Silence, sea-salt air that brushes against yet healing scrapes on his knuckles. A young boy that's all bruises, and Kenshin thought he knew what's coming; a pinch, maybe a flick to his nose. Childish gestures that seemingly emerged from the shell that was Rafayel's demeanour when it was just the two of them -- no adults or priests to scold either of them about behaviours improper to display. As if gods are above such human emotions, immune to being playful, sad, or even happy. Lonely and bored, too. Perhaps the people of this village give shape to a cruel, cold god to reflect their lifestyle by the sea, ever at the whim of nature and the tides' indecisive patterns.
Short-lived summers and long, harsh winters must instill a reserved instinct in the locals, for nothing else could explain the near-permanent chill that hangs over the village like a thick, cloying mist to bring about overcast days where even the sun seems hesitant to show its face. Kenshin misses the feeling of warm sand 'neath his feet and the cries of seabirds dancing over the waves.
The stars, too. The ones from his memory were much different than the constellations here, their orientations almost reversed if such a thing were possible.
Still, one soul alleviates the desire to steal a boat and sail off even if a watery grave was the likely outcome of such a reckless choice. ( Who's to say he hasn't drowned already? Who's to say this isn't a drawn out hallucination granted by the slow, suffocating death of the sea's frigid embrace? ) It is a dangerous this, this infatuation. The want for company simply due to the truth of being starved -- a hunger that goes both ways, reflected in Rafayel's eyes each time Kenshin finds himself staring for too long at the other. Attention gravitating like the tides to the moon, drawn for some inexplicable reason that borders on blasphemy.
"Do ya think they raised me in secret in the village? Kept me hidden for years 'till they decided to introduce me proper to ya?" Response drawled out, eyes still closed, a raucous huff follows. The mystery lingers, however, and as though summoned from an amnesiac's wondering thoughts, fat droplets of water from the stalactite's above. Plop! One for each of their faces. Kenshin moves to wipe the crystalized water from his nose -- only to pause as he feels Rafayel move closer, objective unclear. At the fleeting press of a kiss, warm in contrast to the cave's damp air, he opens his eyes to stare for taut seconds. One, two. He reaches out, fingers encircling Rafayel's wrist to keep him close, the other's pulse palpable. It trembles like birdsong. "If you have to ask: not even close."
The villagers go about their days and talk; weather, gossip, and news wagging between their tongues in between sermons. A common point of discussion is often Kenshin's abrasive attitude, the outsider who asks too much. Greedy thing, even after they've taken him in out of the generosity of their hearts. That's the thing, he learned never to be desperately grateful for basic decency. To be aware of worth when it comes to the world and everything in it. And Rafayel? He's cheap for a would-be-god. Hold tightening, tugging him back into reach, Kenshin grips both his hands and squeezes while pressing their bodies close -- chest to chest. "Glad ya like this spot. Should show yer affections proper," he says, head tilting to brush the shape of the words against Rafayel's lips. Suddenly too close, just teasing on too much. Hungry, shameless thing!
A beat. Then his hands loosen. "Can ask me to show ya how if yer curious." In the distance, roiling storm-clouds gather in serpentine patterns. A dragon's summer, that's what the locals call the weather pattern. It promises a deluge strong enough to drown livestock in their pens if they're not prepared. "Be honest. Have you thought about it? I have."
