, that’s just the marzipan plotting revenge.”
They laugh, helpless.
“The algae tank sent a fax!”
Even the band hears their intense laughter.
The singer leans into his mic, half-laughing:
“And a lovely voice message to the vampires (or pirates, or whatever the fuck you beautiful animals are up there)… please get a—”
Trumpets cut him off, slide into a sudden, heartbreaking saxophone solo that sounds exactly like Alexander—wailing with a melancholy ache that tugs at forgotten sorrows, like a lone wolf under a fading moon.
“Well, say hello to Mister Riot!” Announces the singer, and begins to jam along.
Their laughter calms before the end of the solo, the notes lingering like a bittersweet echo.
This wonderful piece of music even lulls the Alephira back to sleep.
The tune ends on a minor note that makes Arkion’s face go still.
Seriousness looms, a quiet shadow over the joy.
Time is running out.
Arkion checks the box again (out of chocolate) and finds a postcard on the bottom, reads it aloud in the calm, reverent tone reserved for teachers who changed your life:
Forgiveness is beautiful,
but it’s still a transaction.
There’s a place past forgiveness
where you realise nothing ever happened that needs forgiving.
The hurt was real to the dream-character.
To the one who’s awake?
It was Weather.
He folds it, tucks it away.
Silence.
The music has stopped.
No one’s watching.
Someone on the street below mentions something about rain.
Eysin can still taste the sweet chocolate on her lips, and leans closer to Arkion to lick off a small speck of his.
Arkion stops her with a finger on her mouth.
He kisses her neck, instead. Every nerve lights up like a string of lanterns, the melancholy melting into something hotter, hungrier.
His hands move under the black rags: not hurried, just thorough, like a gentleman confirming a lady’s suspicions.
Fabric shifts, bunches, becomes impossible to put back together later.
She decides that is a problem for future Eysin.
He pulls back just enough to murmur against her lips, mock-innocent, voice gravel-rough:
“May I see your panties?”
She snorts, leans back in laughter.
“No way!”
(She is absolutely soaked, and he knows it.)
The curtain on the window just below them directs:
Que: Flash rain and unwrap the rest inside.
A fantastically violent flex of Baltic Sea rain races across the sky above the general region of Sampotree.
Later, back in the cabin…
He shifts with utmost care and peace—takes her legs over his shoulders, lines up.
One unhurried thrust—
the bedframe answers with a scandalous creak.
Eysin’s eyes fly wide.
“Shhhh!”
He pauses, buried deep, grinning down at her with eyes just as wide.
“No—you shh!”
He adjusts—a tiny shift for a better angle.
The bedframe riots:
a long, drawn-out groan like it’s personally offended.
She bites her lip, laughter bubbling. “Come on—”
He thrusts again—trying a different direction to see if the sound persists.
The frame slams back:
CREAK-SLAM-CREAK.
Eysin can’t control her giggles.
He lifts her up and places her in another direction.
The bed rattles and sounds like it’s about to come apart.
She does a world record spanning slow exhale to settle from the oncoming laughter—SNORTS!
“Shh,” he whispers, mock-serious.
Another thrust.
SLAM-CREAK.
He grumbles, not laughing, not complaining,
“360 degrees soundtrack huh.”
She muffles her face in her arm, shoulders shaking.
Every careful thrust earns a new betrayal:
SQUEAL!
And something cracks!
“Ze indignity!”
From the left wall, a smoke-rough voice drifts through—punctuated by the faint drag of a Gauloises and a soft tap of ash.
BANG!
“Ze absurdity of l’existence!”
GROAN!
Jarre-Pierre chuckles low, giving up on trying to read in peace; the creak of his chair shifts closer, followed by a soft knock on the wall.
“I suffer, therefore I creak!”
Eysin’s lips sealed, shoulders shaking harder now—she can hear him listening.
“Shh—” Arkion hisses, voice strained with equal parts desperation and helpless laughter.
Thrust.
SLAM—Crack!
“You shh—” she gasps back, giggling and mortified.
“Ze outrage!”
Thrust.
CREAK-CREAK-BANG.
“Mon Dieu, have mercy on my springs!” A faint cough, another drag.
Arkion nods toward the wall, grinning at the immaculate roast that leaves no choice but to salute the chef.
Eysin slaps a hand on her mouth to keep quiet.
Arkion grumbles in the general direction of the creaking joint, “you wanna take it easy? Let’s take it easy. You want to play it hard? Let’s play it hard.”
The entire floor—pretending to sleep or minding their own business (on beds with far less character)—endures minutes of non-stop, shameless rusted bedframe transforming into Optimus Prime and back in a nightmare loop of creaks, slams, and hypermetallic groans.
Jarre-Pierre on the other side of the wall keeps pace, voice rising from dry observation to full-throated, smoke-rough rapture:
“Comme Sartre piégé dans une machine à laver—
la nausée!
le rythme!
la lutte absurde et magnifique contre le vide!”
A beat. A deep drag. Exhale thick with reluctant admiration.
“C’est ça, l’amour, non?
Brut.
Méchanical.
Divine.”
Then: cliff-fall silence.
Pierre blows a spear of smoke towards the window. Staring into the last rush of the sudden rainstorm outside.
Whuwh!
Arkion’s eyes closed, hushing with one hand, the other lifting her leg off his shoulder in slowmo—
Even the bedframe holds its breath for this moment.
Uncanny silence.
From the other side of the wall a sharp and stern:
“Félicitations!”
SLAM!
They’re both suppressing laughter with everything they’ve got.
Eysin bites into her arm hard. Laughing in violent hiccups.
Arkion as still as a statue, grins and lips form a silent what the fuck?
Eysin pulls him down from his forever-fall and the bedframe gets one final, defiant:
CREAAAAK.
Another sleepy voice, groggy and fond:
“You absolute animals…”
Sylrissa’s giggle leaks through the corridor—laughter bubbling like a happy cup of water—followed by Bartel’s low rumble of approval.
The rain has gone quiet.
Just the odd drip… and droppidy-blop there.
And a bloing, of course!
Descending warmth cradles them.
Minutes drifting to dreams…
Then—
It begins with a gentle, low beat somewhere in the heart of Vegas-B.
A distant howling swells, a nightly ritual picking up steam as more voices join the chord.
Dù-dug, dù-dug, dù-dug, dù-dug…
One voice near the barracks rises above the rest—long, wild, free.
Was that real? She wonders. Or did I fall asleep?
Another howl answers.
Then another.
Right next door, a raw, throaty roar-laugh rips out—hoarse, euphoric, every word punched from the gut like a wolf discovering it can sing opera.
“Ô Seigneur, je suis ici pour en témoigner! AOUUUUU-OOOH!”
Within seconds the entire humble floating district is howling: orphans, pirates, exiles, brothers and sisters who have no other family but this one. Voices weaving into one living chord that rattles windows and makes the lightning pause mid-flash.
Arkion throws his head back and howls with them.
He looks at Eysin, eyes full of moonlit fire. He is ice! But also half-checking if she finds it silly.
She’s amused, delighted, already in love with the ridiculous majesty of it.
“What’s going on?”
“It’s a nightly ritual here.” Arkion pulls her up by her arm, “Howl once and you’ve joined the family.
Howl twice and you lose your ability to ever fear anything again.”
Eysin chuckles, “Every night?”
“Every night we feel like it.”
She howls once: clear, bright, unafraid.
Then, grinning like a fool who just cracked the universe’s password,
she howls twice.
The district roars, voices layering thicker, like they’ve been waiting for the new wolves to complete the chord.
Howl for howl, awoo turns into yahu,
until the entire Vegas-B is one living, laughing chord.
The band below returns to stage, to life, to the show:
horns made of drainpipe, flutes from rain gutters,
a phantom harp strung with lightning,
a ghost organ that runs on watermelon tears and forgiveness.
And they play the song everyone already knows by heart.
The moon belongs to us—yahu!
we guard the archon sleep;
garden apples crunch—yahu!
amber deep and sweet;
pinecone in the bag—yahu!
love’s the glue we keep;
fight for toothless wolves—yahu!
don’t let the oldies weep;
let the children howl for joy —
forgiveness, love, and peace!
The song fades into a lullaby for warriors who know tomorrow might kill them.
We gotchu, we gotchu
Dreaming the dream
Mending the nightmare seams
We gotchu, we gotchu
Awake and free
Sailing the cosmic seas.
*
Much later, when the city has finally gone quiet and even the lightning has taken a cigarette break.
He dresses her with the same hands that undressed her: slow, careful, reverent.
Re-ties every knot he loosened,
smooths every rag he bunched,
kisses every place he bit,
as though putting his lady back together after borrowing her soul for a while.
“It looks like you’re leaving now…”
“I need to catch Alexander before the handover.”
“Seven o’clock,” he murmurs against her temple. “You go with Cassius until you find Gen. She has a job for you, and she’s your way back to Osel. Or you can stay. I’ll find you when it’s over.”
He kisses her once more: soft, final, like sealing something neither of them dares name.
*
A seal unlocks.
Sliding cardboard door hisses open on static hinges
They look at each other over the doorway.
Sliding cardboard door hisses shut on static hinges.
Footsteps fade out.
Then he’s gone.
Silence.
She lies there in the dark, thighs still trembling, heart wide open and strangely unafraid.
“Hey, Jarre-Pierre…”
A warm, muffled voice from the other side: “Encore réveillée?”
Eysin chuckles.
“Could I borrow a cigarette?”
Pierre lets out a soft, fond gackle.
“Désolé, sœurette… je suis à sec.”
A long, uneven exhale turns to almost to a weep, stopped by a sigh.
“This sucks.”
“Oui… Je suis vraiment désolé.”
“Yeah… Thanks.”
*
From every scrap of liberated lace still fluttering somewhere over the Baltic, a single collective sigh rises, warm and utterly shameless:
Next stop: paying a visit to an old friend living in the gigantic golden tree, gluten sabotage, and plans to end the world (or stop it).
The moon is still humming the wedding march. Don’t touch that dial, darlings. The party’s just getting started.
End of Chapter 13.
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