here’s the thing : if he were a different kind of person ( irony of that thought notwithstanding ), it’d be easiest to let cayde go. to ignore the warmth that’s still lingering at the back of his neck, the unfurling of knots he hadn’t realised were there in his gut, in his back, to act like it’s nothing.
he doesn’t regret the act. only the context in which they’ve placed it. cayde pulls away and it feels like a loss, and he glances up, hoping –
hoping what? that he’s not just projecting?
here’s the thing : if he were a different kind of person, casual could mean just that. but he isn’t, and it doesn’t, and half the sting of cayde’s withdrawal is the thought that maybe that’s all cayde wanted from him.
the other half is the sense that something in the air is tense and brittle. like something’s wounded. he sits up, still bare, and does his utmost not to reach out and grasp cayde’s wrist.
‘ hey. where’s the fire? ’
he manages a jest out of it, even if his voice comes out a whit softer than it should. ( sometimes he thinks they should have programmed the empathy out of him. sometimes he thinks that would hurt less. mostly he doesn’t think he’d like who he’d become if they had stripped the heart, though, so. he blinks, twice. lets the ache in his chest settle in. )
it would be easier to leave it alone. to ignore how rapidly he feels shut out, to reason it away as cayde needing space, needing time, a half dozen perfectly logical things that don’t sit right with him.
if nothing else, he needs to make sure cayde doesn’t regret what happened. ( that thought snags guilt far stronger and more fanged, and he fights to keep the soft edge of his smile in place. )
CASUAL. it’s something he’s good at, always had been for as long as he could remember. easy to divorce the deeper feelings that come with intimacy when you think you don’t really deserve them. ( but those are thoughts he keeps buried beneath a shining layer of bravado and charm, enough to fool himself too. )
so when it’s over, he shifts to leave. even though he doesn’t want it to be over.
call it a quickdraw reflex. built in muscle memory. like sinking a knife into that small space between a vandal’s jawline and shoulder armor. like pulling the trigger on his hand canon, and then pulling it again and again in the steady thrilling beat of DEATH DEATH DEATH.
but this had been so much more thrilling, can feel it in the sharp and lingering sensations that resemble the sort of ache he knows his human partners get from strenuous workouts. exos are, of course, made of tougher stuff. but it’s the kind of good-bad feeling that makes him want to stay in bed, stay undressed, and maybe--
what’s the fire? poe’s voice sets a fresh spark of warmth in his chest, dispelling the worry he didn’t even know had been there. the worry that he wasn’t really wanted afterwards. c’mere, you okay?
and just like that he gives in, face creasing in an exo smile as he turns his body and crawls back to poe’s side, slumping down with his shoulders pressed against the wall. ‘ ‘m fine, ’ he assures, conscious of the warm heat next to him, and the heady desire to do something stupid and reckless; like hold his hand. ‘ you? ’
stormborns
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