You called him chicken, as if he was supposed to know what that meant.
But all he knows is that he didn't want this for you. Any of this. You're a Sarentu, he keeps reminding -- himself, more than you. That you're supposed to be a diplomat, a conversationalist, a story teller; kind-hearted but hard-headed and with soft, gentle hands.
A living, breathing antithesis of everything he is, and everything he's lost.
But, all your stories sound like tragedies.
He can't help but throw his head back and laugh, elated and full of some sick, twisted, selfish pride, when you suckerpunch the soul out of some suitless RDA scum. When you not only catch up to him, but then match him, blow for bloody blow. Even when he can't see you, he knows you're right there -- beside him, behind him, or even waiting for him, poised and ready to strike at the next target already.
‘A bit much, don't you think?’
You asked him, but didn't scold him, and he thinks it's because you needed him to tell you that yes. Yes, it most certainly was. Is. And that it won't happen again.
And it will most certainly happen again.
You shouldn't be there when it does.
He doesn't want you there, when it does.
Ah. So maybe he is a liar.
Not that it matters; you'll be there anyway, like the bullet loaded in his begrudgingly favorite chamber, reliable and ready to shoot. His Tamtey. Well trained --
Blood and metal taste the same.
Or maybe a drug, since he and you just can't seem to get enough, or get away. From the war, from each other. And maybe that's the problem. Maybe peacetime is just another word for withdrawal.
You called him a chicken --
And now he knows about cockfighting and cannibalism.
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