become small for me.

i'm convinced the world doesn't know what it needs.

[cerritum-blog]

♔ — PRO WHEN I SET, GO.

[cerritum-blog]

     Leon’s ‘everything' leaves a bittersweet taste in his mouth: it can't possibly be true, considering some of his intentions remain unclear even to himself, but wouldn't that be nice? No secrets, no lies, no bruised tongues — only disastrous honesty, the ugly truth inscribed in thin, pale scars. (He knows a voice laced with silver won't get him far here, little, insignificant lies caught with ease. There's honesty on the background of deceit, and he believes in everything he says, mostly because he's not sure what is a lie and what — over the course of their time together — became the truth. It doesn't matter, anyway, because if there's anyone on this planet he'd trust with the hideousness of it all, it'd be Leon.)

     It’s a new day, but they don’t know, indulging this kind of neverending loop until neither has the strength nor will to fight any further. He can see it in the way his own shoulders slump (relaxation rather than defeat); in the way Leon leans back, mouth shut. The words left on the tip of his tongue feel a little too acidic to spill, so he doesn’t: instead, he waits until breathing becomes less hazardous for both of them, lungs still filled with noxious spite. “Wouldn’t make that much of a difference, but you’re right,” he cocks his head, picks his confidence up, smooths over the edges until nothing manic or breathless is left. (The show’s over, curtains fall, it’s the last time I do this, I swear.)

     ”Everything means the ugly, too, no? Besides, believe it or not, you’re a good person to confess sins to. You don’t try to compare dicks.” Ultimately, it’s hard to say which one is worse: Leon, with good intentions gone awry, or him, with none at all. It holds no importance in this place nor in this relationship, though, and he’s mildly grateful he never had to prove himself worthy (not that he’ll ever be, of anything, and especially not in Leon’s eyes. Strangely enough, it’s a good thing.) Tense, unnerved expression gives way to a more amused one, and he settles down for good, cracking his neck idly. “All you can get from this is the fact that I’m good with hands, anyway. Could probably improvise Moonlight Sonata.” (He only realizes how hard Leon’s grip is when he tries to wiggle his fingers, bloodstream disrupted by unmerciful strength.)

     His hands fall back on the table as soon as the other lets go, and he doesn’t try to move them just yet: it’s uncomfortable, not exactly painful, he’s had much worse, it’s fine. “There’s always a choice for someone like you,” or almost always, but he’s not attempting to make himself look any more predatory than he already is. “Sometimes, it’s easier to ground yourself with simple phrases,” he adds after a moment, thoughtful. Leon’s always had a penchant for trying to imprison himself within set boundaries, but for the sake of the so-called peace and delirious beliefs (you don’t understand me, you never will), Aridai doesn’t speak up about it.

     ”Not entirely,” his lips twist into a smile, dispassionate and thin as ice. There’s no salvation waiting for either of them, but no biblical apocalypse, either: this world accepts psychosis with open arms, a crown awaiting anyone who can break enough spines to get to the top (or, in his case, merely tag along.) The fingers coiling in his shirt catch him off-guard, dull gaze focused on a point somewhere behind Leon’s head, there and gone. Knees straightening, fingers clutch the edge of the table as he makes sure not to fall back again, a small huff escaping his lips. “Hey, hey, uncalled for,” it takes one, nonchalant gesture to fix his shirt, hands reaching for Leon right after.

     One arm coils around his neck, the second wandering to his face — he traces his cheekbone with his thumb, fingertips brushing against the skin delicately, as if he’s something fragile, precious (and he would be, had his insides matched the molten gold of his eyes.) “Fine, I can shoulder that for you, at least,” there’s no use in denying he’s been the instigator all along— and if it makes him bad, he’ll accept it without complaint. Reluctance makes you weak; going through all of that emotional, mental struggle Leon does on a daily basis sounds nothing but tiresome.

     In the end, he’s hardly the one to beat himself up over things, guilt only a distant memory. A part of him is avoidant — always wary, ready to run away from possible blame, possible need to take things into his own hands. (But this, he doesn’t mind, lips pressed against the underside of Leon’s jaw, at ease only when the marrows of their bones merge.)

Everything, by default, is fragile (ever-consuming as he swallows tired minds, each and every one he's come in contact with… the dead not excluded), and jolts him awake. To know nothing is render yourself without use, to consider every angle and to let it slip through gaps of limber fingers. 'The ugly', too, is a concept in itself entirely capable of evading the element of surprise. Because by now, he doesn't need to look closer-- their weakness remains in plain sight, an obvious factor yielded by two souls who don't dare mention as much. Soulless, without virtue - all very debatable. Perhaps fortune alone is what ties them together, its opposite eliminating distance with bloodied pliers. 

"Can't say I'd be a good priest," this being a confession of his own. An image of shoulders squaring underneath such a ridiculous costume (though very well not entirely ridiculous considering the blond's perspective on a great deal of touchy subjects, none having much to do with religion) kindles a quieter peal of laughter-- rare and half-reluctant. For Leon, confirming a correction seems tiresome. Going out of his way to prove how he might be right is more often futile than it is fruitful, and explanations that revolve around expectations take a hell of a lot out of him. (Just how much can one man say I just want you to be safe when his hands are soaked red?) 

And the passing thought, too, makes the lower lid of one eye press up a notch. Thin. His face is contorting in several, minute ways that aren't worth mentioning; for the time being, his other seems cooperative enough -- it may or may not go unmentioned. "But there's plenty of stuff I'd be shit at. Like a chiropractor." One glance astray and it might as well be clear that he's repenting with the space between his eyes (the bridge of his nose wrinkles slightly for a fraction of a second, a tic he wills away with knitted brows and a flat mouth). It's too late to look over his hands again, it will only hurt. At least by now, he's aware of what will and what will not bludgeon his current moods - as if this wasn't bad enough as it is. "Yeah, yeah. One man show, you could do it. I get it." Maybe not just one man. 

Needless to say, that's a suggestion he has a bias towards avoiding like the plague. As previously stated, this should never be recognized as a lack of the urge to display weakness. Between them, movements of the least importance could be exploited and torn apart with ease. Just a wrinkling of his nose is a colossal tell, there are merely some times where he feels more comfortable in how much it is they really know than others. Now is the medium. (Sometimes it's easier to leave it at no choice. A) because he doesn't want one, and B) because if there is, he's not sure what to do with it.) "Better off grounded." No point in adding an 'I think'. 

"Nah," he offers with a downplay of the situation. "You're alright." Hesitance is another tell. All of this, in fact, calls for certain behavior. "Called for this a couple months ago. Already went over this." Rapt by the idea of anyone shouldering something for him - especially the notion put forwards, he allows the next gestures to quell any lingering vexes. (For the complete lack of a better word, he believes himself worthless and seeking an explanation is beyond each man in the room. One hand about his neck is no counter to that statement, though it certainly soothes like it might just provide one.) 

A fraction's worth of time goes to waste with lashes fluttering shut. Seeing less helps him disappear, and being partially unable to recognize his sense of self is a strength of its own dealt hand. Still, he can entertain a few ideas with a half-smile that crumbles like collapsing obelisks, archaic and leaving the earth to blanch in their wake. "I'd thank you, but…" Lips don't leave him without words (this is no silly novel, he's not gasping for breath-- not until skin is shattering under palms and they're under sheets colder than their flesh), not this time. 

Complying, he snakes an arm around the other to get a better feel of their frames flush up to one another. The room makes no sound, silence draping over it and blanketing their bodies as his hand encompasses Aridai's waist (maybe this isn't so bad, he thinks, as they lead on, indecision first). So he gives, too, if only a little, and cants his neck to slant his mouth over the other's.

[cerritum-blog]

♔ — PRO WHEN I SET, GO.

[cerritum-blog]

     There’s never been any doubt that this (whatever it is — within his mind, a word that accurately describes something so formless and immense simply doesn’t exist) was nowhere near healthy. Convenience is one thing, and his sanity another — nowadays, he can’t really tell whether the choices he makes in any way benefit the latter. It’s not something precious to him, anyway: he can sacrifice this much for the sake of a greater gain (whether Leon is one or not, only time can tell. He’d rather not think he’s deceiving himself for the sake of a pointless risk: God knows that might just be the case.) “It’s better this way.” His reply is short, curt: he doesn’t spare any more words for Leon’s bitter sarcasm. (Things he wishes he could say linger on his tongue spitefully: you wouldn’t want me otherwise.) 

     He can’t pinpoint what kind of emotion ties knots within his stomach, the thought of incomplete knowledge both gratutious and intriguing. The need for awareness mixes with the thrill of provocation, but he knows that there’s only one road ignorance will take him, and it’s not one he wishes for. It’s a glitch in what otherwise appears as a perfect system: easy to exploit once found, paranoid heart laid bare for the world to see. For a second, his lips quiver; he presses them together so hard they pale, ridding himself of any lingering surprise and discomfort.

     ”How would you know that, huh? Suddenly found a way into my head? Impressive,” he claps once, twice for the sake of theatrics; doesn’t let these words affect him any more than they already did. Ultimately, there’s nothing more horrifying than unawareness… not for him, at least. (Not even the man across the table, razor sharp smile and razor sharp words, so unlike his usual self — yet much more familiar. He had never considered seeing this a privilege, but maybe he should have; did anyone before him walk away from under the knife alive? And, more importantly, did anyone ever allow the blade to sink so deep into their chest?) “That’s not what I want, anyway,” he concludes, hoping to back away from this subject altogether.

     The tension hidden in his muscles only rises, but he manages to crack a lackluster smile, a shade of what Leon usually gets. “I don’t want to be in a movie unless there’s an explosion to walk away from,” but there is, sitting right in front of him: a cataclysm in the form of a volatile, unpredictable killer he refuses to turn his back on. (He sees it clearly: a soundless eruption of flame and light, striking up from the earth and scorching black ash into everything within reach. Whether the golden flames will spark a rebirth or slow-spreading death, he doesn’t know — doesn’t care, not anymore. It’s a little too late, anyway.)

     ”Not any more than I want to talk about why you still indulge me. You also know how it ends, don’t you? And yet, you still allow this to happen. You take me home, you give me your time. This is your fault, too,” the tone of his voice isn’t accusatory, but there’s a sharper edge to it (despite that, he’s glad — if he fucked himself over, at least he’s not alone.) “You can pretend it’s entirely one-sided if it makes you feel any better, though,” he adds after a moment, gaze wandering down to his hands as soon as there’s warmth coiling around his wrists. One eyebrow wanders up, more in question than surprise, but it’s a little new — he knows the other’s hands too well to call it foreign, though.

     No attempts are made to break away, save for one, halfhearted pull. Physical contact has never been something to be afraid of, not for him — instead, the rhythm of Leon’s pulse against his own puts him at ease, if only for a second. “Faith is too big of a word, sure, but if I thought you’re entirely hopeless, I wouldn’t be here,” his shoulders hunch as he leans forward; glances up at the blond man in front of him. (He’s hopeless alright — just not in the way he thinks he is, nor in the way that would make Aridai leave.)

     ”Did anything ever? Besides, believe me — you don’t want this to make sense,” clarity would be a curse: even his immense need for knowledge and control doesn’t reach that far. There’s a connection, push and pull, nameless and obscure, but no less challenging. It’s both a breakaway and their own, little cell, isolation despite company, bruises to cover the next day. “Isn’t it better to just let this be?”

It's better this way-- four words that sound as though they belong between two lines nearing the climax of a fairytale. Fables, scripts, anything other than this bittersweet reality that's somehow become the motions he endures on an everyday basis. He's done it to himself, no doubt about it: all these wounds are self-inflicted, the deaths he's inscribed on bloody walls that make no sense after dawn's reluctant crack all choices made on his own time. It's better this way, he'll tell the blind (they thought they saw, thought it was everyone else who had him all wrong: he'll be better if you warm him up, get him warmed up! and they find the double-edged knife through their middles, even tongues when he feels increasingly generous), drown this world out with whiter walls and softer skies. A dearth of pain. 

That's all he wants for them. Only… these desires stem from carving flesh for sacrilege, and stifling them is anything but manageable. "Don't need to find a way." The words are a brief offer into something else entirely: not quite insight-- this might just be observation itself. No killer could get away with inattentiveness, him even less so. "Already showed me everything." They don't hide from one another anymore - what use would it be? It seems like at this point, they'd just find out in due time. 

Unintentional doesn't do the job anymore-- some days seal them up, inclusive and selfish and two steps past reckless that drain them of secrecy. Now, these moves hold purpose high above their heads. Even the second clap is a tell that keeps Leon from intoning further, chin leaning a few notches back to breathe a little clearer. To take deeper breaths is to indulge, to deserve-- a privilege that does not belong to him-- and the spare moments wasted where he does are thin on the ground. So these inhalations are both precious and fatal, they make his lungs ache and he stews within seconds of revelation. Has this ever been something that the two of them didn't want? Was this ever really involuntary?

Horrific as it might seem, he doubts as much. (But as a cynic, what doesn't he doubt? The isms that trail his thoughts are dark and dreary, not at all poetic and deranged quite unlike any other - they don't have rhyme nor reason. There is no method to his madness.) It's unnecessary to pull away from the topic at hand, but he won't have much trouble sating himself by returning shortly. "Not surprised. 'Least… unless there's a safe already cracked and a few million to snag." This line bears less venom than the rest, not quite unusual (even though they're beyond quips and jives that equate to a clumsy gamble) amongst them. "You showed me that, too."

There's no point in tensing or backpedaling now - it will only take away from what he's already achieved… whatever that is. Stronger footing? Higher standing? It doesn't seem very much like either, but his grip coils tighter as initial goals turn to smoke. The beginning of their endeavors as a whole fog on occasion and though that hazes over the film of eyes already hollowed, he's not seeing red just yet. 'Makes you feel better'. What a cage, he thinks. "Like you gave me a choice," promptly letting go seems more difficult now than ever before… but when he realizes the pressure his thumbs are applying on limber wrists, Leon does an about-face.

To put it simply, he doesn't act around a punishment system - this is about saving, not destroying. He's no angel of death, no gold-haloed grim reaper with a scythe coated in anesthesia - he lets go. "The fuck would it make me feel better if it was one-sided for? Think it'd make me look like a dumbass you led the whole way here." While this is no surrender where his eyes fall to the buttons of the other's shirt to avoid easing up, something in the air ruptures when they exchange words. "I'll take my half, yeah. So long as you do.

"Not hopeless, huh?" Aridai is already aware of his self-loathing; there's no reason to give him any further windows of opportunity. "Fine. Better off… not making sense. But," he evades the table to take the other's collar in a handful of fabric. "Open to discussion and counterarguments, should you have any." A brief tug, and the blond shakes him off. "You started it, anyhow-- bad cop." But these things don't end with smiles - and he knows better than to think so.

[cerritum-blog]

♔ — PRO WHEN I SET, GO.

[cerritum-blog]

     ”Me, maybe. But the question is — do you?”

     He can feel his skin crawl as the sharp steel presses further and further into the other’s flesh, tempted to close his eyes (but there’s no place for weakness, not here, not ever.) A crown made of indifference and faux cruelty sits atop his head, but when the push comes to shove, there’s hardly any bravery left to spare. Maybe under a more direct threat, maybe nudged forward by a dangerous impulse, maybe out of desperation — but while he doesn’t feel safe (and, honestly, when is it safe?), it’s not bad enough just yet. He’s perfectly aware of his own limits, hence everything is done via proxies: if people fall for his sake, the crimson will never stain his own hands.

     (And he really has to wonder what’s worse: dying, or being left with absolutely nothing to live for?)

     As much as he wants to retract his hand, separation stings worse than possibility of unwanted injuries. He knows Leon has very few boundaries: once they spur themselves on, their own animosity towards each other a lethal poison they had willingly injected into their bloodstreams, everything is fair game. Not for a second does he doubt Leon would be willing to spill his own blood, if only to prove a point — and if for a short, fleeting moment he considers the possibility of pushing the utensil forward (end it for himself, end it for Leon, end it), it doesn’t show on his face, lost among forced apathy. (He’s always been good at pretending, but there’s always something new to learn here.)

     It feels a little like he’s been struck, body leaning away instinctively, spine arched in an uncomfortable curve. Despite that, he can’t say Leon’s words surprise him: earth-shattering revelations are for people who grow and change, and he’s been missing out on that for quite a while. It’s fine, because in his head, he’s always been able to justify his behavior as actions spawned from past insecurities; at some point in time, he stopped needing that reassurance, anyway. Things beyond explanation and reason suit him better; he doesn’t need to shackle himself with unnecessary thoughts (not any more than he already is, but here’s a simple principle to carry him through the day: underneath the facade, there’s nothing but malice.)

     ”Isn’t it, though? Just because you choose to conveniently ignore it, facts remain,” out of spite, he makes everything about Leon, keeping his deeply rooted self-deprecation in mind. (There’s no doubt he’s genuinely fascinated, but it’s safely buried somewhere under mockery and contempt.) The smile he offers in return is nothing but condensed irritation; eyes narrowed in something dangerously close to anger. There’s a reason why he spends most of his time trying to predict things — lack of control stains his insides black, something grim tightening in his chest. With both of his palms placed on the table, he leans forward, sharp teeth exposed. ”I have a better idea — how about you shut up before I make you?”

     Here’s the cold, hard truth about patience: it wears off. (This happens every time. It’s no defeat, but it’s no victory, either, and they’re at a standstill until something — someone — falls apart.) Placed on even ground, he’s grasping at straws; it’s an alien feeling, split between the rush of excitement and the panic of slipping, lungs filled with tension, and it’s the closest thing to feeling alive he’ll ever experience.

If convenience is to follow any one of their questionable instincts, it won't be any time soon. 

But even advantages are left to reside within the mind, most human preferences subsiding whilst considering bigger pictures, more ineludible fates. Surely they would do well to take a step back, to recognize just how neither man's goals align with the other's… but the results seem to press back much like the fork had done so just moments ago. And perhaps even a part of Leon apprehends that this will ruin him, if not the both of them until their faces are unrecognizable (metamorphoses so detrimental that reversing the process would screw them far enough backwards to where absolution has no place between souls so corrupt). 

"You've got it all figured out. Like it that way, right? Not like you need to ask." 

Teeth threatening to gnash when he cuts the sentence short, lips pressed together for a mangled, cheshire grin quite unlike the typical. Even then, they're shadowy anomalies that make a habit of betraying reluctant lips in Aridai's presence. (Rare or not, they don't always look like this-- frenzied and with aberrant resolve.) This being dedicated to a cause nowhere close to repentance, it should go without saying that the resounding demeanor makes the room even heavier, blood on their backs that belongs to neither boy. (But this is well enough known, as despite one method in comparison to the other, trial and error - even more so, accompanying tribulations - they remain connected.) 

Again, convenience writhes its way into their inevitably temper-flaring conversation. "Not ignoring anything. Only fact is you don't get half of what you think you do." One fact worth noting, however, is the lack of swears that litter his language on a daily basis. Rather than spewing insults like an illness that induces the coughing up of bodily fluids, he's cleaner. More precise, much like running a scalpel across filmy flesh. (And he'll watch it as it peels back for him, complying without words before blood runs cold… the acceptance of an unclean death pressing up from beneath fatal palms. What then, he might wonder-- who next? Which path will lead to the next oblation in his ritual slaughterings? And what cause will wreak this havoc in its entirety?) 

"So why should I explain a damn thing?" He doesn't speak hoping to tiptoe around a desire to find a crack in the other's composure - unlike Aridai, he functions merely off of what he knows. In this scenario, there's not much to gain… but that's not how he works. It's never been about gaining for himself - the death on his hands is from none other than pure sacrifice. (Of his own, even.) The male he's gotten a rise out of is mere proof that instills his poor impression of the earth as a whole; he's manipulative, conniving, wily… the list goes on. All in all, there's nothing worth pushing into the next life - that is, unless he stands as a threat. (Only he doesn't… as there are some levels that even they don't stoop to.) 

He wanes, fades to half a smile with lacerating tools just remotely bare. In this case, he won't use them to tear or to clench - perhaps to nip, to suckle and bruise instead. That's what this will lead them to find, or there's always the chance that their fate will take an entirely new direction. For the most part, he is fairly hard to predict (one characteristic, he thinks, that may just be a crucial aspect which helps decide their mutualities.) "Way to make it sound like a bad movie. I say, 'is that a threat', you go, 'it's a promise', and we look at each other for a couple more seconds before the walls are, y'know. Drowning." He's finally turned his focus from away from previous accusations, and is coming down at this point. But still, this is just as fun. A part of him can empathize. "What? You don't wanna talk about why you haven't left? Or why you like to fuck around even though you know what the end of this shit comes down to?" 

Head canting and neck craning as he leans a bit forward before a glance toward the other's palms (which now rest flat against the surface), Leon takes both wrists and seizes them with mild intrigue. It's just a test, really - as it's almost never him in this position. Evidently, the table between them is just not enough. 

"I know it's not 'cause you've got faith in me. But it doesn't wrap up the way you want it, huh?" He cracks a breathy laugh, lithe fingers extending to surround slender wrists. "Does anything make sense anymore?"

[cerritum-blog]

♔ — PRO WHEN I SET, GO.

[cerritum-blog]

     There’s warning signs flashing crimson inside of his head, not quite getting through the mesmerized look in his eyes. Whilst angry (pushed, rather), Leon should be treated more like a cornered animal — as fearful as you are, but ready to snap at any second, fangs bared in an ugly grin. It’s a little too late for cautiousness, considering he feels like he’s sticking his arm down the beast’s throat hoping its’ teeth won’t reach flesh, but it keeps him on his toes. It’s a self-destructive habit, he thinks, the adrenaline in his veins not quite worth the risk: his life might not be at stake, but that doesn’t mean they’re playing for nothing.

     He never does.

     Silence follows Leon’s words, monotone melody of his fingers tapping against the wooden surface and continuous scratching the only sounds made to break it, but he has no interest in bargaining (not with Leon in this state, not for this.) He only speaks when both of them stop: nervous tics pushed aside, he can still feel the general sort of restlessness settle in his stomach, an itching feeling in the back of his skull. “Well, you’ve done the first thing on the list already, haven’t you?” Bleak gaze wanders to the covered spot, lips pursed in a thin line. “Maybe you should invest in some paper cutlery, too. Treat me right,” a bitter snort follows his words, and he makes no effort for the tension to disappear, rolling his shoulders stiffly.

     Caught up in his own game, there’s something blissful in the lack of comfort available: it’s not usual for him to feel so strongly about, well, anything, and the belief that he’s human (somewhere under the flesh and bone, under the barbed wire and pernicious fumes, there’s a beating heart no one ever cared enough for to reach) only comes when every inhale is agony. With no air left in his lungs, he opens his mouth, shifting his weight forward. “But, I think…” It takes less than a second to lean over the table, elbow propped up somewhere between their plates comfortably, and pluck the fork from Leon’s hand, tips of his digits barely grazing the flesh. Slender fingers maneuver the iron just enough to point the prongs towards Leon’s throat, the action more symbolic than threatening, considering the long distance between skin and steel. He can’t reach any further without standing up, anyway.

    ”… I think that hurting me would be a waste of both your and my time.” (There’s no telling, really, but he takes the chance.) “Would it make you feel better, I wonder?” (Would you hate yourself less?) Loosening his grip, he allows the tool to hit the hard surface with a loud clank, refusing to back away just yet. “You don’t need that for either of these things, anyway, do you? Leon.” It must be nice to hold yourself prisoner: he can see the restraint reflected in the blond’s irises, muscles tense and still, walls thin and ready to crack (doesn’t care for the facade, only for the ugliness underneath, the sleepless nights and the war he fights against himself; doesn’t want anything but the cruel, vicious truth of bloodstained hands and a soul so broken it can never be whole again. Not without him.)

The ticking doesn't stop in concert with scraping silverware, instead content to rattle about each wall of his skull. Be nimble, be quick, tick, tick, tick. Head a mess of anything but nursery rhymes, his expression contorts-- lips twisting, eyes dilating, it all comes together like pieces that just don't belong. That is, save for the misshapen whole which sums him up without even the slightest efforts. "Haven't you," mimicry for the sake of conceiving a sanguinary fact: these seconds they've spent are no less at one another's throats than the actuality which follows closely after. (Treat you right? When has he ever wanted that?) 

These hours never fail to turn gruesome, even if there's no show to prove as much. Neither male bleeds nor manifests in harsh expressions or sputters of blood… but let it be said that their aforementioned lack of forwardness is no passive notion. Rather, these moves are concocted from fragile thoughts and knives for dreams, lips turning to daggers that feel just as sharp when they collide. "Maybe." He hums, tone consumed by a drifting mind before the knowledge of sensation reaches it. Sterling silver chafing Adam's apple, Leon makes no attempt to back away. (Not that this comes off as a surprise, as he strides barefoot on broken glass the longer that they continue to associate.)

"And you love to waste time," darker, guttural, spoken as he advances (throat flush with the utensil - at this point, he fears not physicality… if he's ever, it'd be impossible to guess). Free, larger hand encompassing Aridai's - and the fork within, he urges just slightly forward. If anything, he must look crazed, gently pressing a possible weapon to the outermost of thin skin. Even he realizes that this isn't a threat, and he doesn't coax in order to make it one. In fact, as soon as the other opens his hand, Leon does the same, palm grazing wrist before it's retracted a second time. (I love all the time we'll never have.) Any semblance of an eerie grin is quickly disposed of as something flares around his core, everything pulsating amidst his torso a burning building about to descend. Much like that, he's engulfed and with no way out… In his own home, he's not cornered, but alone. Alone and not at all. (He's aching now. Everything aches, shakes, breaks - none of which are purely physical.)

Assumptions nauseate him, but that's nothing new. He's long adjusted to the revolting idea that this is some selfish ideal that gives him strength or power… that others will never comprehend what it is to save, to never be saved. Though perhaps, he comes to think, that's what this is - even if it doesn't feel quite like redemption. Divine retribution is an option, of course, his own sanction for their future's kingdom come. "Not about me. Don't act like it is." If he breaks their contact, colors clashing from each edge of the table, this will all falter. He doesn't. "Soon as you stop trying to predict everything, you won't have to doubt what might happen." Slowly, he forms a grin of his own-- similarities that go unseen condescend, pile up. "But you like wondering.

"Don't you? Aridai."

[cerritum-blog]

♔ — PRO WHEN I SET, GO.

[cerritum-blog]

     It’s definitely something to consider — being impulsive wouldn’t really profit him, he knows, but his mouth has a tendency to run a little ahead of his thoughts. Occasionally, he sets his corrupted reflections free just to see what happens: loud expression of opinions isn’t well-suited for someone who prefers to stay in the shadows, but in a smaller circle, he likes to observe people’s faces twist with disappointment, pain, outrage. There’s an infinite spectrum of emotions humans can express, and most of them are accessible via saying the right (or wrong) thing.

     Leon is (or would be) no different, save for Aridai’s lack of ability to truly predict how will he react. Most times, he’s in control: people aren’t that complicated, a few bones and some skin thrown together carelessly, breathing, moving, thinking like a rusty clockwork, composed of the same, albeit old elements. It’s different with Leon: the blond knows what upsets him, what to avoid and where to push, but he tends to forget that a paranoid mind looks for holes in empty surfaces, finding scratches and blemishes among pure white. It still catches him off-guard, sometimes: a flash of surprise quickly covered with a thoughtful expression.

     ”What is it? Do you not agree?” The food is left untouched, all of his attention focused on the man in front of him. Once interested, everything else — even the basics — are dropped in favor of pursuing entertainment, however fleeting it might be. He’s pretty simple in the way lustrous things (people, situations,) attract his gaze and overtake his mind — obsessive to a point, although never too obvious. With a spine made of avarice and selfishness, it’s normal for him to want. He desires Leon in the way a child wishes for a new toy: curious, excited, and unsure what to do with it once it’s obtained. Play with it, break it, put it away: ultimately, everything is fine.

     ”I’m open to discussion and counterarguments, should you have any,” he continues, tapping his slim fingers against the wooden table in an idle melody. “I think I’d rather have you put that fork down before we begin, though,” there’s mockery dancing underneath his smile, amusement overshadowing the initial shock. Saying things like ‘calm down’ and 'relax' wouldn't help, anyway: instead, he opts to continue, if only to make something out of this night (even if it means doing so at Leon's expense; he's never had any restraints when it came to using him, anyway.)

Even to think for a moment and consider the possibility that Aridai wouldn't exploit a window of opportunity is moronic. Despite the clipped method he uses to brush off any further options to turn this conversation in the other's favor, immaculate assurance is nowhere near him. Making sure would involve one stealth palm over a faster mouth, hiding the reality a knife of a tongue might attempt to reveal. The honesty (and reasoning) will leave no room for anything other than hemorrhages atop hemorrhages until they're both beneath a bloody undertow. 

Even while the two, alone, could easily be considered sharks amidst common ground, there's no telling just which stands taller. (These risks, these pressing questions are no pleasant form of acupuncture; each a needle pricking right above the flesh and extracting treacherous thoughts.) Yes, there isn't a vein of his own that he doesn't despise-- and yes, each action that's woven him together as a piece is one he finds worth criticism, but none of those things include his job. No, the sacrifices aren't a guilty nor hellish pleasure - they're for the sake of each former victim. These are not things he can regret. He cannot afford to regret.

It must be the fact that Aridai realizes just how it is that Leon works, that he doesn't care to watch his mouth. "Tell you what," spit between teeth, grin not entirely unbroken. Not bothering to salvage it, he eyes the wood beneath tablecloth, moving his fork to press and etch for something simultaneously foreign and akin to relief. Four prongs inscribe along the surface, back and forth and back and forth and back and forthandbackandforth-- (his lungs are getting tight, he hates these thoughts, they're such ugly ones and he doesn't want to feel ugly for the souls he's already spared) but it stops as quickly as it all begins. Preemptively, he shifts the fabric to cover up any damage. 

"You come the fuck off it, and I won't throw all this out." Even throughout the brief paroxysm, he's focused and gaze unwavering - there's no spasming, no convulsing, no swearing until it's over. It's not unusual for the blond to seal up smoldering rage as tightly as he can. He works best this way, he thinks - more than anything else, hiding clears his head. The only unadulterated honesty Leon shares is with each victim, but it's not as though they'll ever see his separate facets a second time. Not that they'd deserve to, he's concluded. "What for? Think I'm gonna hurt the table? Hurt you?"

Skin begins to crawl. No good, he's ruminating, no good. 

[etsuukorin-deactivated20150723]

黒バスログ3

[everlastingmemoria]

when without money, do as the poor people do {leon}

[cerritum-blog]

Check his messages? Ah, he’d completely forgotten the existence of his phone in his hurry to get here, so in the time it takes for Leon to travel from wherever he was to the door, Harris indeed scrolls through the messages he’d missed. "I think my emoji express my feelings in a way words just can’t capture, personally," is the first thing that comes out of his mouth when the door opens. But moving on…

"Oh, sorry ‘bout that though, but this is urgent business. My apartment was broken into to, and at first I thought just some things were stolen. But then I checked my bank account later, and well all my money was just not there!" He taps his chin to recall the circumstance again. "And I was I told it all got transferred when I called, so… I’m kind of broke." Yeah that pretty much sums up the situation

With a satisfied breath, Harris then proceeds to walk past Leon.

"Now it’s time for me to go crash on your couch, okay?"

Urgent business? "Better have been urgent. You act like I was in here doing nothing." Which, of course, he was-- but admitting that much is both humiliating and takes away from the excuses he has lined up. The indifference that guises every demented truth is hardly to keep space - and those unaware of his bloodstained disposition are happy to step around heeding his warnings. Unintentional, perhaps, but warnings nonetheless. 

They must be children playing with toys, all too glad to swallow poisons and inhale toxins when they offer even the most minor increments of entertainment. Even Leon knows he doesn't measure up to much (though these constants are tempos for his heart to follow, simple ones so deeply engraved in pale flesh that he hardly thinks of them), not with anyone worth saving. So why it is that Harris-- someone of wealth and naiveté finds him worth the attention, he hasn't the slightest idea. 

"Keep all your cash in your apartment. Great idea. Shit, no, you can't." 

Jesus Christ. "How long are we talking? You pick up something to help you figure out a job yet? Cheap hotels around here?"

[cerritum-blog]

“Haha, I like that! Christian mingle for soccer fanatics, good comparison.”

“It’s safe to say they don’t know what they want, I’ve experienced a few of those kinds of people myself.”

"With the way everybody's talking about it, sounds like a religion anyhow. Sure thing."

"Yeah? Touchy subject. Pretty safe guess for anyone looking for love online, though."

[weekendplaylist]

Visit Original Link

breathe // the cinematic orchestra

[cerritum-blog]

“Oh, is that so? How adorable, looks like soccer’s quickly becoming the OkCupid of the sports world, mm?”

"Yeah. Christian mingle. Talk about a classic. Bringing together people that don't know shit about what they want since 2000." A shrug. "Don't quote me on that."

[seekerssolace]

"Behold this orb. Witness it among the legs of men."

“Soccer sure’s gotten raunchy since I last played, haha”

[cerritum-blog]

"Saw something else about meeting soccer singles in your area. Real cute, right."

[cerritum-blog]

♔ — PRO WHEN I SET, GO.

[cerritum-blog]

     ”Are you trying to say you aren’t impulsive?” His smile is meaningful, but sincere: he wouldn’t be lying if he said Leon was one of the most irate people he had ever met. Irrationality and anger clung to his skin, creating another — Aridai can’t deny that he wears madness as well as he would a tailored suit, though. (He’s unable to tell if it makes him happy or sad; there’s certainly something transfixing in the image, but it only makes things that much harder.) Thin strings of animosity and ire tie each of his shattered ribs to each other, none of them as prominient as Leon’s, but still there — it’s something that hardly ever sees the golden-yellow glow of a sunshine, a flaw he makes sure to hide well. There’s no doubt about the sheer amount of noxious fractures decorating his strained bones: he’s never been taught to appear as anything but perfect, though, and that’s what he does best.

     ”It’s hardly my fault you praise me so much, right? Not that you should stop — it’s all earned,” sarcasm reduces his voice to a static noise, rough and unpleasant, purposefully obvious. Leon tends to spew insults as often as he breathes; over the course of their time spent together, Aridai had gotten used to his knife of a tongue, successfully returning the favor. All of his casual mistreatment is taken with a degree of amusement rather than offense — it’s all for a greater profit, plus, he had grown to enjoy their little spats, a sharp wit something to admire rather than despise.

     From words, it spreads to actions; being considered something virulent and unworthy is still a new, almost exciting feeling: he’ll take it, as long as it grants him safety. (”The only thing I want to steal from you is your heart,” he says once, only half-joking.) “Zoo implies an enslaved animal. I think you should say ‘from the wild’ instead,” he corrects, fork spinning playfully between his fingers. “I think a jaguar would fit me. Or maybe a cheetah?” His head is tilted in question, as if the topic really required Leon’s input. Rather than press it, he directs his attention to the food, perfectly aware than if he doesn’t eat, he’ll probably stay hungry — needless to say, cooking definitely wasn’t his forte.

     (For some reason, it’s easier to swing a knife at a living person than in the kitchen.)

     ”Of course you haven’t,” they’ve always been aware of each other’s little lies: there’s a web of grander, much worse dishonesty wrapped tight around Leon’s bones, and if he sees it, he either doesn’t care or doesn’t want to escape. Both options suit Aridai just well. “I would, because out of the two of us, I’m the fun one. You know, good cop,” and he points to himself with a fork, switching to Leon mere seconds later, “bad cop.”

Impulses, more often than not, are animalistic. The ones he functions off of might just be based on careful analysis and frustration (the nights he spends on edge - hours upon hours draining his flesh of any color that's already muted, which could easily be considered judgment days on his account) over any other options. Not because they're instinctive, but because acting hastily is the only way for him to manage it. (Needless to say, it's no easy task to take the lives of those you've grown fond of… and while it doesn't pain him to do so - he's long past that - quick knives over soft throats that flash like grasping hands when you squint are a preference he doesn't ignore.) "You were the one going on about it, not me." Words shot back and forth between them are double-edged blades and each man is aware. All things considered, failing to recognize their similarities would be downright heedless.

"Can be. If I didn't have impulses, think I'd be pretty stupid. And slow, right?" Twisting a few noodles with the prongs of his fork under thin eyes (which only narrow to guise the belated amusement that has them turning to smoke), Leon's sure to finish chewing before a slack reply. Even around someone like Aridai, there's a multitude of things that monitor his manners. In every sense but watching his tongue, the blond does a fair amount of managing his own tics and anything along those lines. Speaking with one's mouth open has never come off as pleasant, after all. 

And genuinely, he doesn't want to impress the other - there's no reason for him to retain deep, instilled desires revolving around leaving a good impression… it's just natural. (How can he avoid what comes naturally? Perhaps in situations like these, he is impulsive when all is said and done.) "'Course. All in a day's work," the remark comes to an end at the other's suggestions and he stifles a cough with the back of his free hand. "Cheetah? Fox, maybe. Light on your feet - not so much on my back." A comment like that is mere retribution gets for pulling such a ridiculous move. Unfortunately, the title of 'bad cop' is a dagger to the gut. 

Does he not do enough? (Just how far apart is stealing a life from stealing all that holds it together?)

Steel is the lattice that makes up his skin, strewn over cluttered muscle and desperate bone; the city and its inhabitants leave a near-dormant, eerie hum that scrape the insides of his skull, tug at walls that belong at all costs. Accusations force him to bristle unalike his common state, and thus the grin that his response consists of is manic to a mild degree, lower lids making crescents out of hollow eyes. It's sickly because each row of razor teeth is so rarely exposed - ah, well. (This isn't the first time true colors break the silence.) "Eat up, huh?" Maybe he should point out that having impulses isn't quite the same as being impulsive, but that thought depletes the more he seethes. 

[cerritum-blog]

♔ — PRO WHEN I SET, GO.

[cerritum-blog]

     ”Does anyone have standards when they’re hungry? You know, we work like animals — at some point, it stops being about reason and you start working on instinct,” it’s a metaphor too heavy for the situation at hand, but it doesn’t matter: once they’re inside, he has a tendency to fill the empty space with pointless words, if only for his own amusement. Leon doesn’t speak much, but Aridai doesn’t need him to — most of their communication becomes nonverbal once he wraps his hands around his neck, anyway.

     His grin is nothing short of catty, one arm wandering up sluggishly to pat his own cheek. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Not that it’s any news to me,” there’s confidence carved into his bones and arrogance disguised in every gesture: he’s never been one to put himself down, and he had never used pity as his crutch, too much pride hidden within his stygian heart. It’s hardly a foolproof strategy, anyway: they were born in a generation of dehumanization, emotions no longer something valuable or worth betting on.

     ”Is there any other, valid reason for marrying someone? Love?” It’s almost laughable: he’s fairly positive that somewhere between one sin and another, he had lost the privilege to speak of that. Had he believed in its existence, it would be an amusing topic to discuss — instead, he drops the subject altogether, focusing on the friction between his skin and Leon’s instead. There’s nothing romantic about the way his teeth sink into soft flesh: it’s a good thing, too, cause neither of them deserve delicate handling, anyway.

     The faint, burning sensation of Leon’s touch lingers for prolonged minutes after they part, and it’s just a part of the reason why he sticks around, anoints himself with the color of tombstones to fit right in the correct cracks, abuses their wordless agreement of mutual acceptance and something that — under all the wrong circumstances — could be called trust.

     ”Yes, yes,” if there’s something guttural hidden beneath his cheerful voice, it’s hardly noticeable. Without a sound, he allows his bare feet to carry him back to the table, taking his seat obediently and turning back to the still standing figure. “Come on. There’s better things still to be done.”

Synapses active as ever, he rids himself of any awareness in regards to compassion and the like. Between them are nerve endings that tear near their edges and spark carelessly about; they threaten vacant, needy lungs and don't bother to steady them when they've cast out the obvious. As of late, the two males don't face truth like an obstacle. Rather than acting as a shade of something worth his concern, their eccentric reality (as it threads together like muscles and veins) is one he can make light of for shorter periods of time. 

This way, he'll feel less reluctant to return these gestures with keen senses… won't have to take two steps back for every one spared forward. "Yeah, impulse. Sure thing." This sounds more like an animal planet documentary than any typical conversation subject, but that's yet another subjective statement. While Leon has certainly come to acclimate (for the sake of these endeavors are best accomplished when he complies after an hour's worth of declinations-- perhaps to Aridai, it feels like more of a success), carrying obliviously on would serve him little purpose. "What don't you take as a compliment?

"Just 'cause you work like something from the zoo…" Trailing off after gathering a plate or two for them (these are paper, as while his preparations are nothing short of extravagant and bearing original recipes, he wouldn't expose the finer dishes to someone like the thief beneath his gaze), Leon wets his lower lip and shrugs the lingering taste off with knitted brows. Simpler pleasures follow instances like the one at the tip of his tongue that simply cannot be rationally explained - but that just might be for the best, as neither of them is much good at making sense. Not with one another, anyways. 

When it's all settling down and dinner for two bedecks the lengthy, redwood table, he rests a cheek in hand and wonders just what on earth he might have done wrong to deserve this fate. Worthlessness hasn't always equated to sin, has it? (Surely this isn't the time to calculate the damage by his knuckles and palms - each tools in radical, colossal movements and choices that shape him, but not so much the way he's regarded by others).

One of his shoulders hikes up, a jerk of a motion that exudes his more common lack of concern. "Haven't thought about it," comes a lie - sure he has. "Guess we wouldn't know." The slight smirk is swiftly masked by a forkful of fettuccine before Leon gets the chance to tilt his head. "Would you?"   

[cerritum-blog]

aaa hello hello! about time!

in other words i'd love to plot with every single one of them/you and if you've got any ideas you can always hit me up! if not, you can drop a line in my ask and we can talk about it ;v;/ 

or if nothing at all feel free to hit me on twitter! @ROTTlNG  i can't wait to get the ball rolling!! 

[cerritum-blog]

It was obvious to her that he was being sarcastic now, especially with the tone that he was using - but Hanna wanted to see how this would play out. Making a doughnut costume for the male wouldn’t be that hard, anyway. All she needed was his size number.

“Ah. Then you wouldn’t mind trying one on, would you? Do you have any modeling experience? Doughnut costumes could  easily become popular with you modeling one of them." If she hadn’t practiced keeping her face void of emotion, the pinkette would’ve probably cracked a smile by now to show that she was joking.

Suppressing a grimace (or not at all), Leon fights the urge to fold his arms and let her know just how ridiculous this conversation is in its entirety. "Modeling all the time. Offended you even asked. Been modeling donut costumes since I was 3. You live under a rock or what?" 

They're both teasing at this point - even though actually depicting that much would take some serious dedication from a third party.

[everlastingmemoria]

when without money, do as the poor people do {leon}

Harris is already out the door, on his phone, tapping away at the screen with the distinctive storm of clicks filling the silent air as he sends the following messages.

To: Leon From: Harris [msg]: im poor!! ( ≧Д≦) [msg]: my apartment was robbed and well [msg]: now its all gone!! (╯︵╰,) [msg]: i mean its ALL gone [msg]: all the money i kept there [msg]: like poof! gone (▰︶︹︺▰) [msg]: can i come over???? [msg]: im on my way to ur place rn (っ˘̩╭╮˘̩)っ [msg]: 。：゜(；´∩｀；)゜：。

This should do for a heads up. Harris isn’t exactly sure what Leon can do for him, and nor does he plan on asking for money or anything like that. But this is a time of great need so the general idea is that he should head over to his closest companion’s to cry to. He’s not sure if he has the right to call them friends yet though, so he’ll go without whatever suits the moment.

Luckily his car had been untouched, and the way to Leon’s remains an easy drive from his apartment. Parking the car as quickly as he can, Harris makes his way hastily towards the front door. Ringing the door bell (once) and knocking, Harris voices his concerns through the partition.

"Leeeeon…! What do you do when you’re poor!?" Legitimate questions he needs the answers to.

@cerritum 

[cerritum-blog]

Typically, his phone is on silent - otherwise, the device tends to annoy the living hell out of him and there aren't too many people trying to contact him in the first place. In other words, it's not worth it. 

TO: harris? FROM: leon.

[TXT] What [/TXT] [TXT] Stop using those dumbass faces i dont know what the fuck theyre even doing [/TXT] [TXT] Someone probably robbed you because you sent them too many of those stupid faces quit it relax [/TXT] [TXT] Door's unlocked. [/TXT]

How he's wound up looking after someone that's just been robbed, Leon hasn't the slightest idea. In fact, a part of him wants to tell the other that he's not home - that he doesn't have time to set aside for this, for lack of a better word, bullshit. However, for some reason or other, that doesn't happen. Instead, he does leave the door unlocked and kicks his feet up in the living room. 

It's bound to be a long day. "Check your fucking messages!" He doesn't shout - rather, it's an attempt to be heard through the door that he reluctantly twists the knob to and huffs behind. "Said it was unlocked. What the hell happened, anyway?"

[cerritum-blog]

♔ — PRO WHEN I SET, GO.

[cerritum-blog]

    ”Ah, seems like I’ve been reduced to an unhealthy habit,” there’s no helping it, though: in a way, it makes perfect sense. Logically, Leon has very few reasons to humor him: if he were someone else, chances are, this would’ve gotten nowhere. But it’s Aridai, and the usual, routine rules of the old, overplayed game don’t apply: he preys on the flashes of loneliness at three in the morning, on the much-too-heavy weight of charcoal bones, radioactive chemicals overriding sane thoughts.

     He’s on his side when no one else is — when the world shatters, seas reduced to thick, crimson rivulets: there’s no judgement in his eyes, but no shoulder to cry on, either. From the beginning, this was nothing more but a case of mutually assured destruction: he never meant to serve as a crutch, just as he’d never lean or rely on anyone but himself. There’s not enough trust to scramble from his rotten bloodstream, and if he ever feels weak, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he becomes a silhouette in the crevice of Leon’s mind: there, but not really, not completely, not ever, and if he’s compared to a simple solution, an occasional craving, then it’s all the better for him.

     It’s a little ironic, he thinks — he’s a burden, a curse, but Leon isn’t exactly harmless, either; he’s on his feet, following a killer into his apartment, more than willing to trust him with his own, brittle bones. (The only thing holding him up over the edge is his own arrogance: there’s a cliff with his name on it, and every time he pushes his frame past the dark corridor, it allows him to slip just a little more. He wants the world, but he’ll take the keys to the front door instead.) It’s not a death wish, not exactly, but his eyes shine like burnished gold as his fingers intertwine with Leon’s, never allowing him to slip out of his grip for longer than a few, tedious moments.

    ”I would. It’s a compliment, and you should be happy,” it sounds almost funny, but only to himself, fresh air reducing his words to a whisper. It’s easy after that — there’s familiarity in his movements as he makes himself at home, flicks half of his buttons open, settles near Leon: always just a little too close for comfort, but maybe that’s exactly what the taller needs. Leaning his weight on the kitchen counter, he watches the blond move and scramble around: the pleasant smell of food successfully drowning out most of his leftover malice.

     ”Huh? Are you calling me pretty? Gee, thanks,” his lips part in a scoff, but he doesn’t care enough to protest. “I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit here, though. I’d make one useless wife, but you—” well, that one’s probably better left in the air. Without hurry, he waltzes over to join the other: closer and closer still, until his slender fingers wrap around Leon’s wrist and tug, forcing him to turn around. The kiss is unkind, traitorous, a little too rough, but all of that is to be expected.

     ”I forgot to welcome you home,” his grin doesn’t match the possessive grip: too hard for absolution, but too light for punishment, his touch gone as soon as it appeared. 

"Reduced is right." Understatement of the year, he thinks (still fully capable of recalling just which occasions have transgressed mere conversations and beyond that), any boundaries previously instilled having been severed. Perhaps these things run in rivulets; ever-brief, too curt for their own good and leaving static in hopeless trails. These perilous things that keep him up later than they should, embodying a male he knows more than he'd like to (though it's still not enough).

Things, habits, infections-- none of them have to make sense… no matter how much he pushes, they don't tie together quite like he doesn't deserve them to. Though with that in mind, he loses himself amidst just what is deserving and what is not. He's no hero - even Leon knows that, but vigilantes have never quite received the same sorts of punishment. Then again, it might just be the lackluster eye he's been paying to those who have been on the opposite end in the first place that led to such a morbid understanding. How he came to believe that the equivalent to redemption was death has no answer. Why should it? 

Compliment--? The word has the blond snorting once, a quick shake of his head shadowing the blatant disapproval. Well enough conditioned to avoid asking questions such as 'you wanna know what i think?', he coughs honesty up like sputtering disdain. "You've got standards, sure, but when you're hungry… I dunno, man." After a quick wave of his hand and a few opened bags, everything's prepared (or at least in the microwave, about to be). He's not one for using the microwave in the first place, though - anything artificial typically upsets his stomach, but these are leftovers and it's not a very big deal. 

"Yeah, anytime. Mirror mirror, fairest of all the fucks." Oh, great, they're back on the topic of just how well he'd do as a stay-at-home. "You'd be an alright wife. Gold-digger, anyway." The grip about his forearm is firm despite the lissome shape of Aridai's fingers, not that Leon's not already aware. However strange, this behavior is to be expected (and up goes his free hand, raking through a handful of hair and clenching shut in his opportunity for backfire), and it's not worth shooting back with flushed cheeks and wide eyes. 

So he tightens against the top of a skull brimming with corrupt notions and ideas that just might make him even more abysmal, grasping mercilessly and suckling - all teeth against the other's bottom lip. No more than a graze, but it does the job and he releases him with a quirked brow. "Apparently. You gonna welcome the fork home, too? Everything's done."