IT’S THERE LIKE A SCENT ON THE AIR, mixed in seamlessly with the promise of some foreign meat spinning lazily on a spit in one of the stalls near to the cantina and the heady familiarity of spiced wine low boiling behind the bar. but it’s not entirely a scent, is it? it’s more than that, it’s a spark at the corner of his eye, the barely-there touch of someone he’s forgotten, a scream in the void of space just out of reach. it’s poetic, is what it is, and he sits in a dark corner of what this particular space station tries to pass as a bar with his head bowed, his eyes closed, groping around in the dark for the tiniest thread to attach himself to—
there! eyes open, chin up; it’s barely a spark, a whisper at a distance, but he curls himself around its potential. there’s always flickers, tiny little pinpricks of possibility, but this one has promise, this spark feels like more. whoever it is—and his head turns, slow, surveying the space like they’ll light up on his behalf—they’re close. he’s not willing to let this one slip between his fingers like the last. // @honorbreak
