[ The girl says all but one and Oryx's mouth crooks, a grin to show teeth (still got all mine, see?) He rubs the heel of his hand into his eye — the cut of a pound and the price of blood is there but he's trying to have a goddamn conversation or something. ]
Yeah? Nah, nah, I got one of 'em too, [ he says, swiping at his nose with a thumb. ] But they're all fuckin' whacko-strange. Wanna share the secret with the old man?
[ All of his teeth, and isn't that a thing? He doesn't look fancy and he doesn't smell rich (rich in her word is the smell of clean, of white soap, of somebody else's blood but no open sores of your own; everything in its place). Philomela's lucky because she's all in one piece (no, not lucky, she's feral underneath all that white skin and that's kind of like rich in a family like hers; a wealth of a different kind). ] A secret will cost you, [ she says harmlessly, and then looks at his teeth and thinks one of them, please.
[ Oryx's laugh is loud and brash, his finger waggling in the air (shoulda known). ] You got stones, lady. [ Which is maybe why it doesn't surprise him (because he does know, kind-of. That's half the point.) Tonguing at the ridges of his teeth, he rubs his hands together and coughs, not from the chest but from the back of his throat, as if he's trying to dislodge something. When Oryx spits into his hand a molar hisses and steams in the palm of it, white as bleached bone.
He looks up at her and smiles, a pink-red film covering that row of enamel. ]
You gotta be careful, [ he warns, twisting his head to spit whatever residue out. What lands is black like a clot, as sticky as tar and steams just as angrily. ] Works a bit whack— like, I can't lose bits cause I'm a big thing, not a pick 'n' mix of smaller things, feel me? It isn't dead yet.
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My brothers are strange. All but one.
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Yeah? Nah, nah, I got one of 'em too, [ he says, swiping at his nose with a thumb. ] But they're all fuckin' whacko-strange. Wanna share the secret with the old man?
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Yes, that's the price of a secret. ]
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He looks up at her and smiles, a pink-red film covering that row of enamel. ]
You gotta be careful, [ he warns, twisting his head to spit whatever residue out. What lands is black like a clot, as sticky as tar and steams just as angrily. ] Works a bit whack— like, I can't lose bits cause I'm a big thing, not a pick 'n' mix of smaller things, feel me? It isn't dead yet.