cont. @aenaos
Such a strange girl; stranger and stranger by the minute, but Baeksa is fascinated by all that does not fit the mold, and less so compelled to float towards what is ordinary. She has the most lovely hair, he notes it too—not as lovely as his, of course—but he'd very much like to keep a lock of it. Although he quickly comes to label her as something meek and ultimately harmless, the curiosity does not subside for it. His eyes rise first, surveying her briefly, flickering closer, pale white as the moon reigns high atop hazy skies, the smoke from the fire lingered still from afar, creating eerie halos around stars and moonlight and threatening to swallow them whole. Tragedy has its own kind of cruel beauty, Baeksa always thought; how could you know thyself without experiencing grief? People like to think themselves better than they are, most of the time, but how could they know what cruelty lurks in the shadows of their hearts without the right nudge? He liked to be that nudge. The wailing of a mother for their child, the screaming of nonentities amidst a rising fire, the collapsing of a pillar that may, one day, have been a tower. Wasn't it all so terribly fascinating?
Like a white witch moth, he takes any open window as an invitation; if she did not tell him to leave, if she did not shoo him, he would take it as an invitation to stay, too. "I see..." his voice seems to float to her as the boy tucks away a strand of his pale hair, fixing his posture into something upright, his eyes briefly wandering the room like unhurried travelers. He needn't be given a thing, Baeksa has always believed if you truly want something, there's no harm in taking it. And even if there was, you should take it anyways. Things belong to those who want it most.
She's watching him, and he lets her, his thin silhouette still strategically positioned before the exit; he does not stray far, after all, though his eyes may wander, there is only one thing in this room which truly interests him, and he itches to look into those wide, unsettling eyes from up close. If he could have them in a jar, by his bedside, he'd be all the happier for it. "Sweets?" briefly, the tips of his delicate mouth turning upright, and there is something akin to genuine satisfaction there; as if she'd spoken some magical words. He now gravitates towards her with all the gait of an eager child, footsteps quiet, soundless against the ground. "I love sweets!" an innocent exclamation jumps from his mouth as he pads closer, lashes soft as a dolls hairbrush, fluttering at her. "Feed me, then," he unceremoniously drops by her feet, a ripple of white settling around him, plush lips popping open, like a small bird waiting to be fed.
