[likewise, patches of warm skin and dark, cold black herald a vaguely familiar countenance, wreathed in bright colors and a smile that still feels a little too sharp, a little too bare -- like it belongs soaked in blood]
[taller than him but not as much as he expected, broader than him but not as much as he thought -- did he make him up to be some kind of monster in his head? is it the disarming ones that really sink the deepest?]
[he eagerly hands the food off to him, shoving the freed fingers into his other pocket like he's afraid if he leaves them out too long, they'll wander to match all his wonder]
[the rest is what he expected]
Sure. [assuming he'll get water is probably not wise, but he's never claimed to be; he sways in the space the warrior leaves behind, too awkward to claim a seat]
[the contents will personally attack him with baked sweet potatoes, sugar crystallized in their crevices, the bowl full of molten caramel that oozes like a sin]
( if he notices any appraisal he doesn't hint it, only taking the container into well-worn hands, callused from gripping a sword a thousand times and then a thousand times more, bleeding metalic twang from cuts and brow. he gives the foil a curious look, yet not asking anything about it. just another weird thing that's on the station, shiny like the all the transportation and.... dildos, or whatever.
it ends up flung aside in favor of what's inside, anyway. yyyyyeeesss. yyyesssss. he can eat this all day. there's the sudden urge for another sweet along with it, someone else's favorite, and even with that it wells up only good memories.
glancing back over, he raises a brow, like, um? )
Sit down. ( don't make it weird. ) One drink, coming up.
( of course it's sake, you fool. he sports an old tokkuri and cups, one of the things that came along for the ride. pouring, setting one small cup down on the table for the beansprout and one for himself, because why not. gotta pair this with something. )
Just now? Checking out some things for Velvet. And training. I usually do that for three hours every morning, but if I really get into it, I'll get stuck for longer.
[all he's good for is making it weird, really, but he's not too bad at following orders either; with reluctance, he pulls out a chair and slouches in it with a messy, boneless sprawl, if not for how shoulders and elbows and wrists jut, everything a bent edge of a fence, self-protection ingrained]
[the liquid is clear and the container he isn't familiar with, and so none of his alarms go off but for the vague of why the cups are so small -- is he stingy? (with water?)]
Ah, her. She's weird. [both of them are]
[pointedly not asking about his training too; it's turning into a game to deny him, really]
Seems like she's gonna have a hard time here.
[the liquid swirls, looking at it more than he does Rokurou, even when he comes to sit across from him]
( ah, and here he was hoping the beansprout would ask him about his training. he could easily go into his routine and how he switches it up, and what he does when he extends it, but... no dice, and he almost pouts. what is this, some kind of neglect play?
finding some chopsticks and bowls he leaves it all out on the table and takes his own seat, relaxing like a giant dog across the couch. )
Maybe. Even we've got standards—and this place really pushes hers. ( he won't deny that Velvet's weird. she is. and he is, too. ) She'll do what she has to, though. She always has. Not likely to change here.
( rather than dig right in, he picks up his own cup, tilting it in old habit before taking a swig. )
[a contemplative him, coolly listening, watching a dirty and ragged hand lift and bring it up, and he thinks about some archaic 'cheers' rhyme in his mother tongue, bolstered by a first face to face meeting and the ritual of it all]
[the part of him that longs for his own culture simmers low in him, ignored until it burns at the bottom]
...Maybe you should consider rewordin' that. [he must know how it sounds...] Unless that's yer thing. No judgment.
[absolutely heaps and tons of judgment]
She kept talkin' about threats and burnin' this place down. Whatcha think'll happen first?
[that or, well, the other; with his inquiry, bright amber eyes lock on a single one, almost matched in color (though certainly not size or intensity), searching for something he's not ready to name]
[they say who you choose to be around reflects on you, don't they? it's not Velvet he's trying to get a read on, has already neatly compartmentalized her]
( there's some kind of appraisal in that look; he's seen it from opponents, wondering where he might strike or feint. but he still doesn't know what Mo Guanshan is looking for. not that finding out is a priority, considering he's not trying to impress. he's a daemon, after all—there's a reason why he doesn't think he's fit to judge anyone else.
he keeps casual, rubbing his chin and considering. no.... no, it will be interesting, but the beansprout doesn't have the context for his saying so. )
I'll keep her from being too reckless. ( said like he's done just that before, ) And even if she's angry, she's not stupid.
( not a direct answer to the question but he kind of feels like it is. helping himself, he scoops some of the sweet potatoes into a bowl for himself, )
[the other, then, though it may come in some form no one quite expects; he's not sure if he's disappointed or not -- the rebel in him wants anarchy, a break from the status quo, a reality check for all these rich bastards]
[the responsible part of him knows he can't afford it]
[not hard to figure out which takes precedence]
Those're for you.
[no intention to take part because if he really wanted some, he would've already eaten them]
[he does, however, finally lift the cup to throw back, liquor going down his throat far too quickly with the expectation of something else, and it slams back down onto the table with a resolute slosh, arms gripping himself as he fends off a rack of coughs -- and the burn from going up his nose]
( when he sees the beansprout going for a shot with that drink, he lifts his eyebrow, but doesn't tell him not to. it he wants to do that then Rokurou's not going to stop him?! wow, a brave soul. what happened to slowly enjoying and delighting in the notes and subtle flavors? youth. with their newfangled tweeters and picturegrams.
his reaction gets a bunch of ???????s in response. )
N....o? ( is this a trick question?? ) You'd know if I was trying to kill you.
[f...ollowing his gaze reluctantly, the patchwork of his own stupidity coming clear is a beautiful quilt of dumbfuckery he can keep himself warm with on cold nights]
[......damn it]
[LOOKS BACK DOWN TO HIS HALF-DRAINED CUP RELUCTANTLY...]
Seventeen.
It ain't... the first time I've had anything. [defensively]
Really? I thought you were older. Guess I can add giving alcohol to a minor to my crimes.
( said cheerfully, like it ain't no thang. which it isn't, even though waiting until you're legal to drink is a universal law. standing, he heads over to the kitchen to get an actual glass of water, since that could go to the head pretty quick, )
Feels good, doesn't it? The warmth in your chest. Right... here. ( free hand pressing over his breast, ) That's where I usually feel it.
( here, he's offering a real glass of water now, putting it on the table in front of mgs, )
Most people do. [because they see what they wanna see, he's convinced; it's not like he's an especially mature person, even if he does have a strong sense of responsibility]
[hell, more than one person has assumed he's Rokurou's age]
There ain't a age restriction here, so not really.
[his gaze slips down to the swordsman's hand with his gesture, but away just as quickly, as if the colorful pattern of his robes might get trapped like light behind his eyelids if he looks too long]
[he feels it in his throat more than anywhere, a burn that's wetter than his experiences with ash; all the same, his face is starting to flush, a naturally low tolerance from his ethnicity combining with a lack of practice making him a wicked lightweight]
...I wasn't.
[age is just a number that means nothing here; some men have fought wars and seen death and killed at his age, and even if he was Rokurou's, maybe the most life experience he'd have would be holding down a steady job and meeting a girl he thought he might want to spend time with]
[talking about numbers is pointless]
Do you like 'em? [a gesture to the dessert, but his hand goes to the sake again]
[it'd be rude to refuse it... surely he can put just this away...]
( there are other reasons. the sag of shoulders or the lines in his brow, the set of a jaw that's probably met a few fists, that made him think he might have a few more years. but Rokurou's also from a totally different kind of place, where boys are men when they first pick up a blade and treated as such. it skews. but even to his comrades, a lot of Rokurou's views are skewed. he's been made aware of it by this point.
but he won't argue ages nor their restrictions—not here, where boys are made into men in other ways. not when there's a flush running down pale cheeks and throat, blue veins behind bone and knob, especially keen to a red gleamed eye. lips tick upward in usual fashion. )
Are you kidding? I love them. ( a flick, fabric, orange and purple fluttering away like feathers of a bird as he moves back to the couch, finally helping himself to that bowl he'd filled up for himself. he's already offered his guest some which politeness dictates, sweet tooth taking precedence before insistence, ) I could eat these all day.
( to which he just shoves somma dat shit right into his mouth, having the decency to use the chopsticks. chewing, a satisfied expression settling in the crease of his own brow and eyes closing in tooth-rotting sweetness. a dog with a steak. when he swallows his eyes open and he watches, eyes flicking from cup to Guanshan's face, )
... It'll be easier if you don't down it, ( maybe obvious at this point, ) and just try to enjoy the flavor. That has notes of ginger and honey, if you can find them.
( he's never really been one to down a good drink, often choosing to savor it, wash his tongue in flavor before burning his throat. lush he may be but he's got some class to it. )
And if you can, drinking water in between helps keep it from going to your head too fast.
( ...aah. at the end of the day, maybe he can't help offering some advice. but this sort is fine. )
[his enthusiasm and showy eating gets first observed with suspicion -- and then once it's registered as sincere, turns to careful appraisal; this skill of his may have some painful memories attached but it can, at times, spread something that isn't so]
[a tapered thumb trails the lip of his cup, knuckle a jagged point on a smooth surface]
...The caramel's for dippin' 'em. [he didn't think it would have to be explained, but maybe it's a cultural variance -- or maybe Rokurou's simply never tried it, and he can be satisfied in knowing that he introduced the daemon to something new for a change]
[hardly "new" is the souring expression slowly wrinkling his face, however, the lesson Rokurou's trying to teach one that isn't especially interesting to dulled ears and a rebellious chip on his shoulder that refuses to ask and would rather suffer twice than acknowledge even offered aid]
Tch, who asked you. [and although his nose curls in a harmless snarl, always more bark than bite, his eyes fixate as he considers...]
[and takes a more careful sip the next time, swirling liquor around on his tongue as his face curls more and more, scrunching at the brow and thin lips in an open expression of disgust; swallowing comes with another cough as he puts it down and immediately goes for the water to try to wash the flavor out]
Ugh. [for a brief moment, he really does act his age]
I can't find it. [a beat] I guess it ain't as bad as tequila, though.
( the dour expression ain't a shocking thang. he probably would have been more surprised if beansprout had readily accepted his comments, and even if he weren't currently stuffing his face with his favorite snack ever, it wouldn't bother him. tch, who asked you. —you don't need to ask. he will offer quietly, act quietly, no asking required.
eh, but it's not like he's gonna say that. never really does. instead he's gonna almost choke from the new look on beansprout's face—pppffftttt. yeah, here the hints of youth are more obvious, sharp barbs jutting from a man-made crust. )
I tried that one here. Didn't like it all that much.
( apparently it goes into fruitier drinks but those aren't his thing, sticking to the stuff that burns and makes him feel like there's something brewing in his chest along with those old bitter regrets. )
It's the kind of palate you grow into. ( by drinking ) If you want to, anyway.
( not like he's going to push anything the kid doesn't want to do—sure, he's always had a thing for it, but that's not the kind of guy he is.
taking the earlier advice, dipping candied goodness into caramel, he drops that into his mouth and closes his eyes again in sugar induced coma. he doesn't get why Guanshan brought him this but he's enjoying it—may as well, right? )
That's good. ( he usually eats them as they are, coated in sugar and grease. what an animal. ) If everything you cook is this good, I'm gonna go broke.
( from something that's not alcohol or swords. holy shit. )
[he doesn't really have anything against drinking, aside from the the horrible taste and the dumbass way it makes people act sometimes; he has little tolerance for people acting like sloppy, exaggerated versions of themselves in the first place]
[sometimes in the movies it gets used as a coping mechanism, but he's only actually seen that happen, well... once]
[here]
[he looks Rokurou over as he wonders what kind of drunk he is, cheeks darkening and pupils dilating, mouth starting to hang open in a low, soft bid for cooler air]
Mm'gonna finish it. I won't let it go to waste... [even if Rokurou would probably just finish his cup for him, it's an offer of something he enjoys, and even his restless sentimental nature won't let it go scorned]
[even if it means his chin's dropping into his hand -- even if it means trusting a daemon to be near him when he's weakened, vulnerable (not that he stands a chance even when he isn't)]
Eh? I didn't charge you for those. They're...
[well... a gift]
...'Cuz'a what you said ta Hasebe, last time. [or maybe more like a reward]
( ... honestly, it's kind of charming how he's a lightweight yet determined to finish it anyway. red cheeks, radiation of heat that draws both his eyes, one glinting red underneath a cascade of hair. it's a compelling scent and he can almost taste that cool-seeking breath he watches (chest rising, falling, heart beating) on his own tongue. having its own notes, flavors that scrape against his teeth and crackle down his throat. hairs on end, alert even with his own drink, every sense keenly aware of the only other person in the room. that's just what a yaksha is—a mess of heightened senses and drive, focus, compelled toward the heady scents of danger and weakness.
even with all of that he just sits, bites into another scoop of potatoes, wrinkle lines from laughter crinkling around his eyes. Mo Guanshan is not his prey. he's good—doesn't reek of monsters, breathe out soot from ribs blackened too long ago. not to Rokurou's senses, anyway—still, he doesn't know the kid's story, nor is he going to assume based on his own experiences alone. just a thought, something he thinks might be true.
thinks it might be true because it feels like it is. Mo Guanshan provokes his purer reactions, laughs, dredges forth a heartfulness that feels more like mountain air than licking flames. still something he'd take a bite out of, but not hard enough to break skin. )
In the future, I mean. You said I could hire you to cook or clean. Don't tempt me with bao and then take it away.
( the room's pretty neat considering there's not much there, but eating's for pleasure, and while he can cook himself, some things are just better when someone else does it for you.
he does arch a brow at the comment before swinging back his glass and draining it, finishing what's left. it goes to his head, too, and the grins come easier, white toothed sharp and ribbed with some kind of amusement,, )
What I said?
( he... has an idea, but he's a little surprised to hear beansprout bothered reading it, if it's what he's thinking of. what a little bloodhound. he really cares about Hasebe a great deal, doesn't he? )
[if he's supposed to be aware of danger here, he isn't -- if anything, his heartbeat slows, veins dulling in their thrum, making him molasses and sticky and heavy]
[and if it's a trap, it's a well-lain one, full of not-so-sweet poison and enough disarming company to make his shoulders slouch, the drawbridge of his defenses lowering as the ropes holding it up get wet and slippery with alcohol; he's not experienced enough with it to know what it's doing, how the heat in his belly could be confused for too many different feelings, how the hazy warmth around Rokurou is anything but purity]
[and he's always been such a cautious guy]
Oh. Yeah, you can. Just gimme the money for the ingredients and a little extra for all my hard work. [a deliberating pause, his focus seeming to come onto a single thought, as it usually does when anyone is slowly losing their cognitive abilities to a glass] I mean, you can... hire me for anythin'.
[ahem]
[nails dig noisily at shorn hair, feeling nothing like that was in any way as subtle or sly as he hoped it was, and maybe if he just keeps talking right after, Rokurou won't even acknowledge it]
Yeah. I think you can understand him better than I can... so ya gave some pretty good advice.
[he doesn't seem too torn up about it, no hints at jealousy or self-depreciation for not getting Hasebe on that deeper level, and it's hard to determine if that's because he doesn't want to or if he's simply accepted it]
[but Rokurou and Hasebe have things in common Guanshan hadn't considered until he read the conversation, was ultimately glad to find out that that's where the sword was heading on their private video feed -- that if he was going to give him a temporary goodbye for anyone, then it's fine if it's him]
And said some good things to him... so this is fer you. [coherency is taking a critical hit here too, wow]
even the most cautious of men need to let their guards down, rest their bones, and not have their hands bitten. it's like a little bird's sitting in his palms. drunk on tree sap and fluffing out its crest—Rokurou won't crush it in his hands. even if he's a daemon, even if fighting's the only thing he's good for anymore... he doesn't crush the wild flowers under his sandals when he passes through a tangled field.
always liked flowers, anyway.
moving his elbow on his knee and resting his chin into his palm, he watches, a little lightheaded himself but nowhere near as bad as the beansprout. there's—probably some kind of suggestion in that comment, isn't there? but he's not sure if he should really read into it. probably ... not? he's not sure. what beansprout thinks of him is kind of murkey; most people make it clear they don't like him or if they do. this one ... ah well. it doesn't matter.
anyway: the drunk understand the drunk and even if coherency's taking a downslide Rokurou gets it. doesn't bother to explain what he gets about Hasebe or how he relates to the sword, nor why he bothered to offer that comfort, and sure as heck isn't gonna mention how he stupidly flipped him off the couch while they were making out,. but he will close his eyes for a second, a rasp to his voice: )
Thank you.
( for that. for this. there's no specification.
opening his eyes again, his smile ticks into a smirk, focus rapt on that face. blame it on his own booze and how quick it goes to his head these days, better than Guanshan but still feeling good pretty fast. he leans forward and squints a bit, )
Your face is really red. ( reaching out and leaning forward even more to cut that distance, pressing callused fingers against a cheek, ) ... Haha, yeah. You're really warm.
( high tolerance for temperature doesn't mean he can't feel it. it just doesn't bother him. sometimes, he doesn't even notice it. but right now he's focused on the shade of color that's stark against pale skin and matches red hair pretty well. not a perfect match, but enough that it's kind of... aesthetically pleasing? dropping his hand, he tucks it back under his own jaw with a laugh, )
[he gets it -- the vague appreciation, mostly because Guanshan has trouble saying those words whether it's for something petty or something important, and he almost considers that a wrap on intelligible conversation]
[eyelashes that are darker than they should be flutter low, freckled lids showing the movement of thoughts that are moving slow and never quite making it out, until words get him to glance up again]
[and perhaps the bruises staining his face mixed with the way he half-flinches when the swordsman gets close lets Rokurou know what he really is: a creature of fight or flight]
[the way he feels about him is caught somewhere between the two, some tangled mess that tells him to run, to throw a punch, to look at him like a danger, to approach him like a lover]
[it battles (as all things are with him) with the pragmatic notions to use him, for money or protection or to Hasebe, and goes to war with the curiosity to know him better, a simmering desire for connection, and his promise to listen]
[no one of those things breaks on his expression as he watches the daemon along the length of his arm, caught like a drifter between too much that nothing surfaces but for the obvious shock]
[those words only make him redder, hotter]
[he leans back, shoulder blades checking into the back of his chair]
Don't call me that. So damn annoying...
[not his first experience with that particular compliment]
And you need a fuggin' haircut.
[he takes another sip anyway; maybe it'll change his expression to something that's -- not dishonest, but different]
( he's not taking it back. it's just a fact. right now, tipsy and red and slurring, Mo Guanshan is cute. or rather, the redness is cute. he didn't call the kid, specifically, cute. but it's semantics and he's too warm, smiling, feeling a hit goosebumps numb across his skin and blood trudging through his veins underneath.
even tipsy he'd notice a half-flinch like that. weak point. he can smell it. smell the reaction, the faint hint of sweat and tension that he wants to catch between his teeth. can imagine how that heart might be pounding. maybe it's like the way his own pulse quickens, da da dadadada. that's the warrior, the daemon, the side that knows how to strike at vulnerable points and sink his teeth in. and there's that detached piece of humanity that he sometimes associates with wondering what makes him flinch, or if it's just because he's a daemon. it's normal, to flinch away from a monster, and it doesn't bother him. seen that before one hundred times. even if right now doesn't feel like that—what else is he going to think?
it's not like he knows what Mo Guanshan wants. not really. )
Hohh? I just said what I was thinking.
( which... has nothing to do with not calling him cute, but fuck it, like he's really matching thoughts and having them make real sense.
at the comment about his hair his eyebrow does arch and he purses his lips, almost in a pout as he catches stray strands between an index finger and thumb, rubbing, )
What? Seriously? I think it looks cool like this. ( rub rub rub. ) Think I'd look better with short hair? That what you're saying?
( he can't even picture himself with short hair....... seems like a terrible idea.
sitting up straight, Rokurou pushes both hands against his face and then—sweeps all of his hair back, away from his face and bearing its half human half daemon monstrosities. one eye's soft amber-gold, the other spiraled black and red. both focus back on the beansprout. )
It looks pretty stupid. [the assertion of this is fierce, petty, driven by an embarrassment he doesn't want to name or feel, and a recently acquired loathing for all guys who make it one of their goals to be seen as "cool"]
[better to not care what anyone thinks -- or at least, fake it 'til you make it]
[before he can even reply, dark tresses are going back to reveal tattoo-stark markings, and all the words and thoughts fall dead in his throat; it shifts in a swallow to bury them deeper, a jerk of elbow taking him off of the table between them like a subconscious bid for more space]
[what is the shiver crawling up his spine?]
[a reply doesn't come as his gaze slowly pours over the crime scene of Rokurou's face: sharp jaw, full cheekbones, pointed nose, bright eye, angled brow]
[steps and swirls of onyx and crimson, layers and stacks of something he doesn't understand, laid out before him like an offering...]
[or maybe it's a tease]
[maybe Rokurou's just toying with him, wants to watch him squirm, test to see if he's afraid; maybe he only offered him sake so he'd be flavored to his preference when he decides to devour him]
[only one way to find out]
Can I touch... it? You.
[it's a request to do exactly what was already done to him, but at least one of them has some fucking manners]
( stupid...................... nah. it totally looks cool. he's always liked it styled this way!! less of a preference for pleasing other people than it just suiting his own style, but obviously a beansprout with short-cropped hair isn't gonna recognize that. but having it pushed out of his face makes a free man feel even freer, own fingers passing over a cracked black cheek, tracing the long of a break, the smoother texture of skin over the coarser black stretch sweeping toward his adam's apple.
there's really only one thought: feels good to have it out of the way for a bit. his throat's flush with the pinprick of intoxication and it's cooler, by the faintest amount.
... but he's not oblivious to Guanshan's reaction (that, too, he can just taste) and it evokes a grins. even snaps his teeth playfully, teasing something dangerous but it's veiled. only it drops away with what the kid asks. it... isn't really what he anticipates. )
Nn?
( excuse, he has manners, he just chose not to use them. but manners or not, it's a request that startles—not because it's all that weird, mostly just because it's not something anyone ever asks. they almost always recoil unless they're monsters themselves. people don't usually come back around and want to touch. best he gets around here is polite ignoring. )
What, here? ( tapping a finger against the side of his face before, ) ... Sure. Only fair.
( it's not soft like his cheek, not red and warmed with blood. Rokurou doesn't expect him to like it. only, it's as they say: an eye for an eye. besides, really, it's not like he minds.
he shifts over on the couch in the opposite direction so the beansprout can sit next to him on the couch, not have to awkwardly reach across like he'd done himself, earlier. red eye simmers, strikes an eye brighter color when the light strikes across just so. or maybe it's not the light at all, maybe just another intensity that's born from something no longer human. )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[taller than him but not as much as he expected, broader than him but not as much as he thought -- did he make him up to be some kind of monster in his head? is it the disarming ones that really sink the deepest?]
[he eagerly hands the food off to him, shoving the freed fingers into his other pocket like he's afraid if he leaves them out too long, they'll wander to match all his wonder]
[the rest is what he expected]
Sure. [assuming he'll get water is probably not wise, but he's never claimed to be; he sways in the space the warrior leaves behind, too awkward to claim a seat]
[the contents will personally attack him with baked sweet potatoes, sugar crystallized in their crevices, the bowl full of molten caramel that oozes like a sin]
Where ya been? [teenagers, always so nosy.]
no subject
it ends up flung aside in favor of what's inside, anyway. yyyyyeeesss. yyyesssss. he can eat this all day. there's the sudden urge for another sweet along with it, someone else's favorite, and even with that it wells up only good memories.
glancing back over, he raises a brow, like, um? )
Sit down. ( don't make it weird. ) One drink, coming up.
( of course it's sake, you fool. he sports an old tokkuri and cups, one of the things that came along for the ride. pouring, setting one small cup down on the table for the beansprout and one for himself, because why not. gotta pair this with something. )
Just now? Checking out some things for Velvet. And training. I usually do that for three hours every morning, but if I really get into it, I'll get stuck for longer.
no subject
[the liquid is clear and the container he isn't familiar with, and so none of his alarms go off but for the vague of why the cups are so small -- is he stingy? (with water?)]
Ah, her. She's weird. [both of them are]
[pointedly not asking about his training too; it's turning into a game to deny him, really]
Seems like she's gonna have a hard time here.
[the liquid swirls, looking at it more than he does Rokurou, even when he comes to sit across from him]
no subject
finding some chopsticks and bowls he leaves it all out on the table and takes his own seat, relaxing like a giant dog across the couch. )
Maybe. Even we've got standards—and this place really pushes hers. ( he won't deny that Velvet's weird. she is. and he is, too. ) She'll do what she has to, though. She always has. Not likely to change here.
( rather than dig right in, he picks up his own cup, tilting it in old habit before taking a swig. )
I'm looking forward to seeing what she does.
( what a good friend. )
no subject
[the part of him that longs for his own culture simmers low in him, ignored until it burns at the bottom]
...Maybe you should consider rewordin' that. [he must know how it sounds...] Unless that's yer thing. No judgment.
[absolutely heaps and tons of judgment]
She kept talkin' about threats and burnin' this place down. Whatcha think'll happen first?
[that or, well, the other; with his inquiry, bright amber eyes lock on a single one, almost matched in color (though certainly not size or intensity), searching for something he's not ready to name]
[they say who you choose to be around reflects on you, don't they? it's not Velvet he's trying to get a read on, has already neatly compartmentalized her]
no subject
he keeps casual, rubbing his chin and considering. no.... no, it will be interesting, but the beansprout doesn't have the context for his saying so. )
I'll keep her from being too reckless. ( said like he's done just that before, ) And even if she's angry, she's not stupid.
( not a direct answer to the question but he kind of feels like it is. helping himself, he scoops some of the sweet potatoes into a bowl for himself, )
Gonna join me?
1/2
[the responsible part of him knows he can't afford it]
[not hard to figure out which takes precedence]
Those're for you.
[no intention to take part because if he really wanted some, he would've already eaten them]
[he does, however, finally lift the cup to throw back, liquor going down his throat far too quickly with the expectation of something else, and it slams back down onto the table with a resolute slosh, arms gripping himself as he fends off a rack of coughs -- and the burn from going up his nose]
no subject
Are you tryna kill me?!
no subject
his reaction gets a bunch of ???????s in response. )
N....o? ( is this a trick question?? ) You'd know if I was trying to kill you.
( —wait )
Did you... not realize that was sake?
( how?! )
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No, I didn't realize it was -- [a finger juts wildly at the tokkuri]
I thought that had water in it! D'you jes' carry booze with you everywhere, you fucking lush?!
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Buuuut right now we're in my cabin, so.
( stares at the the various sake bottles in the kitchen
stares at the tokkuri
stares at sake cups
stares at the beansprout )
Sorry, sorry. I thought it was obvious!
( then he cocks his head, )
How old are you, anyway?
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[......damn it]
[LOOKS BACK DOWN TO HIS HALF-DRAINED CUP RELUCTANTLY...]
Seventeen.
It ain't... the first time I've had anything. [defensively]
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( said cheerfully, like it ain't no thang. which it isn't, even though waiting until you're legal to drink is a universal law. standing, he heads over to the kitchen to get an actual glass of water, since that could go to the head pretty quick, )
Feels good, doesn't it? The warmth in your chest. Right... here. ( free hand pressing over his breast, ) That's where I usually feel it.
( here, he's offering a real glass of water now, putting it on the table in front of mgs, )
I'm twenty-two, by the way. If you were curious.
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[hell, more than one person has assumed he's Rokurou's age]
There ain't a age restriction here, so not really.
[his gaze slips down to the swordsman's hand with his gesture, but away just as quickly, as if the colorful pattern of his robes might get trapped like light behind his eyelids if he looks too long]
[he feels it in his throat more than anywhere, a burn that's wetter than his experiences with ash; all the same, his face is starting to flush, a naturally low tolerance from his ethnicity combining with a lack of practice making him a wicked lightweight]
...I wasn't.
[age is just a number that means nothing here; some men have fought wars and seen death and killed at his age, and even if he was Rokurou's, maybe the most life experience he'd have would be holding down a steady job and meeting a girl he thought he might want to spend time with]
[talking about numbers is pointless]
Do you like 'em? [a gesture to the dessert, but his hand goes to the sake again]
[it'd be rude to refuse it... surely he can put just this away...]
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but he won't argue ages nor their restrictions—not here, where boys are made into men in other ways. not when there's a flush running down pale cheeks and throat, blue veins behind bone and knob, especially keen to a red gleamed eye. lips tick upward in usual fashion. )
Are you kidding? I love them. ( a flick, fabric, orange and purple fluttering away like feathers of a bird as he moves back to the couch, finally helping himself to that bowl he'd filled up for himself. he's already offered his guest some which politeness dictates, sweet tooth taking precedence before insistence, ) I could eat these all day.
( to which he just shoves somma dat shit right into his mouth, having the decency to use the chopsticks. chewing, a satisfied expression settling in the crease of his own brow and eyes closing in tooth-rotting sweetness. a dog with a steak. when he swallows his eyes open and he watches, eyes flicking from cup to Guanshan's face, )
... It'll be easier if you don't down it, ( maybe obvious at this point, ) and just try to enjoy the flavor. That has notes of ginger and honey, if you can find them.
( he's never really been one to down a good drink, often choosing to savor it, wash his tongue in flavor before burning his throat. lush he may be but he's got some class to it. )
And if you can, drinking water in between helps keep it from going to your head too fast.
( ...aah. at the end of the day, maybe he can't help offering some advice. but this sort is fine. )
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[a tapered thumb trails the lip of his cup, knuckle a jagged point on a smooth surface]
...The caramel's for dippin' 'em. [he didn't think it would have to be explained, but maybe it's a cultural variance -- or maybe Rokurou's simply never tried it, and he can be satisfied in knowing that he introduced the daemon to something new for a change]
[hardly "new" is the souring expression slowly wrinkling his face, however, the lesson Rokurou's trying to teach one that isn't especially interesting to dulled ears and a rebellious chip on his shoulder that refuses to ask and would rather suffer twice than acknowledge even offered aid]
Tch, who asked you. [and although his nose curls in a harmless snarl, always more bark than bite, his eyes fixate as he considers...]
[and takes a more careful sip the next time, swirling liquor around on his tongue as his face curls more and more, scrunching at the brow and thin lips in an open expression of disgust; swallowing comes with another cough as he puts it down and immediately goes for the water to try to wash the flavor out]
Ugh. [for a brief moment, he really does act his age]
I can't find it. [a beat] I guess it ain't as bad as tequila, though.
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eh, but it's not like he's gonna say that. never really does. instead he's gonna almost choke from the new look on beansprout's face—pppffftttt. yeah, here the hints of youth are more obvious, sharp barbs jutting from a man-made crust. )
I tried that one here. Didn't like it all that much.
( apparently it goes into fruitier drinks but those aren't his thing, sticking to the stuff that burns and makes him feel like there's something brewing in his chest along with those old bitter regrets. )
It's the kind of palate you grow into. ( by drinking ) If you want to, anyway.
( not like he's going to push anything the kid doesn't want to do—sure, he's always had a thing for it, but that's not the kind of guy he is.
taking the earlier advice, dipping candied goodness into caramel, he drops that into his mouth and closes his eyes again in sugar induced coma. he doesn't get why Guanshan brought him this but he's enjoying it—may as well, right? )
That's good. ( he usually eats them as they are, coated in sugar and grease. what an animal. ) If everything you cook is this good, I'm gonna go broke.
( from something that's not alcohol or swords. holy shit. )
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[he doesn't really have anything against drinking, aside from the the horrible taste and the dumbass way it makes people act sometimes; he has little tolerance for people acting like sloppy, exaggerated versions of themselves in the first place]
[sometimes in the movies it gets used as a coping mechanism, but he's only actually seen that happen, well... once]
[here]
[he looks Rokurou over as he wonders what kind of drunk he is, cheeks darkening and pupils dilating, mouth starting to hang open in a low, soft bid for cooler air]
Mm'gonna finish it. I won't let it go to waste... [even if Rokurou would probably just finish his cup for him, it's an offer of something he enjoys, and even his restless sentimental nature won't let it go scorned]
[even if it means his chin's dropping into his hand -- even if it means trusting a daemon to be near him when he's weakened, vulnerable (not that he stands a chance even when he isn't)]
Eh? I didn't charge you for those. They're...
[well... a gift]
...'Cuz'a what you said ta Hasebe, last time. [or maybe more like a reward]
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even with all of that he just sits, bites into another scoop of potatoes, wrinkle lines from laughter crinkling around his eyes. Mo Guanshan is not his prey. he's good—doesn't reek of monsters, breathe out soot from ribs blackened too long ago. not to Rokurou's senses, anyway—still, he doesn't know the kid's story, nor is he going to assume based on his own experiences alone. just a thought, something he thinks might be true.
thinks it might be true because it feels like it is. Mo Guanshan provokes his purer reactions, laughs, dredges forth a heartfulness that feels more like mountain air than licking flames. still something he'd take a bite out of, but not hard enough to break skin. )
In the future, I mean. You said I could hire you to cook or clean. Don't tempt me with bao and then take it away.
( the room's pretty neat considering there's not much there, but eating's for pleasure, and while he can cook himself, some things are just better when someone else does it for you.
he does arch a brow at the comment before swinging back his glass and draining it, finishing what's left. it goes to his head, too, and the grins come easier, white toothed sharp and ribbed with some kind of amusement,, )
What I said?
( he... has an idea, but he's a little surprised to hear beansprout bothered reading it, if it's what he's thinking of. what a little bloodhound. he really cares about Hasebe a great deal, doesn't he? )
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[and if it's a trap, it's a well-lain one, full of not-so-sweet poison and enough disarming company to make his shoulders slouch, the drawbridge of his defenses lowering as the ropes holding it up get wet and slippery with alcohol; he's not experienced enough with it to know what it's doing, how the heat in his belly could be confused for too many different feelings, how the hazy warmth around Rokurou is anything but purity]
[and he's always been such a cautious guy]
Oh. Yeah, you can. Just gimme the money for the ingredients and a little extra for all my hard work. [a deliberating pause, his focus seeming to come onto a single thought, as it usually does when anyone is slowly losing their cognitive abilities to a glass] I mean, you can... hire me for anythin'.
[ahem]
[nails dig noisily at shorn hair, feeling nothing like that was in any way as subtle or sly as he hoped it was, and maybe if he just keeps talking right after, Rokurou won't even acknowledge it]
Yeah. I think you can understand him better than I can... so ya gave some pretty good advice.
[he doesn't seem too torn up about it, no hints at jealousy or self-depreciation for not getting Hasebe on that deeper level, and it's hard to determine if that's because he doesn't want to or if he's simply accepted it]
[but Rokurou and Hasebe have things in common Guanshan hadn't considered until he read the conversation, was ultimately glad to find out that that's where the sword was heading on their private video feed -- that if he was going to give him a temporary goodbye for anyone, then it's fine if it's him]
And said some good things to him... so this is fer you. [coherency is taking a critical hit here too, wow]
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even the most cautious of men need to let their guards down, rest their bones, and not have their hands bitten. it's like a little bird's sitting in his palms. drunk on tree sap and fluffing out its crest—Rokurou won't crush it in his hands. even if he's a daemon, even if fighting's the only thing he's good for anymore... he doesn't crush the wild flowers under his sandals when he passes through a tangled field.
always liked flowers, anyway.
moving his elbow on his knee and resting his chin into his palm, he watches, a little lightheaded himself but nowhere near as bad as the beansprout. there's—probably some kind of suggestion in that comment, isn't there? but he's not sure if he should really read into it. probably ... not? he's not sure. what beansprout thinks of him is kind of murkey; most people make it clear they don't like him or if they do. this one ... ah well. it doesn't matter.
anyway: the drunk understand the drunk and even if coherency's taking a downslide Rokurou gets it. doesn't bother to explain what he gets about Hasebe or how he relates to the sword, nor why he bothered to offer that comfort, and sure as heck isn't gonna mention how he stupidly flipped him off the couch while they were making out,. but he will close his eyes for a second, a rasp to his voice: )
Thank you.
( for that. for this. there's no specification.
opening his eyes again, his smile ticks into a smirk, focus rapt on that face. blame it on his own booze and how quick it goes to his head these days, better than Guanshan but still feeling good pretty fast. he leans forward and squints a bit, )
Your face is really red. ( reaching out and leaning forward even more to cut that distance, pressing callused fingers against a cheek, ) ... Haha, yeah. You're really warm.
( high tolerance for temperature doesn't mean he can't feel it. it just doesn't bother him. sometimes, he doesn't even notice it. but right now he's focused on the shade of color that's stark against pale skin and matches red hair pretty well. not a perfect match, but enough that it's kind of... aesthetically pleasing? dropping his hand, he tucks it back under his own jaw with a laugh, )
It's pretty cute.
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[eyelashes that are darker than they should be flutter low, freckled lids showing the movement of thoughts that are moving slow and never quite making it out, until words get him to glance up again]
[and perhaps the bruises staining his face mixed with the way he half-flinches when the swordsman gets close lets Rokurou know what he really is: a creature of fight or flight]
[the way he feels about him is caught somewhere between the two, some tangled mess that tells him to run, to throw a punch, to look at him like a danger, to approach him like a lover]
[it battles (as all things are with him) with the pragmatic notions to use him, for money or protection or to Hasebe, and goes to war with the curiosity to know him better, a simmering desire for connection, and his promise to listen]
[no one of those things breaks on his expression as he watches the daemon along the length of his arm, caught like a drifter between too much that nothing surfaces but for the obvious shock]
[those words only make him redder, hotter]
[he leans back, shoulder blades checking into the back of his chair]
Don't call me that. So damn annoying...
[not his first experience with that particular compliment]
And you need a fuggin' haircut.
[he takes another sip anyway; maybe it'll change his expression to something that's -- not dishonest, but different]
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even tipsy he'd notice a half-flinch like that. weak point. he can smell it. smell the reaction, the faint hint of sweat and tension that he wants to catch between his teeth. can imagine how that heart might be pounding. maybe it's like the way his own pulse quickens, da da dadadada. that's the warrior, the daemon, the side that knows how to strike at vulnerable points and sink his teeth in. and there's that detached piece of humanity that he sometimes associates with wondering what makes him flinch, or if it's just because he's a daemon. it's normal, to flinch away from a monster, and it doesn't bother him. seen that before one hundred times. even if right now doesn't feel like that—what else is he going to think?
it's not like he knows what Mo Guanshan wants. not really. )
Hohh? I just said what I was thinking.
( which... has nothing to do with not calling him cute, but fuck it, like he's really matching thoughts and having them make real sense.
at the comment about his hair his eyebrow does arch and he purses his lips, almost in a pout as he catches stray strands between an index finger and thumb, rubbing, )
What? Seriously? I think it looks cool like this. ( rub rub rub. ) Think I'd look better with short hair? That what you're saying?
( he can't even picture himself with short hair....... seems like a terrible idea.
sitting up straight, Rokurou pushes both hands against his face and then—sweeps all of his hair back, away from his face and bearing its half human half daemon monstrosities. one eye's soft amber-gold, the other spiraled black and red. both focus back on the beansprout. )
Or like this?
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[better to not care what anyone thinks -- or at least, fake it 'til you make it]
[before he can even reply, dark tresses are going back to reveal tattoo-stark markings, and all the words and thoughts fall dead in his throat; it shifts in a swallow to bury them deeper, a jerk of elbow taking him off of the table between them like a subconscious bid for more space]
[what is the shiver crawling up his spine?]
[a reply doesn't come as his gaze slowly pours over the crime scene of Rokurou's face: sharp jaw, full cheekbones, pointed nose, bright eye, angled brow]
[steps and swirls of onyx and crimson, layers and stacks of something he doesn't understand, laid out before him like an offering...]
[or maybe it's a tease]
[maybe Rokurou's just toying with him, wants to watch him squirm, test to see if he's afraid; maybe he only offered him sake so he'd be flavored to his preference when he decides to devour him]
[only one way to find out]
Can I touch... it? You.
[it's a request to do exactly what was already done to him, but at least one of them has some fucking manners]
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there's really only one thought: feels good to have it out of the way for a bit. his throat's flush with the pinprick of intoxication and it's cooler, by the faintest amount.
... but he's not oblivious to Guanshan's reaction (that, too, he can just taste) and it evokes a grins. even snaps his teeth playfully, teasing something dangerous but it's veiled. only it drops away with what the kid asks. it... isn't really what he anticipates. )
Nn?
( excuse, he has manners, he just chose not to use them. but manners or not, it's a request that startles—not because it's all that weird, mostly just because it's not something anyone ever asks. they almost always recoil unless they're monsters themselves. people don't usually come back around and want to touch. best he gets around here is polite ignoring. )
What, here? ( tapping a finger against the side of his face before, ) ... Sure. Only fair.
( it's not soft like his cheek, not red and warmed with blood. Rokurou doesn't expect him to like it. only, it's as they say: an eye for an eye. besides, really, it's not like he minds.
he shifts over on the couch in the opposite direction so the beansprout can sit next to him on the couch, not have to awkwardly reach across like he'd done himself, earlier. red eye simmers, strikes an eye brighter color when the light strikes across just so. or maybe it's not the light at all, maybe just another intensity that's born from something no longer human. )
Go ahead.
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