Eysin: The Giggling Curtain | Ch. 6 - Marzipan Apples and the Deer That Heard Too Much

Never mind the backdrop - time for a bit of eros & comedy. A sage blunt, apples so sweet they should be banned in twelve religions, beauty that extorts yells and one dow in urgent need of therapy.

Dec 22, 2025

Noon.

Sun high, not a cloud. Marzipan apples glow like pink lanterns.

They walk the orchard path, boots wet from melted frost, air crisp enough to bite the lungs.

Cuckoos call from somewhere lazy. Late flowers nod in the fields. A single doe lifts her head on the horizon, decides they’re harmless, goes back to grazing.

Eysin feels different today.

Looser. Warmer. Her body moving with a softer sway under the rags, jokes landing sharper, laugh quicker.

“Careful with that branch,” she says when he ducks under low-hanging fruit. “Wouldn’t want anything getting bruised.”

Arkion blinks. “The apples?”

“Sure. The apples.”

He has no idea what she means. Appreciates the feint—the way her eyes flick, testing.

After he steadies her over a slippery stone bridging a creek, Arkion pulls a small blunt from his pocket.

“Need to stay polite,” he mutters, lighting it mostly to give his hands something holy to do.

He offers. “Just sage.”

One slow drag—lips to fingers, smoke curling between them like incense.

It turns the silence sacred: the space between them, the path, the fence, the old overgrown garden.

They find an ancient wooden bench beneath the biggest marzipan tree and sit.

He picked the apples. Now they share.

Eysin is down to the core, hesitates.

Arkion: “Eat it all or hand it over.”

She hands it over, curious.

He eats core, seeds, stem, everything, chewing with calm.

Eysin: “You ate the seeds?”

Arkion deadpan: “Gonna plant one in the greenhouse. With my own special fertilizer.”

A beat.

From the abandoned farmhouse behind them a lace curtain explodes into helpless laughter, followed by sarcastic slow-clap applause that rattles the broken windows.

After a stretch of quiet—just breeze and distant cuckoos—Arkion notices she’s watching him.

“Something on your mind?”

Eysin smiles. “Yeah.”

She grins, laughs at her lap.

Arkion’s smug: “What?”

Eysin plucks the crispest apple from his lap, turns toward the farmhouse, bites in.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs, half to himself.

Eysin catches it—smiles softer, eyes dancing as she pretends she didn’t. “What?”

Arkion takes the biggest, ripest apple he can reach, bites half off in one savage crunch.

The sweetness hits furnace-hot.

She’s flushed. She’s glowing. She’s stealing apples from my lap like it’s foreplay. She’s making jokes about bruising things and I’m pretty sure she means my self-control.

I could just pull her onto this bench. Right here. Under the tree. Eat her like I’m eating this apple. She’d taste like marzipan and mercy.

…But she’s still testing. Still waiting for me to prove I won’t take.

…I’m going to combust. I’m going to turn into a pile of horny ash right here on this bench.

…Yell at the deer. Yell at the deer right now or I’m going to do something stupid.

He turns toward the deer on the horizon and yells loud enough to startle birds:

“HOOOOOOO MAN! SOOOO GOOOOOD!”

The deer freezes. Ears swivel.

Decides he’s insane.

Bolts.

Eysin snorts so hard she nearly chokes on apple cider.

Arkion chews furiously, eyes anywhere but her, trying to blame the apple for the wildfire under his ribs.

…Deer’s gone. Good. Now I’m alone with her, the apples, and my rapidly disintegrating willpower.

…This is fine. This is spiritual. I’m a gentleman.

…My dick is filing for divorce.

If he looks at her—flushed and laughing and glowing in the afternoon light—he’s going to do something.

Ask why she wanted to come here.

Ask what she dreamed about.

Close the space and find out if her mouth tastes like marzipan and mercy.

A breath.

He looks at the horizon instead.

Counts to ten.

Still wants to die a little.

The want surges—bright, sweet, unbearable. Sage lingers on his tongue, softening the edges, but it can’t blur the memory: her gentle moan in sleep back at the watchtower, the goodbye kiss that tasted like promise, her flush mirroring marzipan pink.

He lets it pass like wind through tall grass.

Just the softest surrender to the stillness beneath—the permanent field where everything temporary happens.

Eysin watches the shift in his shoulders, the way his fingers loosen on the apple stem, the small private curve at the corner of his mouth.

Something in her unclenches.

Arkion looks away, cheeks hot. “We should probably start heading back—before I eat the entire orchard.”

Eysin’s smile falters. Just a flicker.

“Oh.” She looks down at her apple stem. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

Eysin ninjas the last apple from his lap. “Pick the best one for the road—I’ve only got room for one more anyway!”

Arkion pauses mid-reach for the ripest he’d saved. The one stolen—or shared?

He exhales, half-laugh, half-growl. “Okay, you want to stay a little longer? Let’s just fucking stay a little longer.”

He stands abrupt, stalks to the biggest tree, grabs a branch, shakes it with more enthusiasm than necessary. The branch empties.

Eysin watches, amused but alert—like prey spotting sudden movement, deciding if it’s hunt or play.

A hornet buzzes his prize; he slaps it away, muttering.

“So, your bride, huh?” she blurts—voice soft, incredulous, already melting under the weight of how easily he said it.

He’s crouched in the grass, gathering. “You liked that?”—voice absent, obviously grinning, distracted by his haul.

She waits till he heads back, holding three, sits heavy beside her.

“You either told it to Osgar so he wouldn’t hit on me,” she says, eyes dancing, “or you own it.”

Arkion presses his mouth against a new apple—holds it there a second—then spills, rueful grin. “I’ve been looking for an opening this entire time.”

Eysin: “Opening?”

Eyes closed, he holds the apple to his lips without biting yet. “You know… I’m not exactly good at this part.”

She tilts her head, curious.

“What part?”

A small, rueful laugh. “Approaching you. Do I approach you?” He watches his new apple from a bit further, twisting it in sunlight.

Eysin chuckles to hide feeling lost. “Was there an opening back then?”

“Back when?” Arkion is ready for any anwer. Or so he thinks.

“Before you left? When you kissed me?”

Something fresh falls like rain on them.

Arkion bites into the apple.

If he pushes now, she’ll bolt like that deer.

Eysin fidgets with the apple stem, twisting it like a worry she can’t name, and whispers, “In any case—I guess I just wanted to say I don’t like the sound of heading back.”

Arkion hears. Agrees. Hesitates.

Swallows the apple.

Takes the leap.

“Or.” He clears his throat. “We could stay at the lighthouse. Might be just us. Might not. Up to you.”

Eysin blinks.

“The lighthouse?”

“Yeah. People use it for retreats. You know—Parties. Private time. Gets pretty funky sometimes, so no pressure if—”

“Okay.”

It comes out too fast—surprising even her.

Arkion spots the astonishment, leans in closer. “Seriously. Yeah?”

She looks aside, takes a breath. Looks back.

“Yeah.”

He leans back, relaxes a fraction, a full smile breaking. “Yeah.”

A pause.

Then Eysin shifts on the bench, turns, throws herself at him.

Arms around his neck, face buried in his shoulder.

She holds her breath.

“Okay?” he whispers.

She keeps still, hidden.

Terrified.

Then his arms come up, solid and warm, and he pulls her in close.

Now there’s support.

She breathes.

Relaxes a little.

His heartbeat is steady against her cheek, a rhythm she’s only ever heard in dreams until now.

He tilts his head back.

Sees sunlight play in the leaves above.

Hornets come and go…

The air is cool…

He lets his eyelids feel it.

Her held warmth is precious, her breath syncing to some distant sea rhythm he feels in his chest…

So calm…

Drifting… minutes bleeding into dreams…

And wakes with a deep inhale when she rustles, swatting:

“Fuck! Ants! Everywhere!”

From the crumpled heap of lace a weak, triumphant, and utterly scandalized voice croaks toward the reader:

Just one veil left, my sugar-high catastrophes.

Next time: an empty lighthouse/starbase, soul surgery, and a Frank-N-Furter voiced curtain that’s already fainted twice trying to keep the details decent.

Don’t touch that dial, apple-darlings. The moon just hired a funk organist.

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