Page 29 of Veinblood
So, I show him how to squirt dish soap into the warm water, how much to use, the way the suds foam up instantly. He nodsseriously, as though I’m briefing him on scout reports rather than demonstrating how we wash dishes on Earth.
“The water temperature can be adjusted here.” I turn the faucet. “Hot for washing, cooler for rinsing.”
He plunges his hands into the soapy water, handling my dishes with the same focus he brings to everything else. There's something almost surreal about watching him work. Here stands the High Prince of Meridian, the feared Shadowvein Lord, up to his elbows in soap suds while wearing a black t-shirt and grey sweatpants.
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it.
He glances over, eyebrows raised. “Something amusing?”
“Just ... this.” I point at him. “You, washing my dishes. If Varam could see you now.”
A small smile touches his lips. “They've seen me do far more mundane things, I assure you.”
“Still.” I move to stand beside him, taking the clean plates to dry them. “It's nice.Normal.”
When I reach around him for the dish towel, he catches my wrist gently with wet, soapy fingers.
“Thank you,” he says simply, but there's more behind the words. Gratitude for more than just the meal.
I rise on my toes to kiss him, meaning it to be quick and light, but his other hand finds the small of my back, and draws me closer. The kiss deepens, soft and unhurried, tasting of cranberry sauce and wine. When we break apart, his thumb traces along my lower lip.
“The dishes?—”
“Can wait.” But he's already turning back to the sink, the responsible part of him unwilling to leave a task unfinished.
I watch him work, noting the way he approaches even this simple chore with undivided attention to detail. Heat curls low in my stomach as I remember those same hands on my skin this morning, the way they explored every inch of me with the same patient thoroughness.
When I move to put away the silverware, I feel his gaze follow me, and when I pass close enough, his hip bumps against mine. Small touches, deliberate contact that builds anticipation between us.
After we’re done, we go back through to the living room. Sacha sits at the end of the couch nearest the window, positioning himself where he can see the apartment's entrance. A habit born from years of being hunted, even here where no Authority forces hunt us.
“What's that?” he asks as I reach for the remote control.
“It operates the television from a distance.” I point the small device at the screen and press the power button.
The television flickers to life, and Sacha’s entire focus narrows to the moving images filling the screen—a commercial about holiday shopping playing in bright, cheerful colors. I watch his face instead of the advertisement, fascinated by his reaction.
“That is different from what it displayed earlier.”
“It was a news program earlier. This is an ad … it’s trying to sell things to people. We have lots of channels. Each one has different shows on them.”
I flip through channels until I find what I'm looking for. ‘It's a Wonderful Life’ is just beginning, the opening credits rolling over snow-covered Bedford Falls.
“This is a story. Like a play, but recorded in such a way that we can watch it again and again. It's about a man who thinks his life doesn't matter, until he sees what the world would be like if he'd never been born.”
Sacha nods, though I can tell he's still more fascinated by the technical marvel of moving pictures than the plot I've described. His eyes track every detail—how actors move across the screen, the way scenes transition, the illusion of depth contained within the flat surface.
As the movie progresses, I find myself relaxing against his side. His arm comes around me, and when I shift to lie down, my head finding the solid warmth of his thigh, he doesn't protest. His hand settles in my hair, fingers stroking through the strands.
The way he touches me, relaxed and gentle, eases the last remaining knot in my stomach that’s been there since our conversation about Sereven.
On screen, George Bailey discovers the impact he's had on others' lives. Clarence shows him Bedford Falls as it would exist without him—Pottersville, a dark place full of desperation and greed. Sacha watches it all, and though the dialogue clearly means nothing to him, he seems to follow the emotional arc through expressions, gestures, the music that swells during key moments.
“Can you understand what's happening?”
“A man learns his value through absence.” Hesurprises me with his accuracy. “The story shows what matters by taking it away.”
His insight despite the language barrier shouldn't shock me. He's spent years reading people, situations, the subtle currents that flow beneath surface meanings.
