Chapter 11 Envy
Envy
If Sorrow’s eyebrows dig any deeper into her face, they’re going to leave marks, physical evidence of Envy’s folly, mementoes of this rather momentous proposition.
She peers at him as if he’s just invited her to a poison tasting, unappetizing and unlikely to end well.
Not that Envy blames her for this visceral response since he can’t comprehend where this impulse is coming from.
Even so, his respirations halt in unaccountable suspense.
Then his lungs relax, a reflex he’s not about to analyze, as the goddess rises and drizzles a path toward him.
Her limbs drip onto the flat stones, the pajamas accentuating every shift of her hips, rotating in a manner he’s seen before, except while bobbing on his erection.
Envy would pursue this bedeviled train of thought, if he weren’t busy amusing himself. Here she comes, heading toward his picnic, crossing the notorious divide. It’s like getting an elusive creature to approach after eons of incentives and come-hither gestures.
Miraculously, it has only worked now that he’s stopped trying. As such, he can’t shake the victorious tingles rushing across his flesh. That is, until the fragrance of salty, sweet, bitter, and sour reminds him she’s merely answering the siren call of food.
Still, let it go on the celestial record. Sorrow was the first to break from her corner, not him.
Envy fights to withhold a smirk. Oh, how quickly one surrenders when carbs, protein, and sugar are near.
The hem of her flannel pants drags across the ground, emitting a gentle brushing noise. Although Merry is just as slender, that glittery goddess is taller than Sorrow, the ensemble dwarfing the latter’s thin limbs.
Fates. She’d enchanted pajamas in the same size.
Sorrow drops next to him, cuffs the pants up to her knees, and dunks a single leg back into the water. “So what is it with you and clothes?”
Envy offers her a steaming, buttery roll. “It’s an essential part of life, and a beautiful one. Much like shelter and delicacies such as these, preferences that express who we are to people.”
Sorrow accepts the bread, tearing it apart like gauze before sinking her teeth into the crust. “Express who we are to people,” she quotes. “I can see how that notion attracts you. The opportunities to make an impression.”
“Yet I’m no fake when it comes to my tastes.”
“Are you certain? Deities curate their lives the same as humans.”
“Why shouldn’t we? It’s a delight.”
She scoots closer to the feast. Picking up a silver fork, she spears a wedge of camembert and waves it absently in the air. “But you’re still contriving the world’s perception of you.”
“That’s assuming you can control everything others think, which is only half true. But what about pleasure?” Envy debates. “I’m also indulging in these things for myself. For simple enjoyment.”
“Considering the textbook definition of envy itself, I don’t get how your thirsts are quenched in any given situation.”
“How dare you call me one-dimensional,” Envy exaggerates with feigned umbrage.
Sorrow mashes her lips together, plugging a reluctant grin. The marvel lasts a mere second before she sobers. “Pleasure is never simple. It comes with consequences and false hopes that happiness is permanent.”
“That’s a sorrowful attitude. Aren’t you overcomplicating the gratification of, say, biting into a succulent fruit or wrapping yourself in silk? What are the consequences of that?”
“The experiences don’t last.”
“But the memories do,” he murmurs as their feet graze beneath the surface.
Sorrow trembles, concealing that enticing reaction by snatching a fig and nibbling on its flesh. Envy studies the grind of her mouth, her lips puckering in a manner that scorches a path up his dick.
Fuck. He scoots several inches back, reprimanding himself for noticing.
Back to more crucial details. Not only does she keep quiet, contemplating his response in silence, but she swallows the fruit as if the sweetness fails to penetrate her palate.
Does this goddess know how to relish anything? To savor anything?
Their kind are skilled in wielding emotions, but they’re not meant to be slaves to them. Yet based on the histories of Love, Anger, and Wonder, this isn’t as true as Envy once believed.
On the flip side, Sorrow is hardly a drama queen. To the contrary, she’s withdrawn. This goddess might be as broody as Anger, as caustic as Malice, and as sarcastic as Andrew. She might be as wry as Love, as resilient as Merry, and as tenacious as Wonder. But Sorrow doesn’t lament or throw fits.
By the same token, Envy can’t recall an incident in which she has cried. Or laughed out loud.
Beneath him—above him, in front of him—she’d moaned on countless horny occasions.
That aside, Sorrow hadn’t once shouted with mindless abandon or sighed with contentment in the aftermath.
It had been primal between them, an expulsion of energy, and oftentimes over quickly.
Seconds after coming around his cock and hooting like a steam engine, she would stare into space.
Then she’d scramble into her clothes, uncomfortable with Envy’s lingering caresses.
Perhaps this is why they’ve never kissed.
Envy scarcely calls himself sentimental, but a few minutes of fondling hurts no one. Except this one. It must be a defect on her part, because it’s certainly not his fault. He’s an unparalleled lover, to whom she’d returned for more, demanding he go harder, faster, rougher.
Then again, what does Envy expect from someone who has spent her existence managing human suffering? Does she own her hurt? Or does it belong to her mortal targets? How have they known one another for millennia, without actually knowing one another?
Motes drift through the air like fireflies. While Envy discerns Sorrow’s defense mechanisms, for some discomforting reason, he also wants to learn what Sorrow’s laugh sounds like. That, in addition to the basics.
Her comforts. Her favorites. Her vices.
“You think pain is a consequence of pleasure,” he summarizes.
The goddess shrugs. “The more enjoyment you get from something, the more hurtful it is to lose. Being jaded is easier than being in pain.”
“How would you know unless you’ve indulged? Instead, you avoid pleasure.”
“You avoid pain,” she shoots back. “That’s a cowardly, lowbrow way to live.”
Envy wavers, the first adjective striking dead-center, puncturing a hollow place in his chest. Yet despite this, he leans forward, eager to probe.
“What’s lowbrow about treating yourself to the gifts of life?
Why do we have senses, if not to explore and satisfy them?
Taste, touch, sight, sound, smell. It’s not purely so we can reign over humanity and target mortals. ”
“It’s shallow because you add no value to it beyond the present moment.
All you’re thinking about is, ‘This feels so good,’ and then you dispose of the feeling after you’ve gotten your endorphin hit, and you move on to the next best thing.
That leaves no room for lasting gratitude or appreciation.
” Sorrow loops a strand of hair behind her ear, light from the lagoon embossing her cheek. “I have a theory.”
“Oh?” Envy quips. “I’m not sure I’m ready for this.”
“Real pleasure doesn’t exist unless pain comes with it.
You can’t savor one thing unless you know what it’s like to be deprived of another.
Loss is inevitable. When we hurt, those comforting moments—those delights, as you say—are more meaningful.
They’re treasures, but only when we understand and experience the opposite. Otherwise the pleasure is pointless.”
“That’s hardly a groundbreaking theory,” he replies mildly.
She’s nowhere near discouraged. “To that, I have another theory.”
“Do tell.” He shuffles closer. “I’m all ears.”
“The simplest ideas, or the most basic ones, the rules we know,” she lists.
“We live by them as if they’re a given. Yet they’re still the hardest to remember and the hardest to live by.
And when we do take these things into account, we become scared or threatened, as if they’re suddenly new ideas again.
“My theories might not be revolutionary, but that doesn’t lessen the impact. After millennia, people are still relearning the same lessons, drawing the same conclusions. It’s an endless cycle, both ancient and current.”
Sorrow picks through the assortment of goodies. Selecting a cut of salmon, she layers the fish atop a slice of bread and douses it with lemon, citrus drizzling onto the flesh. Rapt, Envy watches her take a thoughtful bite, those lips undulating.
Gulping down that mouthful, she says, “We have the hardest time learning the oldest lessons.”
It takes a shitload of stamina to withdraw from the sight of her swallowing.
Envy retrieves the lemon, buries his canines into the pulp, and sucks on the remaining juice.
Aware of her eyes on him, he drains the orb and then deposits it onto the platter.
“Again, how would you know what it’s like to forfeit pleasure if you’re too skittish to experience it? ”
She sets down the remaining portion of salmon. “Again, how can you appreciate pleasure if you’re too afraid of experiencing pain?”
Residual acid leaks into his tongue. “What makes you think I’m afraid to experience pain?”
“Oh, please. Because envy itself is a component of pain, and blind pleasure is the coping mechanism. You always make sure to have, have, have. You use the senses, compliments from lovers, witticisms, flirtation, and sex to avoid the hard stuff. That’s you, spoiling for pleasure and validation.
“You compare yourself to others. That’s your purpose. That’s your nature. I’m guessing for you it would suck to have less than someone else, to feel less fortunate, to acknowledge the realities of your life if measured against someone else’s good fortune. That would be painful.”