Quoted By:
>Spill the tea
You haven't had tea for a <span class="mu-i">long</span> time. Not since you've drowned, sure— but not before that, either, not for <span class="mu-i">years</span> before. It has genuinely been half a fucking lifetime since you last drank tea. And why? You know exactly why. Half a fucking lifetime ago, you had decided that drinking tea was too feminine for you. Dainty. Weak. Hurt your <span class="mu-i">image.</span> It didn't help that the parents liked tea, raised you and Leslie on fucking tea, and you know how you felt about the parents. And Leslie, for that matter.
Well, you were a real dumbass kid, because you <span class="mu-i">liked</span> tea. The taste, plus the little ritual with the cup and the saucer and shit. You just had to be a punk about it, because you had to be a punk about everything, and then it's not like the <span class="mu-i">boys</span> were sitting around throwing adorable tea parties. And then you forgot that you ever liked the stuff at all, and then you were cuffed and booted off a plank of wood, and then there wasn't exactly a wealth of tea underwater (Bran's funky herbal concoctions don't count). And that was that.
<span class="mu-i">Was</span> that. And now you are staring down a mug of tea like a wacko and remembering a load of tea-related shit that has nothing to do with Pat, or being kidnapped, or escaping being kidnapped— real classy, Madrigal. You blink and shake yourself and grab the mug. "Yup. Thanks."
"I mean, it's the least I can do." Pat unhooks one side of her mask to sip at the mug, and you try not to side-eye— okay, you're side-eying the shit out of that. She hasn't taken the thing off once since you've seen her.
"The <span class="mu-i">least</span> you could've done was leaving me in the snake. The second-least thing would've been dumping me ass-naked in a closet and calling it a day." The steam on your face feels good— it's sort of clammy in here. "This isn't even in the bottom ten things you could've done, so. What kind of tea is it?"
Pat has to think about it. "Black?"
You realize suddenly that you can't remember what your favorite kind of tea was. "Good one, good one. Is it a pain in the ass to take that off every time you want to—?"
"The mask?" She's halfway into lifting it off again. "A little, but that's alright. Why?"
Oh, shit. "Uh—"
"You want to know what's underneath? It's nothing pretty." She raises her eyebrows. "The mask's for your comfort, not mine."
"I've seen a lot of shit," you say cagily. "I'm sure it can't be tha-a..."
The bottom third of her face is skull: no lips, no cheeks, just teeth and bone and a ragged webbing of goo. Live goo, you think vaguely. That's the only explanation for the eyes scattered on it, plus it's <span class="mu-i">moving</span>— are those tentacles? Does goo develop tentacles? Pat, swinging her mask around on her finger, is maintaining eye contact with you.
(1/3?)
