Xigbar isn’t one to feel discomfort so easily. It’s the sort of sensation he’s learned how to simply brush off as an unimportant notion, moving on as he can so easily utilizing all the experience he’s gained.
It’ll pass. It always does.
But here, in this space, it dawns on him that he is truly, undeniably filled with a dreadful discomfort. And perhaps it’s due to the fact that, underneath everything he’s built upon himself—these towers of confidence and disciplined nonchalance, all this skill and wisdom packed into pristinely-devised walls of impenetrable steel and iron—there are foundations that wobble balefully underneath the twining ivy of his despair.
Young Luxu. Lover of life and light. Swearing upon his Keyblade to protect the innocent, and oppose those that would harm them.
“Prob’ly not,” he responds—jumping over every single point that Andrey has said, allowing it all to linger without comment. Choosing instead the safest route, to reply to the question. “Though I could definitely try, if you’d want me to. ‘N’ maybe,” a sidelong glance cast towards Andrey—that breakthrough of eye contact proving that he is, indeed, capable of pushing through that discomfort, that it’s not important, that it is indeed ignorable— “I’ll let’cha touch ‘em if you’re good.”
“You let me touch plenty of things when I’m good,” he says with a loud laugh before quietly studying the mans face, his own clear of its usual stormy expression. Too many thoughts are going through his mind at once, and he reaches over to twirl a strand of the other’s long hair around a finger.
“I’m glad I know you,” he says in place of everything else, his voice almost a hushed whisper. He knows the man will hear him, but, well. The open possibility to pretend otherwise would probably be appreciated.
The said caretaker in Andrey hurts, a slight ache that always seems to make itself known when he’s said a few too many things to Xigbar and listened to the way the man often responds. Andrey knows that pain, that deflection, because it is as familiar to himself as breathing. It isn’t something that can be fixed, not something that can be wiped clear. It just... is.
Still, a part of him wants to reach out to the other, to tell him only good things, to try and fight off a familiar, endless pain. Another part of him wants to, not unlike a cat, selfishly knock his guns to the ground and lay his head on Xigbar’s lap, content to just rest.
Instead, Andrey sits up, choosing to lean heavily against the other, remembering for once that Xigbar can handle such with ease as he hunches to drop his head to rest on the mans shoulder. He makes a show of holding up a finger, licking it, and pointing at a random spot on one of the arrowguns, the offending appendage a hair away from its clean surface.
“What’s that part do? Does it make it shoot? Tell me about these things.”
