He moves so much - always in motion, small shifts and huffs - the stop-start poetry of his body is electric, a storm in every way. Contrasted to her he’s erratic, madness; she lays limp and lazy in his shadow, slow and steady, more of the tortoise herself if she were to be truly honest.
Their differences are what make them, though: brawn and brain, fervor and logic, a tempest and the sea it moves over.
In hell it fits, sword and shield, bark and bite, but in the silence of their downtime she appreciates it more. Finds an infinite amount of ways to nest in his bones, crawl under his skin. He’s living amusement but more importantly he’s comfort, home - the shadow of a reminder of her purpose.
“You don’t think I’m the fairy tale type?” Offense takes over, ingenuity rampant; she folds both arms behind her head and dramatically fakes a sigh. “I thought I came across more feminine than that. Isn’t that what all little girls dream of?”
He’s right, though, albeit his assurance turns negative in her hands - they aren’t made for pretty stories, not about victory nor happily ever afters. Or maybe, more accurately, fairy tales aren’t made for them. The bitter types, the broken ones - the devils, as it were, not exactly the softest subjects for painted pastel happiness. They liken more to tragedies, maybe even a tragic comedy. A life so dreadful it’s almost funny.
Or it would be if she hadn’t found solace in him, in the people she’d fought with for years at a time.
He’s pinned in the peripheral of her gaze as silently wanting, pacing and prancing in a subtle attempt to make her move. She’s aware, knows exactly what he wants, but doesn’t budge at first, making a show instead of stretching out further, legs unfurled across the whole of the couch as she smirks to herself, quieting mocking, all for the chance at a front row seat to his tantrum.
Adorable, invigorating, and right on time - she feeds on his energy and on the way his brows pinch quizzically, nose upturned and scrunched at the bridge.
“You could have just asked,’ she hums, sing-song, pulling her legs up and under, clearing away space for him to eventually slump. She knows good and damn well he’d wanted to sit long before his exclamation. “And start over, Pock - the change from standing to sitting ruins my immersion in the story. I wanna hear the whole thing in one go.”
He's all moves, prances, scoffs and side-smiles; conductive touches to the energy coursing under the skin. He doesn't like stalling, finds comfort in busy hands—the wait is always torturous, lingering between joints like parasites chewing at cartilage. Terrifying would be, someday, waking up to find himself obsolete.
He grasps at straws, anything to keep moving—her, a figure of comfort, soothing hues always on his side. They share similar fates, after all—children turned weapons, flesh and bones taking on cold steel; machinery. And he told himself, over and over, expected it is to cling to certainty in a life so fickle.
Her words, plaguing, feeding to the scoff exiting his lips at the absurd implication. "All little girls," he mocked, "would have moved by now-" a quirked-up brow and cocky smile, but Galliard still towered over the couch in shallow yet resigned annoyance. She was teasing, venomous, tempting demise looking him in the eye.
No mind, though, for taking a bite would be glorious defeat—lethal yet sweet, addictively caustic.
Instead, though, they pulled and pushed, tangled existence. "What do you dream of, Pikku-chan?" He queried, tilting his head downwards as narrow eyes met her serene features. Her shifting, a challenge—met with rolling eyes and irked sighing. But she moves, at last—slow but steady, causing rough hands to curl into fists while fighting the instinct of hooking a hand under her knees and pulling it to the side.
That'd be ridiculous, though likely swifter than her erratic act. Narrow eyes at the subtle smirk, a low hum rang past his throat as a response to her antics, all but hesitance in slumping beside her sluggish frame. "Noted," he pointed, bitterly, forked fingers running through blonde hair.
Her request, ever so demanding, met with a huff and clenching jaw. "You're a pain the ass," he poked, all but serious while turning her way. "But that's old news, anyway. There was a cat, almost as big of a pain as you are, if that's even possible-" he paused, giving her a tight-lipped sharp smile, "poked and probed enough to lose a tongue, death by curiosity."
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