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@eclavigne
rules & basics
yeong was straight up dumbfounded. he watched the thumbs up in the air and rubbed his eyes with the back of his gloved hand, just to make sure they weren’t playing tricks on him. they weren’t. the man was still there, still horizontal, still apparently fine about it. yeong shrugged his shoulders and emptied the rest of his drink … the one that had been accompanying him for a while now, because he better be drunk if this wasn’t an illusion.
his head tilted to the side as he watched the stranger attempt to get back on his feet. he didn’t get the clue to help right away. that was the honest truth of it. his brain didn’t work like that anymore. the immediate reach toward another person, the instinct to close distance rather than measure it. years of rewiring had made the reflex go the other direction entirely, and it took vine’s voice cutting through the irony of this moment like a cold breeze to wake him out of that particular slumber. the part of him that was always avoiding everything. he blinked. registered the question properly. relieved that the stranger was at least alive, his heart rate slowed. he had to laugh a little. “sure, sorry.” he grabbed him by the hand and pulled him up to his feet. simple. efficient. and only in the moment after did yeong catch himself … looking at their hands, both covered in leather, and realizing he hadn’t thought about rejecting the contact beforehand. hadn’t braced. hadn’t run the usual inventory of what was about to flood in. he had just … grabbed him. like a person. like someone whose first instinct was to help rather than to calculate the cost. was that the alcohol flooding his bloodstream ? probably. almost certainly. he looked at him, or more accurately, right through him, as the thought settled further and further, nearly forgetting to let go. which he did, just a beat too late.
“are you sure you’re okay ?” his nose had started registering something unfamiliar in the seconds that followed. not quite a sin. nothing his ability could catalogue cleanly, nothing that fit the usual taxonomy of wrath or greed or lust or any of the seven he knew by texture and weight. just something that moved through the categories without settling, like smoke through an open hand. his ability reached for it and found no purchase and reached again and came up with nothing useful. what his eyes had just witnessed, though, that his catalogue could handle. this man had fallen, or jumped, from a considerable height. and was alive. and thriving. and asking for a drink.
definitely not a human being. that was all he had for now. “so… which drink would be appropriate to have right after you fell from the sky ?” he asked, leading the way back to the bar he had originally fled from. his eyes were glued to the stranger the entire time — even though he had just confirmed he was alive, he still couldn’t quite believe it. yeong opened the door for mister meteor and watched him duck at the doorframe. right. he was tall and this bar was very much vintage and old. small people sized. he squeezed his way through the crowd and held his breath. it never helped, but instinct still tried to convince him otherwise. the other one was still following, which made the need for a drink even more pressing. when he reached the bar he raised his hand and waited for someone to notice him.
and there they were again. the gloved hands on the stranger beside him. he would have loved to know why he was wearing them. but he would have probably had to explain why he was wearing his as well. and that was nothing he wanted to discuss tonight. “order whatever you want.” he said, as the bartender came over. for a moment everything around him went quiet. not the quiet of his ability going silent — just the ordinary quiet of a moment settling into itself. this felt normal. like the night he had been trying to have. he looked around at the faces, their voices reaching his ears eventually, the bar resuming its business around them like nothing unusual had happened outside. like men did fall from the sky every day. “what’s your name ?” he asked satisfying at least a little bit of his growing curiosity.
"You know it already, but haven't managed to realize it. You learned it when I was on the ground and you called me. My name is Vine. Like the plant that produces grapes." Its image rose before them under the command of the other's fingers that drew deftly a climbing line against the bar menu still studied. The question was a distraction, but the bartender would not have to wait for too long to take an order. The victim under Yeong's care was occupied with his companion's curiosity and the choice of the saving drink simultaneously. No party to the process was going to get harmed with the lack of involvement! Yet, it demanded some extra effort to handle so much at the same time as the hand able to demonstrate the meaning of the name crawled up to Vine's forehead and covered it with no sign of letting it go soon. His head had been bothering him obviously.
"Chateau Giscours Margaux Grand Cru Classe, please." A dark, almost ruby wine with purple sparkles. With thick, rich aroma that could be tasted already at the sight of a bottle. Blueberries, licorice, resin and hints of red berries, graphite and cedar – all of them filled a glass and made it more elegant once the liquid touched its walls. It was a real vintage wine and a good tribute to the atmosphere of that place. Vine did not even order a set of snacks for it. He was going to enjoy it as it was – naked and tough, complex and dense, with all its beauty. The tip of his tongue welcomed it once the coolness of the glass was fully in his possession, held it with his lips that froze for an aesthetic moment. And he gulped it like water.
"But I haven't fallen from the sky, but from the roof of this building. I was there whenI got a signal from the vessel you have been carrying and as a consequence, I fell asleep for a moment." A blunt yawn right from him could prove that he was not joking. No yawn could be sweeter than that. Sweetness of the deep rest just clung to the speed of his hand that had to return to his poor head. "The signal has given me a treat that overfilled my body and made it too heavy for itself. And now I have a headache." It made him look a little sulky, a little lazy, but the energy swimming in the brightness of his blue eyes made it clear he was not going to give in. "The voices of wishes are loud, and those from yours are just screaming in me." He gulped the second glass and tapped at the rim for the refill. "Your curiosity is in the lead though." He said so with a grin of a generous ability to take in Yeong's stare, and it worked like powder for a gun. If it found its use, the questions were going to run down the river of their conversation. No one could resist it unless any kind of magic was applied to lessen the effect. But could Yeong know that? He could if he could afford it.
"You may ask me anything you like. What's your name by the way? You are very well preserved." His fingers played against the glass once again before he decided to remove one of his gloves quite teasingly. Staring back at Yeong from the corner of his eye, pulling finger by finger, with the anticipation and triumph as if he unpacked a present. The leather exposed quite an ordinary hand in the end - a fine hand with long, flexible fingers able to perform a very meticulous job very quickly – as quickly as the leather hid the view once the man pulled the glove back to his wrist with a hum no less teasing. He drawled "So?"
Not belonging to any guild and judging by the diction, not a bandit either. Having specifically chosen the path that would not be patrolled, she didn't expect any merchants nor guards along the way. It was leaving little options. Jingshu has heard the stories about this forest and the adjacent village being haunted but the voice answering her was unmistakeably that of a mortal man.
Instead of turning her head in the direction of the voice, she looked up to observe the zhen bird's reactions. It didn't dive towards the intruder and even more strangely, it didn't seem to notice the unsolicited presence at all. That alone filled her with unease, though outwardly, she kept the mask of indifference.
"I'm but a humble, travelling merchant, though if you are after a coin, you will have no luck here today," she answered politely, though from within her came the suspicion that wasn't what the stranger came for. Curious about his reasoning, she halted her horse, got off and rested her hand on the wrist cuff, ready to retaliate, should she spot any movement too close to her. "I do not have anything worth stealing."
"I'm not interested in stealing when there's nothing to lose for the owner. But haven't you heard if you have a weapon along, you'll have to use it sooner or later? For a humble merchant, you are quite armed. Don't you trust people enough? I'm impressed you haven't panicked either at my presence or whatever you can feel in your heart." He let it go content with the steadiness of her spirit she managed to maintain despite the disturbance, the strangeness, the dark side of things at that place. "So there's a chance that you do trust people, but only when the distance disappears completely. Or when it's non-existent." Like at the present moment because he hadn't shown himself yet. "Will you change your attitude to me when you see me? For now, I like the way it is. I bet you too. But you have to move forward, and I won't dare keeping you at the same spot."
A small black snake hissed from the nearest tree branch. It was looking clearly at her, but with no intention of telling her it had been disturbed by her sudden stop or that it was going to try its force at taming her life with its fangs. It was just looking at her, too curious and too understanding for an ordinary snake.
is this some kind of trick? (from yanzhu, if u don't mind writing with more than one character of mine)
↪ PROMPT
The question caused nothing but his laughter, bright like the lights above their heads. It spilled onto the steps of the swimming pool, the buckets, which used to be full of treats for the lovely dwellers she definitely adored. "No trick, it's only the effect of water, illumination and my swimming manner. I adore training in the ocean." The ocean was what made his sunburnt features a confirmation he wasn't joking. They had that summertime fire in their delicacy, which became a brilliant when it united with the wild blue of his eyes. They welcomed her excited face once he managed to remove the goggles he didn't really use during his thrilling diving. That was why she got that exotic picture in her mind. And his long, black hair was certainly what added to the image of a creature… His hand reached for one of the flippers at his side, and he tapped her hands playfully with it. “Put them on and you may become a beautiful mermaid yourself!” A tender smile touched his lips. “And I’ll fall victim to your ocean charm.”
why are we whispering?
↪ PROMPT
It would be quite natural for them to whisper after all Yeong's voice being spent at preventing the scene he has already witnessed and would not want to name again – Vine jumping off the roof. He did not see the very first copy of the scene from the start before, but the consequences have been imprinted in his mind for too long to know what to do when and if the next time happens again. And he has thought that the time has come to act. Vine inviting him into an elevator, their reaching the top floor, getting even higher up the stairs, opening the door and seeing stone and glass corals of the city ocean... these were the signs for apprehension, but when his companion leaped his way up to the edge and turned around himself only on one heel... Yeong's instinct of survival just screamed somewhere in the sack of his heart. If he saw him falling to the ground again... Anxiety can be a great thing. Without even knowing how, he shooed the other down with the strongest pull of persistence he could ever have, with such confidence that despite he acted on impulse he remembered Vine's wide eyes staring at him back when it was demonstrated. Though the latter was just taken aback, perplexed, curious and consumed with his mate's emotion that he managed to share and feel it with his own eternal soul. The stuntman was good at it, and the curse inside Yeong was good at shivering at that kind of talent. It could gather sins, but it never saw anything eating its own trophy. Never mind such a trophy could be considered a virtue or just madness. But it mattered that the feast could have breaks. After several pagan dances of warning and active waves with his arms, Yeong dragged the other down and straightened him with his hands to cause his friend to switch his contemplate-and-consume activity to another kind of deed called commenting. The comment drowned in Yeong's high-pitched speech about his nerves and way of existence in a situation of emergency at first, but even if it did not require loudness, it still managed to sink into the young man's alarmed thoughts to actually perform its information function after a short while. It was meant to do so. Vine noticed how Yeong watched each his movement in the outburst of his worry. His lips and their gesture could not stay unchewed, not when Yeong was rambling about knowing he could be the only effective rescuer and carer for later. Nobody was going to jump off the roof. He brought the stained one to that place for another reason.
The demon picks the rims of Yeong's ears in a gentle manner, and his long fingers push them forward just enough for them to make it look like Yeong's being all attention. There is silence at first flying in the echo of buzzing streets and alleys. Then Vine's voice comes in a whisper again, now against Yeong's left ear hit with the other's breath so peculiar. It has never occurred to Yeong there can be this kind of breath: still, but strong as if its master has been running several miles or completed a construction of a fortress with very thick walls. "We're whispering because this is how you can really hear the thunder." And it is not a joke, a line of a cloud cuts the clarity of the day closer to the south from where they have been expressing themselves to confirm a possibility of getting the sound needed. The cloud is small, and it is bright, soft. Bringing doubts... Another question has just started to form on Yeong's tongue when it happens. The sound. The thunder. Very, very loud. It makes him turn around and search for its source as it seems to be so sharp, so near, almost at his side when the ball of noise reaches its peak and shakes his ribs with its force. Vine only reflects his wide eyes and returns to where he has been standing. He looks at the listener with no grin on his face, but tension alluring and beautiful in his eyes. They follow Yeong and his attempts to find what can be found till they call him for an answer or rather a dare to give them more strength, more ground to live. More certainty in that he is the key to the solution of this puzzle. Grumbling and scared attempts in the end, but admired and stubborn. This is Yeong: he can be a man reaching for the stars when he wants. Vine's fingers give a click, and lightening crowns his silhouette in the sky. The thunder rolls again. "Let's continue our meeting, shall we?" It seems to roll down Vine's voice. But the thunder will find itself in Yeong too.
you don't secretly hate me, right? ( needed to be asked, since it’s yeong and his insecurities against the world, lol )
↪ PROMPT
Right?
The question is so loud despite the torrent can reduce it to a whisper on Yeong's lips. But they are trembling. They cannot help but shiver at the taste of sparkling metal left by the blade of each his word pronounced. They have been silent for too long, kept in the oblivion of forced patience and now they find no strength to bear it anymore. He has doomed himself. Confession after confession... once his talks with Vine started, got personal little by little, revealing his hopes and dreams to find himself among the others who were just the food for his curse, it became evident his voice would start to speak and go against the bog rumbling in his throat. The taste of the unknown, that power contradicting everything he knew before would call to his will drowning heavily in dead indifference and suffering tiredness, pull it up to the light of hope and let it shout at least one time. One time. He has decided one time – a blessing and another sort of curse, for he can fall back into despair so fast - can be surely enough. Only one time before he falls and returns to his grey, detached days... But he knows he will not stop now, for heart is bleeding and he cannot stand the view of red on his bare hands, even though he keeps looking at it, at them and how tightly they are held by the other bare pair. Vine's hands... they feel so burning, scorching, a river of liquid lava that bends the mind and imagination, even in the fever of wild determination to hold on. His heart can bleed into it and run forward... he hears its motion... Perhaps, this is called Heaven when heat becomes so fresh and hard it breaks the pressure and the weight of the world in invisible cracks and ruins. They prickle somewhere in the layers of his flesh and bones, they often have, but he can tell the truth. They will become the sand and then the dust. He cannot take his eyes away from it, from this bundle of their mutual hold against Vine's abdomen. There has been too much weight for him to carry and now it is falling apart at his attempt to keep it as if it would be able to stop his companion's pain and sorrow from his only naked touch. This is what Vine is supposed to feel right now, right? This is why he has been crying dryly against his back, with only tears in his voice, for it is the voice of his heart bleeding for them both. This is why he has asked this question. It would be so right to hate him for what he has done. But as the world falls apart in these firm, confident hands that melt his he has to admit he is not sure any longer he had the right idea of feelings, unsure to the extent he wants to watch their hands together for eternity, how they get consumed by stillness and this kind of skin-to-skin understanding. None of them are alone. This reminds him of smoke he caught during the bike ride – they are the turn that cannot be caught. But it can be taken. Once he lands on its surface.
Rather, on the surface of what is assumed to be a belly, but may not look exactly like it. It still has its shape under the folds of Vine's buttoned shirt, but if they both peer into the only opening made for the fingers to slide inside, there is just the mist of darkness at its place. The darkness invites, it allows to enter it, but it becomes solid when he brings Yeong's palm closer and lets it lie flat against himself. This touch without gloves he has asked to perform. Yes, it struck at first, filled the air with smoke as if Yeong was able to scorch his way through, but he felt no pain. It tickled - the sensation was slow, gradual. It was natural. It was equal to the horizon getting clearer once you waved your hand for the better view in the mist or just two shades of one and the same colour finally getting brighter because they united. There can be a lot of descriptions, but he is not strong with any. He enjoys things as they are, with no abstract notions.
"I don't hate you secretly, and I don't hate you at all. I prefer you near holding me this way." A cloud of his breath smiles in the air with excited rest till it dissipates into a trace as pinkish as rainbow raindrops falling from the sunny sky. Their crystal lines explode before them, against the ground where red drops from the so called wound cannot be distinguished from the designs of the sunset. Yeong's hands tremble no longer, they are no longer cold. But he keeps holding them as they get acquainted with what his hard human shape hides. His demon soul so exposed in the rain.
[ starter for @eclavigne ! ]
yeong had decided today was the day he tried to fight at least one of his problematic behaviors, such as avoiding people.
he had stood in front of his door for approximately four minutes before leaving. had put his gloves on, taken them off, put them on again. had told himself three separate times that he was going home, turned around, and then kept walking anyway because the part of him that was tired of being reasonable had apparently staged a quiet coup sometime around his third drink. it wasn’t graceful. it wasn’t the kind of bravery that looked good from the outside. but it was his, and somewhere underneath the anxiety and the elaborate justifications he constructed to make retreat sound like wisdom, there was a small and stubborn flicker of something that felt almost like pride.
he had gone out. alone. on purpose.
even though it was for his own safety, or maybe he was just talking himself into it. the way you always did when something was buried so deep that the real reason parted the earth you were standing on, swallowing you like quicksand. he hated being lonely. but he had also found a specific comfort in it over the years, the kind that stopped feeling like a compromise and started feeling like a preference. being alone meant there was no one to take into consideration, no tolerance needed, no careful parcours around the possibility of accidental contact. he had built an entire life inside that logic and it fit him the way things fit when you’ve worn them long enough that you forget they weren’t made for you.
but that was the contrast to everything he longed for. had always longed for, quietly, in the part of himself he didn’t examine too closely. the comfort of a person. the specific warmth of proximity that didn’t cost him anything. the touch of a person, as innocent as it could get. the kind that other people gave and received without thinking, without bracing, without the immediate and involuntary inventory of what was about to flood in. he wasn’t used to being this drunk. but courage had to come from somewhere, right?
he had made it inside. that counted for something.
the bar was warm and loud and full of people doing what people did when they were off the clock — drinking themselves softer, laughing too hard at things that weren't quite that funny, leaning into each other with the easy physicality of those who had never had to think twice about what skin contact cost. yeong had found a corner and stayed in it and nursed something amber-colored and told himself this was fine, this was normal, this was what people did on ordinary evenings when they decided to exist among other humans.
and then the sins had started arriving.
they always did in enclosed spaces. the air in bars was thick with it, not just alcohol and smoke but the specific residue of want and regret and the particular desperation of people trying to feel something different than what they felt at home. envy drifted off a woman watching her ex across the room. lust moved through the space in slow waves, attaching itself to nothing in particular, just ambient and unavoidable. wrath sat in the corner near the back, quiet and patient, wearing the face of a man who had decided something but not yet done it.
yeong had absorbed all of it before he'd finished his second drink.
by the third, his mouth tasted like a bar fight he hadn't been in and a longing that wasn't his and at least two varieties of grief. the noise had started to feel physical, not just sound but pressure, the concentrated humanity of it pressing in from every direction, and his ability running its inventory without being asked, the way it always did, reaching and finding and cataloguing and never once stopping for his permission.
he had picked up his glass and walked outside.
no announcement. no dramatic exit. he just left, the way you leave a room when the air has become genuinely unbreathable and staying would cost more than he had. the door swung shut behind him and the noise dropped and the cold hit him all at once and he stood there on the pavement with his back against the wall and his eyes closed and his mouth full of other people's worst selves.
he stayed like that for a while.
breathing. waiting for his own lungs to remember what they felt like without company. it took longer than it should have. the sins didn't leave cleanly, they lingered the way smoke lingers, clinging to the inside of his chest, and he could still taste the grief of the woman by the window and the wrath of the man in the corner and the particular flavour of lust that had no single source, just floated through enclosed spaces like weather. he pressed the back of his head against the brick and swallowed and waited and breathed.
this was what brave cost him.
this was always what it cost.
the night air was doing something to him, the particular quality of seoul after midnight, when the city stopped pretending to be civilized and just became what it was. neon bleeding into wet pavement. distant music from somewhere he couldn’t identify. a couple arguing half a block away in voices too low to make out the words but loud enough to carry the shape of the feeling. yeong leaned against the wall of the building he’d ended up outside of and tilted his head back and looked at the sky and let himself exist in it, just for a moment, without managing it. he was still doing that when something fell out of the sky.
not gradually. not with any particular warning. just… a figure ? dropping from somewhere above with the specific lack of announcement of something that had either jumped or been pushed and hadn’t bothered to negotiate with gravity on the way down. it landed in front of him with a sound that yeong’s brain initially filed under extremely bad before his eyes caught up and registered that whatever had just happened, the person responsible for it was… fine ? apparently. disturbingly fine, given the height involved.
yeong stared. his tongue registered something before the rest of him did. the air had changed in the half second before impact, a shift he couldn’t name the way he could name sins, this wasn’t wrath or greed or any of the seven he catalogued daily. it was something older. something that had been burning for longer than the words for it had existed. it sat at the back of his throat like the aftertaste of something ancient and slightly wrong, and his ability was reaching for it the way it always reached for things, trying to find the edge of it, trying to classify it. it didn’t classify. it just… existed. dense and warm and faintly luminous in a way that had nothing to do with light.
yeong looked down at the figure on the ground. looked back up at the building. looked back down. “are you…” he said, with the careful precision of someone who was drunk but not quite drunk enough for this, “alive ?”
There was an attempt to answer that very important question to any mortal being, only one attempt to confirm an unbelievable assumption somewhere in the back of the mind of one of those mortal beings. There was one and only attempt of that man lying pinned to the pavement that proved alcohol could become the means of soberness. It was a long attempt of course. It started slowly, but surely, on the tips of the stranger's stirring fingers. But it had to retreat when his arms did not find enough force to rise from his sprawled rest. It was obliged to take a pause once they managed to bend themselves and hang over his shrinking body. The attempt had to try again to climb an invisible wall of air and awkward, broken gestures before it turned into an actual result. The man lifted his two thumbs up. In the dim light of the lane, they shone like Olympic fire in those black gloves he actually wore. The fall did not seem to have spoiled them too at all – the leather was glamorously smooth like silk.
And yet, the quality of the life preserved had decreased. The victim's arms looked firm, but stillness was the only medicine they could provide him with. Any movement, even a trifle one, made it too evident his breath could not find a proper way out. Every vibration suffocated him as if his chest was cracked beneath the layers of his clothes – his black jacket and suit - and the cracks were only meant to grow to strike the instincts of survival with the force of red locked in the shade of his shirt. Something definitely grew. It grew from this fall, from this very spot, from under his back. It could not be tracked down. But it was there, it let the world know about itself openly without a shame or sense of threat with its mere presence. It felt beautiful and dear like a flower in a garden, too alluring and charming to be burdened with temporal affairs. It had always been there. There were only some days and some nights, glimpses when you could contemplate its greatness and... get swallowed by it.
It did not consume you though. If there was no agreement, no striving to disappear, it respected the viewer's existence too well. It said so loud and clear in the core of Yeong's being that he could not have a doubt. How and when he found himself inside of it – it was up to him to wonder and ask about once they were through, but for then, he could only listen and listen to what it felt to go around in his birthday suit and be free. Like empty bottles could have no liquid, like wet floors could get no stain, he could not get any trace of what he has been saving within himself so unwillingly. No sin flew around and buzzed the wishes and curses of those it used to belong to. The sky of his consciousness was absolutely clear. It was bright and happy and shining with all the colours of passion sweet on the petals of black roses he could see when that something finally left him and a sigh escaped the stranger's lips.
He seemed to have suddenly relaxed or fallen asleep, for all his activity dissolved in the lack of movement, but then he lifted his back and sat down pulling his legs till he could lean onto his knees with his elbows. For a second, his shadow reminded of a rose getting smaller, folding itself and its dark magic of charm till it became a typical shadow too far from Yeong's it had blessed with their short unity - the absolute, sacred emptiness of his shadow glistened with gold in the depth of the man's eyes who stared at the other with long-brewed attention. It got its satisfaction clearly once it got noticed. But it was still attention, just more obvious now that the man opened his eyes and swept away the frown of damage. He lifted a thumb up once again. "Alive..."
He swung a little back and then forth craning his neck with a cracking sound and deeper sigh. It jumped into a cough, but was meant to clear his throat from any remnants of hoarseness. Then he rubbed the back of his head, then his face muttering the only suitable business idea in their situation. "I need a drink. Will you help me to stand up?" And he offered his hand.
@eclavigne . . . ❛ [ lock ] ❜ sender and receiver lock eyes across the room / x
the red drips from his cufflinks. terrifyingly, flatteringly glistening, whenever caught by the dim illumination that spilled on it. slipping from nocturnal breezes into the stale air of hedonistic crowds under the gloom of posh chandeliers. plush carpeted stairs muting his steps upon taken ascend --- the static buzz of a celebration hits the crime lord --- received in the manner of being mildly inconvenienced by its existence altogether. his chest puffed, inflated by larger, suppressed inhales --- clad in starless zenith of a firmament to adorn an exhausted stature.
pushing past accumulated crowds, own suited shoulders brush a dozen, in less received irritation than usual. tony's attention has been preoccupied, pre-conquered and spun its web around something much too fresh on a conscious, to be discarded with any ease. it bleeds into restrained restlessness, drowning out in the midst of a full venue. breaths taken in haste, in an attempt to force own pulse into lowering. the flex of a calloused palm, faint traces of a darker, faded color painting his skin. no, tonight the crime lord waltzed to an entirely different symphony, than the one echoing through halls of ancient manor's splendor. an event, held in and organized by the crime lord --- or at least in his name. what ridiculous game. what ridiculous sport !
piano concerto's allegro frames the crime lord's taken steps --- carrying the fresh sharp scent of cedar and clinging smoke alike. incense sticks to him, for had his hands not just . . . . ? no, no ! surely not ! through murmuring grapes of people and worn diamonds --- half-hearted nods and something akin to intentional ignorance, tony's elbow finds the smooth wooden countertop of a bar. the man on the other side leans in gracefully, before nodding to the singular word that falls from the crime lord's lips --- his hues grazing the polished mahogany in a way, that announced an uncomfortable degree of alertness to still having not ebbed away from his senses. from lowered crown, a misplaced strand falls into his sight and goes unnoticed. hands occupied by fishing for a cigarette, as he wets his lips. crystalline glass is placed in front of him wordlessly and without any acknowledgement, as his lighter clicks, swift and sharp, lighting the tobacco. the crime lord, for once, in contemplation about whether to claim the pride, in what had seemingly cost him a portion of his nerves --- and washed against his countenance like something related to relief --- but too far removed, to consider it clearly in such positive affirmation.
as if electricity to continue flowing through own veins, gaze darts, glides and musters the crowds --- far too absorbed in their own delight. except, for whoever had just crossed their hues with tony's. chopin descends into his maddening allegro maestoso --- and the crime lord is about to surrender his rattled senses to the only thing of eternal and intimate comfort to a spirit as tortured. but the man, across the room, holds his gaze. decides not to let go. like an anomaly, unable to be ignored at once. cigarette smoke curls, until tony loosens his momentary freeze of own body, taking an inhaled drag veiled by owned indifference. who would freely abandon their attention to the music --- and rather aim it at a man, who sought an absolution, he knew, he could not attain ?
He can wonder about it for as long as he wants – but! The music keeps floating, the cigarette keeps burning, and his breath keeps looking for sound soil to grab and stay afloat in this stiffened, restless body too hot to stay such outside. It feels cold and strange, so alien. Can it be a part of the bar counter? Though, it is not up to him to decide and not up to this master of vivid eyes that do not let him in peace. They are too intriguing, aren't they? This sharp drive they can hold shapes a whole body of the eternal masterpiece of classics, and when it is discovered, the sounds of human heaven found and sacred for a spiritual touch of mortals become only the waves that drown and drown and drown in this vast ocean of the man's steady stare. He can easily shake the melody as if it is a bottle – a bottle with a surprise. What will be left when he stops shaking it? What kind of foam? What kind of miracle? Or disaster? It is enough for him to tilt his head and dive into a shadow of amber lamps above the row of leather armchairs to make the magic of any natural curiosity work. Just hide the center of excitement and you will try to catch its presence. And such races... He welcomes them, at least, so willing to participate that it becomes a game for anyone. The darkness of illumination starts to match the darkness of awoken greed, and its hunger finds its home in the blackness it meets on its way – primarily, the blackness of his jacket so brilliant and dear when he moves around the cocktail table and calls to follow his approach with the anticipation of his easy steps. They carry him through the absence of the crowd – a funny contradiction at this place – and he gets closer and closer. They get closer and closer with no trace of time and distance. Only the disturbance of observation matters, and so does the storm of his stare that swallows the lord and his crimes with no kind of pleasure and no kind of sorrow, but like a drop that has shone and shines because it can.
No words are needed to express that, to stress the fact and start a conversation that will change the rules of learning. He will not break the boundaries of wild beauty in its dance of privacy. His eyes can tell a lot, but the story is written by more than one man. He can respect that. And he can enjoy that. Even his own cigarette lit once before becomes too attractive in his mouth when his lips stress the line of unusual boldness. It is not born for the night and not for the second. It is not born for this young man he must bow to with everything he has before doing anything to him. It is a treat not so obvious, but found like pearls of true music in the contact with his eyes that is offered once again when he takes a stand nearby, almost arm-to-arm. The guest leans against his counter, lifts his hand, which can be noticed gloved – a black suit and now black leather able to look patent against his strong knuckles - and takes his cigarette out. It glistens between them, against his face sending things to Hell he owns, becomes too bright under the ignition of his attention to the very tip of ash. The ash turns into a little sun in the gust of smoke blown out and the choice he carries right to the lord's lips. The cigarette waits for them in the air of scents it will never get lost in, not for as long as it is held between the long fingers of the treating party.
Will the host take it?
It was often that the paths of jianghu lead through barren lands and seemingly desolate villages and Jingshu was long accustomed to hearing nothing but the hoofbeats of her steed, riding hours into the night, completely undisturbed. She's not defenceless, one of her hairpins held a poison dart and one more was hid in her wrist cuff. Should both of these precautions fail her, there was one more weapon -- a dark feathered bird circling above her. It provided protection from wild beasts and bandits alike. Under the cover of night, it's almost undetectable, had it not been for the quiet rustle of its feathers.
Whoever moved to her right made no sound. Easily keeping the pace with the horse, they made sure their steps disappeared into the clopping of hooves against the ground. In the darkness, Jingshu more felt the presence than saw the figure, yet still scolded herself for noticing the intruder too late. It could have costed her life. Still, she donned an inquiring smile, hardly looking at the stranger. "Silent steps, soundless breath..." a survivalist, "Which assassin sect do you belong to?"
starter for @eclavigne
"I don't belong to any." Such a nonchalant answer it was! So close to her ear that it could get as red and heavy as blood pounding wildly in her heart in reply to borderless darkness of the night around her. No matter how hard she could try, she would never find them – him– with her eyes. But she still had a chance to test her luck, do the impossible, make a revelation. Otherwise, what would be the point of giving her a clue with the male kind of his voice? She could give answers to that question by herself if she wanted. And she did want that. He could feel the start of her want to get close to him and the whole sudden truth at the level of its very roots. They had served as a trigger to their encounter. And he did not hide it either. She could feel his hand within the cage of her ribs holding the pulse of her emotions. "But there are enough of those that want my assistance. What about you?"
Rains in the ocean
Kaeleena has always possessed a mind as sharp as her scalpel : cold, analytical, ruthless in its pursuit of understanding. To her, the world is a puzzle of flesh and bone, a structure to be dissected, examined, and, when necessary, corrected. If there is divinity to be found, it is not in gods or souls but in the perfections / or abnormalities / she intends to create. Perhaps if she had played more with her sisters instead of terrorizing them, instead of making them her test subjects back in the gardens behind their church, she would better grasp what Vine is trying to explain: that souls choose their bodies, that something intangible binds them together. She scoffs at the notion, arms still crossed, her expression shifting from an exaggerated pout before into a smirk as he mentions her cheeks. Her head tilts slightly, amusement in her eyes. "And how, pray tell, did my soul choose this body, then? Is a soul as bendable and breakable as flesh, to you? If my soul decides the connection to my bones should terminate then… Is this how I pathetically die?" Ah. Vine is playing but he isn’t wrong. She does miss him. Not many venture into her hidden laboratories deep in the forest to spend time with her and fewer leave them. Her fingers still hold the scalpel as she starts playing with it, the movement delicate, almost affectionate. She drags its blade absentmindedly through the freshly opened wound on the table before them, the way a maiden would trace patterns in the sand with a flower stem. "Of course, I have missed you," she murmurs, her voice smooth and slow. "Everyone else is so dreadfully dull. They do not wish to play with me anymore, did you know? But I must know, do you watch other girls slice intestines open when you're not with me?" The dead are silent companions, obedient but difficult. The living bend and break so beautifully beneath her hands yet they bore her. And Vine, well, he is neither.
"Is there any moment I'm not with you, mon chou?" When she tilts her head, he does the same with his to make them a perfect match that can be played with as well. He can tilt his head to the same side following her look shy and not really, but so wanting to be shy that he takes it for such, and he can direct his head to the very opposite angle in relation to her own to ignite her mood even more, to open up for him to take care of her heart so carelessly thrown into the oblivion by the other human beings and with so much conflicting emotions by her sister. These cameras in this room known as a laboratory and also a cell serve not only for detecting every move this young talent can perform. He takes care of them too to turn these days together into tapes that he can present to his companion. They won't even need to have a recorder to watch them. He knows that Kae enjoys watching them in a way that only a demon can offer. He brings his finger to the other's hand and pressed onto it with his very tip to make this tool go deeper into the dead flesh.
He smiles charmingly. "If I'm not right here physically, I'm always with you. I watch you and your experiments and whisper devious things into your perfectly organized mind. I can even have you in your sleep. Desires are a powerful thing." He brushes the tip of her chin. "They make this body choosing possible and may lead to death."
ㅤ—ㅤ"Welcome to Hell Hotel Resorts, you can call me Cerberus I will be here for you through your eternal stay. What can I do for you?" Ara doesn’t need to look up to know what’s standing in front of her. Another freshly damned soul freshly arriving. Right. The procedure. She barely suppresses a sigh as she flips open the massive, leather-bound registry book—its pages filled with names, all written in shifting ink that squirms like it’s trying to escape. A quick glance tells her everything: Minor infractions. Petty sins. Nothing interesting. Ugh. Another one. It’s been like this all week. A parade of the barely damned. People who fudged their taxes a little, left shopping carts in parking spaces, hit "Reply All" on emails when they knew they shouldn't. It’s honestly boring boring boring. Ara leans on the counter, tapping her pen against the marble. “Standard package, one room, single, died alone” she mutters, writing the damned’s fate in her usual bored scrawl. It’s all becoming so repetitive. She used to get interesting cases. War criminals, cursed souls, full-fledged monsters. The kind of damned that made this resort fun. The kind that screamed in ancient tongues or tried to bargain their way into a worse fate just to spite the gods. But these days? It’s just not like it used to be. "Oh and you must check the pool activities, here is the pamphlet. Have a great doom." Ara waves them off with a lazy flick of her wrist as the customer follows the hallway. “You’ll get used to the loneliness,” she says to no one in particular. “Or not.” A shrug. Another name, another soul, another snooze-fest. She spins the book back around, dusts some infernal ash off the counter, and waits for the next one.. or at least pretends to. A presence rolls into the room—but it isn't no customer but the Boss himself ( @eclavigne ) . Ara looks look up, still tapping her pen against the desk, her other hand burried in the palm of her hand. "You, here. What an honor Sir. Is it an official visit for you to announce I finally get promoted?" Oh she's insolent with that smile of hers.
He just thriving in all these smiles can be insolent too, so insolent she cannot imagine. "You are promoted, notre chiot, but your promotion has been keeping you here." Tapping at the desk with the four fingers of his right hand where a snake hisses from the form of his ring, he beckons her chin with his left hand that dares to scratch it from the bottom. He knows she can bite him right away. She knows she can scratch her teeth against his entity right away, and these have been the rules of their fun since the day she was created. I need more assistants, one of his brothers announced suddenly once, that one who decided to play a police department in this establishment. So, his request was taken into consideration by the Council and fulfilled to provide him a good number of nothing else but puppies. Dogs are loyal, he said. Ara is a perfect example of this passionate statement. "Knowing this, I've brought you a reward. Your craving for adventure has been so constant that I couldn't resist it." Immediately, without any sign or attention of its master, a small black lion walking on its hinder paws, roars from the unseen ground and a large, thick, very dusty book lands between the two creatures of Hell. It looks rather old, in a shabby condition, with too many bookmarks from different centuries attached to yellow-brownish pages that are about to get torn or fall of at any touch. The Boss, Vine by name, dealing with the entertainment part of Hell Resorts reminds of this very entertainment too well with such an object. He is pretty serious about it though. His striking blue eyes throw lightening of pestering excitement through this temporary cloud of oldness sinking down little by little, and this magnetic tightness along the line of his lips pulls at the string of greatness to be handled. He taps at the book with his palm letting out more dust. "This is a volume from the Line of Purgatory, a list of those who can't decide where to go and what to do for their own human reasons. Usually, we let them just be and take their time, but I pushed my proposal into the my colleagues' rows and they agreed to act around with this try to organize the masses out of anyone's market. You can't tell anyone's preferences here if you read it, no sins and no virtues, but you are free to figure them out in whatever way you like."
"You're right, dear. Wasting opportunities isn't something I make a habit of." A content smile tugs at the corner of Kaeleena's lips. Life, death, and everything in between have laid countless chances at her feet, and every day brings new, uncertain paths to pursue her erratic goals. But the next comment causes her brow to lift slightly, despite her best efforts to remain composed. When he implies Gaya, Kaeleena feels—jealousy. A rather juvenile emotion, though she won’t admit it. Vine spending time with Gaya without her presence gnaws at her. Jealous, plain and simple. She rolls her eyes. “Does it?” she questions, though she already knows the answer. Gaya never wasted opportunities either—it was how they were raised, like swans trained to glide effortlessly toward what they wanted. Arms folded, Kaeleena watches Vine work over the corpse with the detached, clinical gaze of someone well-versed in both science and the occult. Vine is her bridge, the missing piece she needs to unite the material and immaterial worlds, to bend the human race to her will and slowly evolve towards a new species of her own. To bring the dead back to life is only one step in the grander scheme. It must be. "My experiments have yielded many successes until now," she says, her voice tight with frustration, "but this one... it's taking longer than I anticipated." She glares at the lifeless body before her, a faint trace of irritation in her tone. "The corpses I revive, they never survive long enough. Like this pitiful one here. What am I missing? I can make any body functional—dead or artificial. Rewiring the brain, restarting the heart—these things come easily after so many years of research." For her, it’s a solved problem, one she should have mastered. But her thoughts deepen, her eyes narrowing. “Is it the connection between the body and soul I fail to understand? Is it what gets in my way?” Vine manipulates souls, something she could never achieve herself as a mere human playing god.
"It is." He's honest with her, blunt, and getting straight to the core of things without referring to any detail of their interaction and her views that could be involved before the very answer is made. "But it's also more than this. You fail to understand the relations between souls and bodies: how souls choose them, what attracts them and what keeps this connection to the very end of life." The guest leans forward to the desk, places his elbows onto its smooth surface and then locks his fingers together for his chin to rest on them while he's looking straight at the other with his tongue licking slightly the line of his lips. He points at her innocently tilting his head. "You're frowning and pouting at the same time. Your cheeks look very round and they are red. You must see yourself in the mirror."
Discreetly and not, his hips start to swing slowly from one side to the other and back. "You are a real threat to this corpse, but it can't feel guilty and revive again under your stern, silent request to do so, Kae. Have you missed me?" He stretches out his hand to tug at one of her sleeves. "Say you've missed me."
Calista’s mind drifts to the shoreline as the motor purrs beneath them, a steady hum carrying them along the highway. The scent of the sea, faint but growing stronger, curls around her senses like an invitation. The Lamia has always liked the sea, she enjoys infinite spaces in general. The sea, the night, the forest. It is strange, this place he mentioned, with its vibrant chaos, it is oh so removed from her world of quiet and macabre solitude. A realm of beaches, reckless abandon, and creatures who revel in the present moment, basking in fleeting joys. It is a life foreign to her, a life she has never truly understood or sought in her 600 years of tragic and violent existence. The idea of finding herself among those restless beings is laughable, almost absurd and yet that is exactly where he is taking her. What is it, then? That slowly guides her towards this life he is offering? Envy? Curiosity? Trust? It isn’t her place to mingle, to laugh, to drink, to enjoy life ... those are distractions for simpler creatures, are they not? But there is always him. His presence steadies her in a way she cannot quite articulate. She doesn’t need the noise, the revelry, or the endless parade of meaningless connections, his company is enough. Just the two of them is enough, the Earl and the Queen, above rules and edges. There is a safety in the intimacy and the history of them, a serenity she cannot find anywhere else nor openly admit to herself or to him. Her golden eyes drift to the horizon. Perhaps, in another life, she might join him more readily... But to her, life itself has become a puzzle, an enigma she cannot manage to solve and put an end to. Her immortality weighs on her, a heavy cloak that makes the idea of indulging in its trivial pleasures seem like a waste. Still, she cannot deny the appeal. The image of the two of them, alone on the water, the waves lapping against the hull of the boat, it teases the edges of her mind and reminds her of her Grand Escape in 1875. Days after she got captured before her trial for her crimes against the witches and the creatures of the Night, he came to help her escape and through the sea, they went. She can see herself there—leaning against the rail, her hair freed from its binds and catching the ocean breeze, his voice filling the quiet between them as it always does. The thought is delicate, almost. Her lips press into a faint line, the ghost of a smile. "Swimming, yachting, rubbing elbows with stinky werewolves and foolish mermaids… You do know I despise these insufferable cockroaches that are the Creatures of the Night." She prettty much despises anyone but him anyways - also she is a Creature of the Night herself, ironic. "It does sound like quite the fulfilling existence for you though, doesn’t it, Dear?" Before the wind can whisk her words away, she adds, softer now, "Do you truly find a liking in such a life? The ceaseless tumult, the unending… camaraderie? I fail to see how." There is a sincerity behind her words, a quiet attempt to bridge the gap between her current state of mind and what could be a new chapter. She isn’t sure why she wants to know. Vine has always been a social one even though it's never for free. Perhaps it’s because she’s grasping for something / anything / that might make sense of this strange life he’s introducing her to. "I suppose I can see the allure—the simplicity of it all. To manage a business and never find oneself in pursuit of Death." There’s a faint hesitation in her tone, as if she’s testing the weight of her own words. Her, who has never known anything Simple.
"Simplicity, complexity. Fuck it." He releases one of his hands, catches hers somewhere on his waist and directs them to the left pocket of his jacket. There, his fingers beckon hers to roam around the inside groping for his golden cigarette lighter. They could pick it up at once, but filling the empty space of the cloth is a treat he would never miss. "I've just gone through it, that's all. No liking or disliking. I've been living within a moment, and it doesn't know any end or beginning. I can't tell when I was created myself because I have never been something or someone -whatever you may call me – with a start. I have just been here and there, everywhere," his wave with his second hand embraces the space around them, "I just am. And I will be such because I am such at the moment that never ends." He grins back at her with a risk dancing on the line of his lips, on the tips of his fangs she teased him with once when they tasted blood together: she did it her way, and he did it his own. "There are no restrictions in perception for me. Life and death are only notions that I can attach to one thing or another when the matter concerns souls from the cycle on Earth, and it is so because this is something I can deal with at the moment. I'm in a rush of things, and the rush," he pulls out their hands holding the lighter in the other's grip. He lets her tips trace an intricate design of his belonging: all the curves and lines that comprise the image of vine among roses, feel their depth play in the light that may come even from the dark and whisper the impression of temptation and pleasure from deep satisfaction because you can possess such a treasure. Then, he lets her find her way up to the cap and throw it off with such a rough lack of care to its function. There is freedom in such an approach. It is so full of meaning as there is such a definite idea of what is going to be done next. And yet, there is no guarantee that this action will happen. It hasn't happened yet. Everything can be changed. Everything can be done like they want. "The rush is the rush," he scratches the wheel, and a fire tongue, so small and delicate, rises into the air that feels steady despite their speed on the road, despite their position against each other and the wind. Despite everything. This flame can be only like in the demon's wide eyes reflecting it and her eyes feeding it with her attention. "It is a process. There can be anything in it."
He increases the speed and brings one of his hands back to the motorcycle wheel to tap it against the metal. He gives a laugh. "I'm such a man. You are such a woman. You have enough opportunities to make it your way, but you are also making mine. And if mine doesn't suppose death as it is supposed to be, Hell you know what it can be for you then. Perhaps you were deceived long time ago concerning it and this immortality you all talk about."
Gaya stops her pacing momentarily, her gaze locking on him as he leans back, arms stretched casually along the back of the sofa. His words, his relaxed posture— He's way too comfortable, isn't he. A brow raises above her eye as she considers his words. "I think," she begins, voice low and measured, "you enjoy this far more than you should." Her head tilts, just enough to imply curiosity, her arms still crossed but no longer rigid, fingers tapping lightly in thought. "You say you have me talking to you. First of all, ew. I don't do heart soothing talks. What am I, Twelve?" Yes, that was a little too intimately phrased for her. And well, he's right and she's a bit too stubborn to admit it. Not that she hates it, being listened to is nice, it's not common for her to blabber or expose much of her thoughts. Not that she's looking for someone do to so or craves an ear or attention either but it comes pretty naturally when they do talk. "And second of all, is that really all you satisfy yourself with, my thoughts and complainings? I don’t believe you,” she continues, eyes never leaving him. “Not fully, at least... The last time someone said they could listen to me as much as needed, they used everything I told them to attack me at the first little inconvenience in our friendly relationship. If only I had a bigger heart I would have had space in there to mourn them. I put their wife in jail instead. Now, that was highly satisfying." Oh it was. "Tell me you got at least one person you hold dear so we're equals if you ever backstab me.” A smile on her lips, and ... a joke. It's a joke. Maybe
"There is no need for that." He pulls himself off the seat and leans forward again intertwining his fingers and keeping his elbows on his thighs. "You can simply ask me not to stab you, do you harm or use anything you say in private against you. You can make a deal with me." He lifts his hand and spreads it open and wide before her while a bingo expression on his face points at such a discovery for her. They are not in court, but this is the way she likes to handle things and he enjoys this trick of their profession far more than he should. One of the reasons is that it can become very intimate and straightforward like in their case. This is going to be another dare for her who has thrown herself into it. "You won't have to believe me. You'll have a contract clause for any consequence breaking this kind of agreement. But I wonder if we can play it differently." His eyes wink at her with their glistening getting brighter with enthusiasm very enticing. It feels hot like his presence and this place on the sofa he takes. "I'll tell you that there is at least one person I hold dear. I'll tell you more. I hold you dear."
"Laos, good, good. How charmingly mundane of you to do so." she muses, her voice a playful lilt as she revels in the whispers of her reputation trailing in his wake. The remnants of her experiment catch the light, twinkling like scattered stars on the table—silent testaments to her relentless quest to challenge the creator himself. "I cannot help but to wonder, have they fully grasp the merits of the bound tongue?" A tilt from the head, teasing the air. "Ah, ah, I guess not. humans, humans. Forever and always entangled in their own limitations don't you thinkg dear." Eager and alive with anticipation, her gaze flickers back to him. "The idea of tying a mouth to fortune is rather fascinating—perhaps it holds the key to my next endeavor. Metaphorically, my good fortune in the new species I intend of giving birth to. Beings that should be born with a tied mouth. The gift of speaking will be earned if I do not abord it, when I stand satisfied with the creation itself, when I finally give it the chance to exist. This one won't be my final pride, you see." She adds as she a flourish, she gestures toward the scattered remnants of her latest experiment.
"I can see that, otherwise you wouldn't have asked me to go that far to be charmingly mundane and contemplate your content smile. I'm more useful for you here. Wasting your opportunities is not your principle." Just like for Gaya. "It runs in your family." With no neglect and no disgust, he snaps the corpse's head and presses its scalp till its kind of eyes are directly up on him, straight at the level of his stare that is as dark as the rest of the room and reminds of a boundary that is white at first and turns black in the end till there is no way to the light. There is no back to the light of artificial life for this one test subject once Vine's eyes narrow and his fingertips slide off the cracked flesh as if he has just watched an animal running away from him as fast as it can. But running is only running in circle back to him, and the manner he looks back up at Kaelina gives an air he has just swallowed something. "And you wouldn't have agreed to this thread proposal I've made. I agree that you'll get more alive corpses in those villages once you use this thread completely for your successful experiment." This one though rolls its eyes and falls empty back where it has been lying.
Her eyes flicker with a brief spark of amusement at the bluntness of his response. She has no wings? Of course, he doesn’t bother with explaining metaphors yet she can understand what he means. His words land solidly, like the ground beneath her feet. She never had wings, she spent every single day of this existence of hers building her own. Life never gave her wings yes, and she finds proud in that. Her arms remain crossed, fingers tapping lightly against her upper arm. His words linger longer than she expected, pulling at the edges of her thoughts. Lack of certainty, he said, with that annoying grin that always seems to suggest he knows more than he’s letting on. As if her decisions are anything but certain. "You think I lack certainty?" The very idea seems to amuse her, and yet there’s a flicker of irritation behind her gaze. Maybe she does, maybe she doesn't but it doesn't change anything to the way she operates. She's no type to step back or go hafl way, uncertaintly or not. Gaya doesn't like being read, that's all. She steps around, circling, navigating in the room, she likes doing so when discussing. "These criminals, they may think they’re like me," she concedes with a small shrug, as if it hardly matters. "But they aren’t. They don't understand the line between vision and despair. They fall for the same trap, over and over, chasing something they only think they can define : their little Eat a Rich World, an utopia in their heads. How foolish. It is like running on a treadmill. I am different, I care about control, precision, execution. I know exactly where the boundaries of what I can achieve are. They don't ... or they lie to themselves by being Hopeful." Her eyes flicker again, this time with a hint of mischief. "I don't condamn doubt," she echoes softly, as if tasting the word. "If it's there, under the surface, waiting to come up when things become... uncomfortable. I say that discomfort, that small crack, is what keeps me sharp. It’s what keeps me moving. I don't dwell in it; I harness it. So yes, perhaps my Greater Good vision is actually a Greatest Good vision as you try to trap me but again, I'm not in Despair." A pause, then her voice drops, lower, but no less firm. "And you—you deal with what you have but then, what do you have?," she tilts her head, just a fraction as she keeps moving, looking over her shoulder. Daring him to speak deeper, knowing full well each line they exchange centers on her and herself and her decisions and what he perceives in her— what about him. Always so neutral in his role. Does he feed on that? Threats do.
He blinks exposing the fact that he has already voiced what it is he has. "I have you," he points at the other with his forefinger leaning a bit closer – just a bit, but enough to make them a little bit closer in this exchange of remarks, "wanting to talk to me," whom he points at then being quite serious and inviting in this attention she gives, this want of hers to peer outside the frames of her own existence, "about anything that can soothe your heart at the moment." He doesn't have fear about it and he doesn't have any fear about talking about himself. He has nothing to hide. He leans back in his seat, quite content. "I've just told you."
This is all that simple and simplicity just shines in his air and this pause he takes because he doesn't have anything to add and they both know that such a kind of pause is very fun to feel. It adds tension, wonder, force and the extension of frankness and the ability to actually take it. There are not so many people who are brave to cross the line they've just wanted to cross before getting to it. She knows reasons why. And she knows what it is he wants from her right now. He is aware of her knowledge too well. Still silent, he cranes his neck and pulls his head backwards spreading his arms against the back of the sofa and staring straight at her. She can keep circling, she can come up to him, but he will stick to the point here.