“Naturally.”

He counters, hardly balking at her upside-down accusation. Instead, after a beat, he simply exhales under its weight as he moves to the far edge of the mattress, rooting around for the clothing he knows is there.

The finery, after all, is starting to get more than a little uncomfortable.

“But that’s not how things work when people start asking you to pick sides. Play along. That sort of thing.” And he was afraid, at the time. Of more than just a looming future and all its posed threats.

His back to her, he fishes up a looser blouse, and sets to work changing: peeling away jewelry and frills, lacework and buckling, trading it for loose linen and fresh air— the span of his own deeply knotted scars visible only for a beat. Maybe two.

He doesn’t care if she sees them. They’re beyond that, now.

“Believe me, the moment people start expecting you to take solace from the world at large in their presence, that’ll be the moment they either vanish, pull away the mask, or you both go tumbling headlong into oblivion, blindsided by nothing more than comfort.”