𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑 : forgoneloves
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐀 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐅𝐄 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐓 𝐀 𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐏 would never not be soothing. Long, practiced strokes travel up the leather and down again with a gentle hiss of sound. It reminds him of barber shop back home and he can just smell the talcum powder, the citrus-y scent of aftershave. For a moment he’s no longer in the bounds of Collective territory, but home...
He’d gone there as a child with his grandfather and his father, legs dangling over the edge of leather seats as the men ruffled their newspapers and gruffly hit on points of current events while taking the piss out of one another. Gage had not understood it back then, but it was the closest that generation could come to expressing affection or interest -- hidden behind a concrete wall of feigned disinterest and stony body language.
It was soothing, remembering those simpler moments in his life. Even if sadness loomed, the ever-present elephant in the room. There had been a time when all the world hadn’t been...this. He’s snapped back to the task at hand: the buck he’d been preparing to field dress when the sound of footsteps made him pause. “Y-Yeah?” He finds his voice husky from disuse, clearing his throat and sitting back on his haunches to better appraise his company.