[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. )
[he agrees, beckons him over, invites him with both his words and actions -- and yet, for a long moment, Guanshan just sits there and stares at him]
[second guessing himself, asking questions he doesn't have answers to, and precursing every stupid curiosity with "is this a good idea?" but even he's grown used to and tired of his own internal monologue -- especially, it seems, when the most earnest form of his ever-present honesty is seeping up while alcohol soaks lower]
[he makes one mistake after another, then]
[the first: he finishes his cup of sake before he stands]
[the second: he stands and barely uses the table as support when he walks, giving an already gangly boy two left feet]
[and the last: what seems the smartest thing to catch his tripping fumble on is Rokurou's knee, skinny fingers splayed over and gripping muscles that run up his thighs]
[righting himself is a struggle, clambering for the cushion at the daemon's side -- ]
Tch... [what a pathetic show... but here he is]
Um. Ya ready? [why... is he asking like it's a bigger deal for him]
[but he's sitting in front of him, body angled with his attention, both hands raised and cupping the air on either side of the swordsman's face, precariously hovering]
[the vein in his throat jumps with his pulse, and his palms are sweating]
( it's a stretch of silence and a stare that almost strikes him as inscrutable. what's he thinking? too much? Rokurou almost asks, words on the tip of his tongue when the kid finally moves. finishes that sake and that's probably not a good idea—but who asked him, right?
which is why they fall back and he settles in that silence, listening, rapt focus on limbs that move like they're too heavy. it's a short distance but for a second he wonders if Guanshan's just going to plant right onto the floor, practical virgin with spirits he is.
but if he's going to tease him again, the words catch up in his throat when there're skinny fingers pressing down against his knee. shit. a tremor and his fingers tense, twitch, like he might just grab and sink his nails down, see just how easily that skin bruises—
but deflates with a slow, long breath. a leak of a laugh and he nods his head forward, wisps of hair falling back across his face.
least he's on the damn couch now, not likely to crash into the table this way. Rokurou likewise tilts, makes himself comfortable and settles back into ease. hands over close and he can feel their heat, the scent of sweat stronger, salt and—something else. soap? ... yeah. )
Are you? ( it's a gentle chide with grit, rumbling in his chest, as his gaze flicks from the lines of a palm to freckles and eyelashes. but that doesn't last: eyes lid, close, long black eyelashes curling against a cheekbone and a black and red cracked lid, hiding the piercing gaze of his predator's eye. ) Don't worry, you won't burn your fingers.
[when Rokurou looks at him, he looks away, falling to a jawline cracked and razed, with sins that might've once just been bruises]
[he earned this, right? with hardships and mistakes and suffered consequences maybe he wasn't ready for but maybe he was... did he willingly throw himself into this thing, or was it a slow violation of youthful promises and dumb, blind optimism? what was Rokurou like when he was, not his age, but an actual kid, stupid with possibilities and naive that things like daemons existed?]
[the image he conjures in his mind, eyes big and grins less sharp, feels so uncomfortably opposite of what he feels under his hands as they both press to the length of his face, and it pulls him back to reality as he looks up, unable to keep his attention off of the foreign blight for too long]
[he thinks maybe it feels like a piece of paper that's been crumpled up angrily, some scorned lover's note, all creases and edges left harden over the years where it's fallen; his thumb trails the shift of flesh to black beneath the socket and gently presses to see if it gives way as humans do, all soft and pliant no matter how hard they push their muscles]
[...the hand on his human side first tucks hair behind his ear, an almost intimate gesture, before it comes to rest over that eye, cupping and blocking out that vision]
Open.
[there's a hummingbird in his chest and a stormcloud in his head, every part of him humid and alight, liquor proving only to dull his fear and not remove it completely ("liquid courage" could use some work -- or maybe that's just him); he hangs on somewhere between shoulders trembling with fear and hands steady with trust]
( he's not touching in return. even when he can smell fear, or because of it—relaxing fingers fall to his knees instead, fanning over fabric and fisting there, nails scraping along hatch-work weave. whatever he's thinking, Rokurou doesn't ask; there's a subtle sort of patience in the way he tilts his head and keeps his spine straight with relaxed shoulders, a meditative pose. even a serene expression, features softening out of bearing teeth and grinding molars.
inquisitive presses against daemon flesh offer very little pliancy, tough and made for war, yet still undeniably alive. like hardened calluses from years of working a sword, maybe, only warm to the touch nearest tendrils, both narrow and wide, cracks of burning red. but as promised, it doesn't burn. he feels it, too—eyebrow twitches though not because it hurts, it doesn't, just at the creeping sensation along his spine that comes with the touch. he doesn't understand that. doesn't bother thinking about it, either.
for all his talk of being no stranger to fights and scraped knuckles, smatterings of bruises along with freckles, Mo Guanshan's hands are surprisingly... soft. almost uncomfortable. two things that just don't fit, rough and smooth. he feels it all, the texture of finger pads and lines of palms, pressure against his cheek.
he doesn't hate it. )
Mm. ( he does as he's bid, feeling one hand cupped around his still-human eye, expecting the dimness. grey and peach backed with cracks of light bleeding red. the other sees clear, focusing back on a flushed face. ) You.
( a mild joke with the quirk of his lips, not a full-blown smile but something to reassure. )
It's not all that different. But, like this... ( one eye covered, focusing solely with what's been blighted over, ) ... I guess I notice more. Those little veins in your eyelids. Your eyes, that color... is what...? I see yellow, orange... glints of that. Didn't notice before.
( but when would he have? over text? a video feed? yet it catches his attention when it didn't when the kid first stood in front of his cabin, gangly and awkward.
[the carapace of a beetle, maybe, or the leathery hide of an animal on the savannah, thousands of miles away from any terrain he's ever experienced in China -- but he doesn't think this is built for protection or natural defense]
[maybe more like the bright colors on a serpent that fail to camouflage and, instead, give bold, garish, confident warnings of just what damage teeth sinking into muscles can do]
[his brow crinkles at the thought -- and at his response, finally meeting his gaze without shift, perhaps only to convey that annoyance]
[it darkens, along with his cheeks again, attention making him shift in discomfort but also soften with need, his resignation in wanting to be seen coming far quicker tonight]
[the question catches him off-guard]
[not because Rokurou's the first to wonder, but because he's the first to ask]
'Bout you. [two can play this game]
[with the hand that covers dropping back into his lap, the one that explores continues its journey, thumb over cheekbones and on the angle of his jaw where markings web and cling]
[down the side of his neck, lingering too long over muscle and something vulnerable]
[just like the daemon, a more honest answer to his question follows:]
Was thinkin' I can taste it now.
[pale fingers look good on tanned skin, against black voids, their contrast stark and alluring -- like sweetness in bitter liquor]
( it feels cool when that sweaty palm's dropped, skin feeling damp, kissed by cooler air, the kind that hurts when you breathe it in hard but feels good right down to your toes.
and another hand moves lower. even if it's over the daemon skin it makes him stiffen—not out of any dislike. the stark opposite, how his throat's always been sensitive, touches along it better than the way it feels when someone pulls on his hair. usually he likes it harder, likes teeth and tongues but curious fingers serve just as well. blinking, it's instinct that makes him nod his chin up half a centimeter, so thoughtless that he barely registers that he's done it.
his own touch didn't linger for nearly as long but he doesn't say anything about that. if it's selfishness or generosity isn't clear, not to himself, just something he accepts without complaint or reproach. ]
Yeah? ( a vibration of a chuckle, adam's apple moving with the sound, ) An aftertaste...
( falling into an easy smile, something less barbed, )
Guess some things creep up on you like that.
( tilting his head away, more strands of flipped hair fall across his forehead as he tries to work out the knot that's been building between his shoulderblades, )
[his eyes are hardly that of a warrior's, but even he can't miss all of the micro-shifts and adjustments Rokurou makes to accommodate him, hardened skin stretching and shifting with it beneath his fingers, and he's temporarily enamored by the bob and vibration of his throat as he swallows and speaks]
[is he... enjoying this... the thought makes his brows furrow a little harder, already tight with concentration but now lined with a question that he doesn't quite cough up]
...yeah. [the admission is low with guilt, even if he isn't sure he's talking about the same thing anymore, and his focus travels openly and obviously to the trim of gold and purple where markings web over a collarbone before disappearing beneath fabric -- his subtlety has gone round for round with his coherency]
[he doesn't say anything more before he pulls back, smearing sweaty palms on the thighs of his jeans in a nervous gesture, clearing his throat to fight the stretch of silence between them, and putting some space between where his thigh presses against the other man's leg]
[amber eyes sweep the room, struggling for a topic that veers away from the one his mind wants to hyper-focus on, closing in and making him feel trapped, claustrophobic]
( he... didn't really get as much out of his question as he wanted. still doesn't really know what's going on in that head, what the swill of sake drudges up if anything at all. maybe it is that simple. the taste of honey and ginger.
then soft hands leave him. again, peppering more cool spots across his skin, reminding him again of that fresh breath that he wants to reach out and cup in his hands, treat it like riverwater but not let anything drip through his fingers.
space between them and for a minute he considers closing it. he won't. not when alcohol's buzzing through an unfamiliar system—Rokurou's made bad choices but he's always made them with consent. it's the same thing he offers, leaning away rather than toward, combing fingers through his hair to style it back into it's usual look. )
Anytime. ( with a boyish grin, ) Even if it's weird, I wouldn't mind if you visited me again. You're fun to talk to.
( there's no suggestive hint, no waggle of the eyebrows, nothing like a come on. it's just a genuine comment. the beansprout is fun to talk to; even over text, it's entertaining. though he could seriously stand to ask more about swords. )
[it would be him who offered another topic, too slow and syrupy to think of it himself, melting into the couch arm at his side... is that a suggestion to leave? a subtle way to get him to move on?]
[that would be what he takes from it, huh...]
You that lonely?
[prickled though it is, the barb is self-directed; he's painfully aware of the fact that he's not the best company, especially lately]
[with his chin planting onto a fist, he sags bonelessly into that support]
( it's not, and it's not like he's standing to open the door, either. merely a genuine suggestion since even this he enjoys, sitting on a couch half-drunk without anything particular in mind. in fact, he stretches out more himself, leaning his back against his armrest and laying out like a big dog.
if it's a self-directed comment, he doesn't totally notice: )
Mm? Nah, I don't really get lonely.
( it's something he even looks a bit perplexed at, considering it earnestly. he gets restless. frustrated. needs to work out an itch in his bones. but loneliness doesn't usually parse whatever's left of his heart, too familiar with people dying and leaving, knowing the sorrow of parting and appreciating what few moments he's given.
it's just how it is.
the next question has him cocking his head again, )
Home, huh? No. ( there's no more home. ) But the planet I'm from? Yeah. There's a job I have to finish.
( ... unless that job shows up here, but he's never been so lucky. )
[the jealousy he feels is passive, lacks the sharp edge it needs to truly sink in deeper, and he wonders if that's the truth because it's how Rokurou is, has always been -- or if it's some part of him that's inhuman]
[loneliness is just an offset of the human condition, isn't it? he himself has never felt it as badly as he has here]
[that is, at least in part, his fault; the rest of it resides in a home a universe away]
[nothing the daemon says gets a response from him for long moments, but his answers come with a familiar sense of resignation, of not letting himself be disappointed as eyes trail to the opposite wall]
[they're incompatible this way too, then]
I see. [his answer is just filler, lilting on a precipice of the unspoken]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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[second guessing himself, asking questions he doesn't have answers to, and precursing every stupid curiosity with "is this a good idea?" but even he's grown used to and tired of his own internal monologue -- especially, it seems, when the most earnest form of his ever-present honesty is seeping up while alcohol soaks lower]
[he makes one mistake after another, then]
[the first: he finishes his cup of sake before he stands]
[the second: he stands and barely uses the table as support when he walks, giving an already gangly boy two left feet]
[and the last: what seems the smartest thing to catch his tripping fumble on is Rokurou's knee, skinny fingers splayed over and gripping muscles that run up his thighs]
[righting himself is a struggle, clambering for the cushion at the daemon's side -- ]
Tch... [what a pathetic show... but here he is]
Um. Ya ready? [why... is he asking like it's a bigger deal for him]
[but he's sitting in front of him, body angled with his attention, both hands raised and cupping the air on either side of the swordsman's face, precariously hovering]
[the vein in his throat jumps with his pulse, and his palms are sweating]
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which is why they fall back and he settles in that silence, listening, rapt focus on limbs that move like they're too heavy. it's a short distance but for a second he wonders if Guanshan's just going to plant right onto the floor, practical virgin with spirits he is.
but if he's going to tease him again, the words catch up in his throat when there're skinny fingers pressing down against his knee. shit. a tremor and his fingers tense, twitch, like he might just grab and sink his nails down, see just how easily that skin bruises—
but deflates with a slow, long breath. a leak of a laugh and he nods his head forward, wisps of hair falling back across his face.
least he's on the damn couch now, not likely to crash into the table this way. Rokurou likewise tilts, makes himself comfortable and settles back into ease. hands over close and he can feel their heat, the scent of sweat stronger, salt and—something else. soap? ... yeah. )
Are you? ( it's a gentle chide with grit, rumbling in his chest, as his gaze flicks from the lines of a palm to freckles and eyelashes. but that doesn't last: eyes lid, close, long black eyelashes curling against a cheekbone and a black and red cracked lid, hiding the piercing gaze of his predator's eye. ) Don't worry, you won't burn your fingers.
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[he earned this, right? with hardships and mistakes and suffered consequences maybe he wasn't ready for but maybe he was... did he willingly throw himself into this thing, or was it a slow violation of youthful promises and dumb, blind optimism? what was Rokurou like when he was, not his age, but an actual kid, stupid with possibilities and naive that things like daemons existed?]
[the image he conjures in his mind, eyes big and grins less sharp, feels so uncomfortably opposite of what he feels under his hands as they both press to the length of his face, and it pulls him back to reality as he looks up, unable to keep his attention off of the foreign blight for too long]
[he thinks maybe it feels like a piece of paper that's been crumpled up angrily, some scorned lover's note, all creases and edges left harden over the years where it's fallen; his thumb trails the shift of flesh to black beneath the socket and gently presses to see if it gives way as humans do, all soft and pliant no matter how hard they push their muscles]
[...the hand on his human side first tucks hair behind his ear, an almost intimate gesture, before it comes to rest over that eye, cupping and blocking out that vision]
Open.
[there's a hummingbird in his chest and a stormcloud in his head, every part of him humid and alight, liquor proving only to dull his fear and not remove it completely ("liquid courage" could use some work -- or maybe that's just him); he hangs on somewhere between shoulders trembling with fear and hands steady with trust]
...What's it see?
[what's different?]
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inquisitive presses against daemon flesh offer very little pliancy, tough and made for war, yet still undeniably alive. like hardened calluses from years of working a sword, maybe, only warm to the touch nearest tendrils, both narrow and wide, cracks of burning red. but as promised, it doesn't burn. he feels it, too—eyebrow twitches though not because it hurts, it doesn't, just at the creeping sensation along his spine that comes with the touch. he doesn't understand that. doesn't bother thinking about it, either.
for all his talk of being no stranger to fights and scraped knuckles, smatterings of bruises along with freckles, Mo Guanshan's hands are surprisingly... soft. almost uncomfortable. two things that just don't fit, rough and smooth. he feels it all, the texture of finger pads and lines of palms, pressure against his cheek.
he doesn't hate it. )
Mm. ( he does as he's bid, feeling one hand cupped around his still-human eye, expecting the dimness. grey and peach backed with cracks of light bleeding red. the other sees clear, focusing back on a flushed face. ) You.
( a mild joke with the quirk of his lips, not a full-blown smile but something to reassure. )
It's not all that different. But, like this... ( one eye covered, focusing solely with what's been blighted over, ) ... I guess I notice more. Those little veins in your eyelids. Your eyes, that color... is what...? I see yellow, orange... glints of that. Didn't notice before.
( but when would he have? over text? a video feed? yet it catches his attention when it didn't when the kid first stood in front of his cabin, gangly and awkward.
he didn't ask before but he does now: )
What are you thinking?
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[maybe more like the bright colors on a serpent that fail to camouflage and, instead, give bold, garish, confident warnings of just what damage teeth sinking into muscles can do]
[his brow crinkles at the thought -- and at his response, finally meeting his gaze without shift, perhaps only to convey that annoyance]
[it darkens, along with his cheeks again, attention making him shift in discomfort but also soften with need, his resignation in wanting to be seen coming far quicker tonight]
[the question catches him off-guard]
[not because Rokurou's the first to wonder, but because he's the first to ask]
'Bout you. [two can play this game]
[with the hand that covers dropping back into his lap, the one that explores continues its journey, thumb over cheekbones and on the angle of his jaw where markings web and cling]
[down the side of his neck, lingering too long over muscle and something vulnerable]
[just like the daemon, a more honest answer to his question follows:]
Was thinkin' I can taste it now.
[pale fingers look good on tanned skin, against black voids, their contrast stark and alluring -- like sweetness in bitter liquor]
Honey and ginger.
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and another hand moves lower. even if it's over the daemon skin it makes him stiffen—not out of any dislike. the stark opposite, how his throat's always been sensitive, touches along it better than the way it feels when someone pulls on his hair. usually he likes it harder, likes teeth and tongues but curious fingers serve just as well. blinking, it's instinct that makes him nod his chin up half a centimeter, so thoughtless that he barely registers that he's done it.
his own touch didn't linger for nearly as long but he doesn't say anything about that. if it's selfishness or generosity isn't clear, not to himself, just something he accepts without complaint or reproach. ]
Yeah? ( a vibration of a chuckle, adam's apple moving with the sound, ) An aftertaste...
( falling into an easy smile, something less barbed, )
Guess some things creep up on you like that.
( tilting his head away, more strands of flipped hair fall across his forehead as he tries to work out the knot that's been building between his shoulderblades, )
Like it?
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[is he... enjoying this... the thought makes his brows furrow a little harder, already tight with concentration but now lined with a question that he doesn't quite cough up]
...yeah. [the admission is low with guilt, even if he isn't sure he's talking about the same thing anymore, and his focus travels openly and obviously to the trim of gold and purple where markings web over a collarbone before disappearing beneath fabric -- his subtlety has gone round for round with his coherency]
[he doesn't say anything more before he pulls back, smearing sweaty palms on the thighs of his jeans in a nervous gesture, clearing his throat to fight the stretch of silence between them, and putting some space between where his thigh presses against the other man's leg]
[amber eyes sweep the room, struggling for a topic that veers away from the one his mind wants to hyper-focus on, closing in and making him feel trapped, claustrophobic]
[or maybe it's just Rokurou who does]
Thanks. [a beat] Uh, for it. For the drink.
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then soft hands leave him. again, peppering more cool spots across his skin, reminding him again of that fresh breath that he wants to reach out and cup in his hands, treat it like riverwater but not let anything drip through his fingers.
space between them and for a minute he considers closing it. he won't. not when alcohol's buzzing through an unfamiliar system—Rokurou's made bad choices but he's always made them with consent. it's the same thing he offers, leaning away rather than toward, combing fingers through his hair to style it back into it's usual look. )
Anytime. ( with a boyish grin, ) Even if it's weird, I wouldn't mind if you visited me again. You're fun to talk to.
( there's no suggestive hint, no waggle of the eyebrows, nothing like a come on. it's just a genuine comment. the beansprout is fun to talk to; even over text, it's entertaining. though he could seriously stand to ask more about swords. )
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[that would be what he takes from it, huh...]
You that lonely?
[prickled though it is, the barb is self-directed; he's painfully aware of the fact that he's not the best company, especially lately]
[with his chin planting onto a fist, he sags bonelessly into that support]
Hey... are you working ta go back to your home?
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if it's a self-directed comment, he doesn't totally notice: )
Mm? Nah, I don't really get lonely.
( it's something he even looks a bit perplexed at, considering it earnestly. he gets restless. frustrated. needs to work out an itch in his bones. but loneliness doesn't usually parse whatever's left of his heart, too familiar with people dying and leaving, knowing the sorrow of parting and appreciating what few moments he's given.
it's just how it is.
the next question has him cocking his head again, )
Home, huh? No. ( there's no more home. ) But the planet I'm from? Yeah. There's a job I have to finish.
( ... unless that job shows up here, but he's never been so lucky. )
And if Velvet goes, so will I.
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[loneliness is just an offset of the human condition, isn't it? he himself has never felt it as badly as he has here]
[that is, at least in part, his fault; the rest of it resides in a home a universe away]
[nothing the daemon says gets a response from him for long moments, but his answers come with a familiar sense of resignation, of not letting himself be disappointed as eyes trail to the opposite wall]
[they're incompatible this way too, then]
I see. [his answer is just filler, lilting on a precipice of the unspoken]
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