they trail after him like a long shadow, carrying nothing but silence and leaving nothing but it in their wake. they do not oppress with it; there is no deep-seated urge to mark out the borders of the space they take up around him or test his own, baring teeth to establish threat. they would not call it the untruth of peace. they are simply - still. steady. grounded not in trust but in a shared understanding. a knowing that traces their steps after his.
“ it’s you. ” @menaceborn gestures, not in offering but in explanation, up and up and their eyes follow his movement.
it is not hard to spot. or perhaps it is, to another. their gaze is pulled to the shape immediately; they know it better than the lines of their own face.
“ it’s me. ” they echo, more surprised by the relief carving than they should be, brows raising high. they can feel his stare laying upon them, waiting for a reaction. waiting for one the of the little cracks he’s seen on them to widen and give way to whatever lies bubbling underneath. they do not know how to tell him there is nothing. a great nothingness, a void so deep that once it begins to seep out they know they will drown in it. [ perhaps he does know, does see, and is eager to watch how well they tread water. perhaps he must learn to swim, too. ]
“ — you’ve been at this longer than i, ” they remind him, almost wry, almost angry. [ always angry. ] they do not specify what 'this' is. “ i should be asking you all the questions. ”
