[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]
that's how he reads Mo's response even if the kid doesn't let himself feel it. and it's not something Rokurou's completely detached from, a strike of empathy that he won't voice making him press his lips together. even if he's lost his humanity it's not like he doesn't understand. ghosts are regrets gone walking, wisps of memories that don't quite fade, and he studies the younger man for a long moment.
he won't explain himself. he could, but it's nothing that will offer any solace, and Rokurou doesn't feel the need anyway. )
Would you want me to stay?
( maybe that's too bold and it'll send this little bird fluttering from his hands in a panic—and he won't try to cage him, he'll let him go—but it's a question that's asked regardless. how will Rokurou ever know what Mo's thinking if he doesn't ask? for all the wonder, he'll never catch a right answer without that risk. )
[his profile isn't one that's proud or hurt, and even if he's more angles than the softness his age should allow, he isn't overly hardened either -- just bruised, expression distance, rippled with drunkenness and something heavier]
[it doesn't shift, and his answer isn't hard to find:]
Naw. [not because he wouldn't, indeed, want him to, stay in his orbit to ebb and wane from it as he please but never lost to space completely, but because -- ]
People shouldn't be kept from what they think's important or they love.
["not a romantic", he'd said]
[maybe just not selfish enough to ask anyone to give something like that up]
( it's an answer that makes him close his eyes. there's a lot he doesn't know or understand about this one, but he thinks that maybe he has a slightly better idea now. there are some varied thoughts that cross his mind. none of them he feels like voicing, a man that will encourage but won't offer pretty lies.
it's an impulse that he asks something that might seem off base, but isn't: )
Do you have siblings?
( he wondered this before, too, but at the time didn't bother asking. his eyes are open again when he asks this, though he doesn't stare. he's reclined his head back, falling over his shoulders and drifting across his face, eyes up at the ceiling. )
[the open stretch of bewilderment is on his face as he watches Rokurou watch the ceiling, and he doesn't follow his gaze, instead looking at something that, for a moment and from this angle, looks deceptively human]
[clever trick]
[he'd said something before, hadn't he? his name meant... "sixth son"?]
[is he looking for ties between them, notes of familiarity? is he just trying to get to know him? is he lonelier than he thinks? Guanshan wants each to be true]
No. [his lips stay parted around the hesitation to continue, to fill in what his next question might be, but making guesses would reveal more than he has to, wouldn't it?]
( he sounds genuinely surprised, looking up again briefly from his sprawling angle before falling back into it, letting the buzz hit his head and simmer there. )
I really thought you were going to say yes.
( he mentioned a father before, Rokurou remembers, and there's a distinct lack of mention of him now. not really any of his business and he's not going to ask about that, instead thinking on the unit that's offered. just his mother, huh...? in a way, that kind of explains it too. )
So that's how it is. ( they must have been close then, huh...? does he miss her? that would be normal, wouldn't it? ) What was your house like?
[pretty much anyone he's met with a sibling just... fights with them constantly -- or is that why? is that Rokurou's explanation (the one they both know he doesn't need) for the bruises, for the temper, for the against-the-world attitude? well, he's heard worse]
[the angle the swordsman's claimed, he now realizes, offers him the opportunity to admire his form in privacy, gaze settling on broad shoulders and dropping down to the highlight on his collarbones before venturing lower, pouring over the lopsided folds of his robe and deeper onto the fabric fastened around his hips, wondering at just how to untie it]
Yeah, and the inside. What kind of things are there, what the rooms look like.
( it's a position he doesn't move from. frankly, he doesn't need to in order to see beansprout in his mind's eye, almost perfectly, every other sense rapt on the younger man and making up for the change of his visual focus.
heightened senses allow for hearing of every breath, every rustle of clothing and even the soft crack of joints that come with restless bones. )
I want to try to picture it.
( which might sound like a stupid thought, and... maybe it is. but Guanshan's asked a lot about his home; he's trying to see what's so different about them, wanting to see that, too, in his mind's eye.
but he won't dodge trying to answer the earlier question: )
Ahh... how come? It's like... ( how to explain this? ) ... you feel like you would be.
( SUCH GOOD DESCRIPTION no wait, there's more—)
Like... the kind of guy that a younger sibling could rely on. Maybe they'd annoy the hell out of you, but when it came down to it, you'd take care of them. Dependable.
( there's a pause at that, like he's suddenly gotten it right. )
You have that way about you. That's why I really thought you'd say yes.
[the demeanor of his gaze on Rokurou shifts from appraising to skeptical, listening to words that have slowed with sake and an attempt to communicate things he thinks might run deeper than those daemon veins, buried under layers of cauterized flesh and the blood that could still pump into them]
[things that make Rokurou who he is, beneath that and callouses and scars and a love of metal on metal and the way the fabric of him falls -- and he's asking about something deeper in Guanshan that he has far too much difficulty naming]
[he's never felt like he was dependable to anyone... but that it's what he wants to be, and so the compliment hits a bullseye somewhere a little too intimate for him to fully respond without fearing the intimacy that comes with it; his breathing shifts and his legs draw up onto the couch, the gangly length of them shifting under his weight]
[words aren't his specialty]
[he's willing to try anyway, looks away with his attempt at summoning those memories in explicit detail, and has to close his eyes to block out the shiny modern newness of the station so his vision and the details of his home don't clash too garishly]
Uh, it's an apartment complex -- [he's not even sure if Rokurou knows what that means] -- so the places people live are a lot smaller and all stacked together. We hear the neighbors a lot, um. Mostly cryin' kids and couples arguin' or fuckin'. A lot of 'em come and go but we been there a long time 'cuz it's cheap.
[that's what it always comes down to: it's cheap -- China isn't, the cities aren't]
Mm, you... walk in and it usually smells good. My Ma bakes a lot, bread and pastries and stuff, while I do dinner. Or soap 'cuz she's doin' chores... It's small so ya basically walk into the living room, take yer shoes off, and there's a set'a drawers there I set my bag on. [a pause, like he needs the breath, the break, adds something superfluous like that might make it easier:] It's yellow.
The couch is blue and the floors're wood and the windows're so big we don't gotta turn the lights on much during the day. The table in the kitchen's got one leg all fucked up so it rocks when ya move too much but we sit there and eat anyway. The cabinets are old and wood, and they swell and stick when it's hot in the summer.
There's... only one bathroom. My Ma makes a mess outta it with her make-up sometimes, but I don't mind...
[his voice cracks, weakens, a shift of skin on skin like he's scrubbing his face, a small grind of teeth on teeth that conveys his difficulty where the swordsman can't see his shoulders shrugged up, defensive spines]
My sheets're blue and there's a porch by my bed. I play video games and try ta do homework at my desk.
She brings me snacks when she can.
[another crack and the smell of salt comes with a wet cheek, hardly a torrent but tears enough, as singular and lonely as he feels without her around but like fuck would he want her here]
[even if he knows he's probably never going to see her or all those cracked-plaster doorframes that open to a soft, concerned face ever again]
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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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that's how he reads Mo's response even if the kid doesn't let himself feel it. and it's not something Rokurou's completely detached from, a strike of empathy that he won't voice making him press his lips together. even if he's lost his humanity it's not like he doesn't understand. ghosts are regrets gone walking, wisps of memories that don't quite fade, and he studies the younger man for a long moment.
he won't explain himself. he could, but it's nothing that will offer any solace, and Rokurou doesn't feel the need anyway. )
Would you want me to stay?
( maybe that's too bold and it'll send this little bird fluttering from his hands in a panic—and he won't try to cage him, he'll let him go—but it's a question that's asked regardless. how will Rokurou ever know what Mo's thinking if he doesn't ask? for all the wonder, he'll never catch a right answer without that risk. )
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[it doesn't shift, and his answer isn't hard to find:]
Naw. [not because he wouldn't, indeed, want him to, stay in his orbit to ebb and wane from it as he please but never lost to space completely, but because -- ]
People shouldn't be kept from what they think's important or they love.
["not a romantic", he'd said]
[maybe just not selfish enough to ask anyone to give something like that up]
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it's an impulse that he asks something that might seem off base, but isn't: )
Do you have siblings?
( he wondered this before, too, but at the time didn't bother asking. his eyes are open again when he asks this, though he doesn't stare. he's reclined his head back, falling over his shoulders and drifting across his face, eyes up at the ceiling. )
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[the open stretch of bewilderment is on his face as he watches Rokurou watch the ceiling, and he doesn't follow his gaze, instead looking at something that, for a moment and from this angle, looks deceptively human]
[clever trick]
[he'd said something before, hadn't he? his name meant... "sixth son"?]
[is he looking for ties between them, notes of familiarity? is he just trying to get to know him? is he lonelier than he thinks? Guanshan wants each to be true]
No. [his lips stay parted around the hesitation to continue, to fill in what his next question might be, but making guesses would reveal more than he has to, wouldn't it?]
[sake, however, has loosened his tongue]
It's just me and my Ma.
[and now, just her]
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( he sounds genuinely surprised, looking up again briefly from his sprawling angle before falling back into it, letting the buzz hit his head and simmer there. )
I really thought you were going to say yes.
( he mentioned a father before, Rokurou remembers, and there's a distinct lack of mention of him now. not really any of his business and he's not going to ask about that, instead thinking on the unit that's offered. just his mother, huh...? in a way, that kind of explains it too. )
So that's how it is. ( they must have been close then, huh...? does he miss her? that would be normal, wouldn't it? ) What was your house like?
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[pretty much anyone he's met with a sibling just... fights with them constantly -- or is that why? is that Rokurou's explanation (the one they both know he doesn't need) for the bruises, for the temper, for the against-the-world attitude? well, he's heard worse]
[the angle the swordsman's claimed, he now realizes, offers him the opportunity to admire his form in privacy, gaze settling on broad shoulders and dropping down to the highlight on his collarbones before venturing lower, pouring over the lopsided folds of his robe and deeper onto the fabric fastened around his hips, wondering at just how to untie it]
[the question gets a distracted:] Hm?
...Like the building itself?
[why...]
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( it's a position he doesn't move from. frankly, he doesn't need to in order to see beansprout in his mind's eye, almost perfectly, every other sense rapt on the younger man and making up for the change of his visual focus.
heightened senses allow for hearing of every breath, every rustle of clothing and even the soft crack of joints that come with restless bones. )
I want to try to picture it.
( which might sound like a stupid thought, and... maybe it is. but Guanshan's asked a lot about his home; he's trying to see what's so different about them, wanting to see that, too, in his mind's eye.
but he won't dodge trying to answer the earlier question: )
Ahh... how come? It's like... ( how to explain this? ) ... you feel like you would be.
( SUCH GOOD DESCRIPTION no wait, there's more—)
Like... the kind of guy that a younger sibling could rely on. Maybe they'd annoy the hell out of you, but when it came down to it, you'd take care of them. Dependable.
( there's a pause at that, like he's suddenly gotten it right. )
You have that way about you. That's why I really thought you'd say yes.
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[things that make Rokurou who he is, beneath that and callouses and scars and a love of metal on metal and the way the fabric of him falls -- and he's asking about something deeper in Guanshan that he has far too much difficulty naming]
[he's never felt like he was dependable to anyone... but that it's what he wants to be, and so the compliment hits a bullseye somewhere a little too intimate for him to fully respond without fearing the intimacy that comes with it; his breathing shifts and his legs draw up onto the couch, the gangly length of them shifting under his weight]
[words aren't his specialty]
[he's willing to try anyway, looks away with his attempt at summoning those memories in explicit detail, and has to close his eyes to block out the shiny modern newness of the station so his vision and the details of his home don't clash too garishly]
Uh, it's an apartment complex -- [he's not even sure if Rokurou knows what that means] -- so the places people live are a lot smaller and all stacked together. We hear the neighbors a lot, um. Mostly cryin' kids and couples arguin' or fuckin'. A lot of 'em come and go but we been there a long time 'cuz it's cheap.
[that's what it always comes down to: it's cheap -- China isn't, the cities aren't]
Mm, you... walk in and it usually smells good. My Ma bakes a lot, bread and pastries and stuff, while I do dinner. Or soap 'cuz she's doin' chores... It's small so ya basically walk into the living room, take yer shoes off, and there's a set'a drawers there I set my bag on. [a pause, like he needs the breath, the break, adds something superfluous like that might make it easier:] It's yellow.
The couch is blue and the floors're wood and the windows're so big we don't gotta turn the lights on much during the day. The table in the kitchen's got one leg all fucked up so it rocks when ya move too much but we sit there and eat anyway. The cabinets are old and wood, and they swell and stick when it's hot in the summer.
There's... only one bathroom. My Ma makes a mess outta it with her make-up sometimes, but I don't mind...
[his voice cracks, weakens, a shift of skin on skin like he's scrubbing his face, a small grind of teeth on teeth that conveys his difficulty where the swordsman can't see his shoulders shrugged up, defensive spines]
My sheets're blue and there's a porch by my bed. I play video games and try ta do homework at my desk.
She brings me snacks when she can.
[another crack and the smell of salt comes with a wet cheek, hardly a torrent but tears enough, as singular and lonely as he feels without her around but like fuck would he want her here]
[even if he knows he's probably never going to see her or all those cracked-plaster doorframes that open to a soft, concerned face ever again]
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