"you have such a talent for pretending you're innocent. " from Geto :>
there’s just a blink from Saint ⸻ slow, deliberate, heavy-lidded, like maybe the question ain’ e’en worth answering, the kind that speaks volumes in silence. but then again, Saint always been good at swallowing offense until it tastes like sugar. he don't flinch, don’t frown. he don’t move much else, don’t need to. just lets the silence settle a little too long, like heat before a storm. his expression don’t shift, but the air does. tightens.
‘ talent, ’ Geto says. like it’s a gift. like Saint practiced it. and maybe he did. but not for the reasons people seem to think. he don’t quite get it. don’t know what Geto sees exactly. pretendin’ to be innocent? now, that one catches like a fishhook under the ribs.
truth is ⸻ he’s never gotten away with pretendin’. Saint ain’t never been believed, even when he was clean, untouched, wide-eyed in the way people call innocent, they never bought it. seem like folk always look at him and see trouble, see sin, see somethin’ too pretty to be clean. they saw the curve of his lips, the way he moved, the way he looked at things—and decided he must be guilty of something. even when his hands were empty, they still called him guilty.
❝ now I’m good at pretendin’? ❞ he thinks. well, maybe he is. maybe he just leaned into what they already decided. maybe just bein’ what he is, how he is, was always enough. now Geto wanna say he got a talent for pretendin’?
he leans in, elbow sliding over the bar, red eyes catching light like blood catching sunlight ⸻ dangerous and dazzling all at once. his smile don’t reach his eyes. it never does when he feels this kind of ache under his ribs ⸻ old, heavy, dressed up pretty so it don’t look like hurt. no, he ain’t never been wrapped up in no cotton-soft sweetness, no cradle, no cooin’, no protectin’ hands. the world didn’t offer him no innocence to wear. all it ever handed him was blame. he never got to be sweet. never got held like somethin’ worth protectin’. he got watched, wanted, feared. and he learned fast ⸻ ain’t no one gonna cradle you when they think you’ll bite.
❝ tha’s cute, really, ❞ he purrs, voice low, syrupy, with a bite underneath. ❝ but y’gone an’ said that like it ain’t the whole world that made me this way. like I woke up one mornin’ and thought it’d be fun to play pretend. ❞ he lets the moment breathe—lets the weight of that truth sit, humid and suffocatin’. then: he leans back just slightly, lashes low, voice honey-dark and curling round every word.
❝ ’at so? go own, cher. how y’figure ’at, I wonder? ...enlighten me. ❞ and there it is. that slow, cutting charm. the velvet glove over the blade. he don’t bare his teeth, not yet—he just dares Geto to keep talkin’. a smile like smoke ⸻ not warm. not kind. but still quite beautiful. just like him.
