[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]
( there's no need to study the ceiling as Guanshan speaks. closing his eyes, Rokurou tries to picture everything he describes. good call on the apartment thing; he wouldn't have known but the description gets an image of... something that haphazardly resembles what's being said, mashed with what he's actually familiar with.
a busy place. a lot of different voices in close quarters, bigger than a village or town, yet smaller than a city. somewhere antiquated yet homey. warm, with rich browns and clearly lived in, so like the little homes of children they'd met on their journey.
and the olfactory: bread's a familiar scent, to old senses and new, and pastries are easy to imagine even if they're probably not the right kind.
... it's a nice image, he's thinking, right around when that voice cracks in an uncomfortably familiar way. it makes his eyes open though he doesn't sit upright, staring at the ceiling again as breath grows more shallow and the shift on the couch suggests some sort of... wiping, or scrubbing.
painfully familiar. it wasn't that long ago that he would cry like that. years of it, from frustration, from despair, from sadness. bitter hot tears and too many emotions that ended up bubbling over in the end—and now he's like this. there's no dampness in his eyes now but there's that strike of empathy again, the thing that likes to pop up when he talks to Mo Guanshan sometimes.
why doesn't he want to go home? that's what he said to Velvet, wasn't it—? he wasn't going back. not going back to the apartment with the blue sheets, old wood cabinets, and mother who loves him.
finally, he sits up again, doesn't lean in and get up in the younger man's space but looks at him. )
... It sounds nice. She sounds nice.
( what can he offer? nothing, really—while he's good at encouragement and support, being there as an ear, he can't just reach over and hug. he's not a comfort in that way. he could easily see those shoulders spiking up even higher, defensive, untrusting.
but he does lean in to pass a square of fabric, richly purple, his usual color, a handkerchief that he usually keeps tucked into his belt. it's clean, smells faintly of wicker and earth, almost like it's been caught on a breeze before.
[movement caught from the corner of his eyes, he hesitantly glances at a world-weary hand, though blurry vision doesn't make it any higher, too... embarrassed, ashamed of this emotional creature that he is, weak and spineless and too easy to pity]
You don't even know her.
[he knows those words are supposed to at least soothe him, but they don't; it feels like someone saying "what a tragedy that person died, I wish I'd gotten to know them better in life!" with the shallow enthusiasm that means they'll try for a week before returning to life as usual while the ones left in the unhappy comet tail of death continue to suffer]
[the thought makes him sick]
[she's not... she's not dead]
[a hand comes atop Rokurou's, pale fingers resting over tanner and rougher ones, pushing his hand and the offered fabric down gently while he swipes at his face with the back of a long sleeve to collect saline; he's not really worth dirtying something of his like that]
[an apology bubbles in his throat but he doesn't let it escape]
I should head back. [his hand reluctantly releases the one beneath it]
( it's an agreement, because of course he doesn't. from a son's point of view—a son that knew her and remembers her—of course she's going to sound nice. but it's more a thought to his own memories of a woman that was always too strict and never praised him once that prompts him more than anything. Mo Guanshan's mom sounds nice. that's all there really is to it—she's alive, even if she's not here. and she probably misses her son.
they're all mild thoughts that run in the back of his mind, only half really acknowledged before a hand tries to push his offering away. he'd rather wipe his face with his own sleeve than take a square of fabric from a daemon? not an unusual response.
a soft sigh—not tired, not frustrated, a touch of humor at how stubborn Mo Guanshan can be. but shit, it doesn't sit right with even him to let someone leave his company with tears smeared all over face and eyes gone red. which is why he's insistent, wrapping fingers around a boney wrist and pressing that fabric into his palm.
his touch lingers for just a moment. feeling the thud of a pulse beneath fingerpads, the feeling of bone, but he doesn't think that it'd be easy to break. beansprout's long and thin, but doesn't feel like he's the type to snap.
but then that touch is gone. leaving behind that swatch of fabric without a word about it. just take it. )
If you want to. ( lips quirked up into a smile, as usual, ) You'll get tired once the buzz wears off. I always did.
[Rokurou backs off one instance and challenges him the next and -- somehow always seems to make the right choice on which to do when that leaves him equal parts envious and awed as his fingers close around the handkerchief, long and strangely dark eyelashes low as he looks at where the daemon's hand is closed around his wrist]
[he, too, wonders at how difficult it would be for him to snap it, but it's more in curiosity of Rokurou's strength than lauding his own resistance]
[after a few beats of lingering in the air, he draws back, clutching onto it and making another swipe at his puffy face with a sleeve]
[this gift he just wants to keep, untainted for as long as he can]
Mm'already tired. I just want a fuckin' nap.
[emotional breaks exhaust him more than anything, and he pulls himself up from the couch with difficulty, head still swimming, though not as much as before]
...thanks, though. [in general...] Wash and return that container to me when ya can, awright? I ain't got many.
[a gesture to the tupperware still sitting on the table -- and a vague hope that the swordsman doesn't see it as the bid for his attention and company it really is]
( well, this was some first official meeting. Mo brings him a snack and he makes the kid cry. though, he thinks, it may have been born from a need for catharsis than anything the daemon did or said.
the handkerchief is ignored but Rokurou doesn't say anything. what is he going to do, wipe it across Guanshan's face for him like a parent? no. it's there for when he needs it, maybe if he sheds tears later, and there aren't sleeves to dirty.
Mo stands and so does Rokurou, stretching his arms over his head like he had before, bending elbows and gently working out the kink that built in his neck from draping. )
Oh? ( he glances over at the container and—yeah, it is kind of fancy, isn't it? he doesn't think anything else of that. it's a reasonable request. ) Gotcha.
( resting his hands on his hips and offering the younger man a grin, )
I'll do that.
( he's not so rude as to not walk his guest to the door, so he's going to, regardless if Mo complains or not. )
[the grin disarms him, as it always seems to now, and he doesn't know if it holds the secret of that truth or not]
[decides, eventually, it doesn't matter; he'll keep it -- and just like that, his trust in the daemon deepens, takes root and chains itself down somewhere, tight but not unbreakable... at least for now]
[a myriad of confusion and insecurity leave him without complaint, stubbornly refusing to sway or fall until he claims an edge of the doorframe with his spine in a slump as any drunk is wont to do]
[looking up, he squints at the other man, eyes still bloodshot but no longer leaking]
...Mm'I what you expected? In person.
[some first meeting indeed, and now he's looking for an analysis]
( his smile hasn't dropped, and he meets that gaze with an arched brow. what he expected...?
his hand comes up to his chin, finger curled in thought as he gives the question serious consideration. )
Well... ( drifting, in thought, ) ... you have more freckles than I thought.
( from the video—he hadn't been able to tell, really, even if the picture was pretty good. but now, up close, he can see them perfectly well.
same amount of pale though. and just as boney.
dropping his hand, he brushes across Mo's shoulder, something like a pat but too soft to really be considered that. nothing he keeps there, his hand drops down to his hip again in a second.
as for the rest: well, he doesn't look put out, even with the tears. and no one's brought him a snack like this before. )
[with no small amount of reactive, almost fake frustration, a sigh rattles out of his chest, scowling up at the taller man even when his touch lands onto his shoulder, and the pinched expression turns into some confused searching]
[like he's trying to interpret it, what it means, too unaccustomed to physical contact that doesn't come from a fight or a blind, groping fumble in the dark]
...Ya ain't as tall as I thought. [one shallow bit of commentary traded for the other, not delving into deeper waters if he's going to be the only body swimming there]
[hands shove into pockets as he pulls up and off, slouched shoulders cutting a line through the hallway as he rubs softer fabric between 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?]
no subject
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?
no subject
[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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a busy place. a lot of different voices in close quarters, bigger than a village or town, yet smaller than a city. somewhere antiquated yet homey. warm, with rich browns and clearly lived in, so like the little homes of children they'd met on their journey.
and the olfactory: bread's a familiar scent, to old senses and new, and pastries are easy to imagine even if they're probably not the right kind.
... it's a nice image, he's thinking, right around when that voice cracks in an uncomfortably familiar way. it makes his eyes open though he doesn't sit upright, staring at the ceiling again as breath grows more shallow and the shift on the couch suggests some sort of... wiping, or scrubbing.
painfully familiar. it wasn't that long ago that he would cry like that. years of it, from frustration, from despair, from sadness. bitter hot tears and too many emotions that ended up bubbling over in the end—and now he's like this. there's no dampness in his eyes now but there's that strike of empathy again, the thing that likes to pop up when he talks to Mo Guanshan sometimes.
why doesn't he want to go home? that's what he said to Velvet, wasn't it—? he wasn't going back. not going back to the apartment with the blue sheets, old wood cabinets, and mother who loves him.
finally, he sits up again, doesn't lean in and get up in the younger man's space but looks at him. )
... It sounds nice. She sounds nice.
( what can he offer? nothing, really—while he's good at encouragement and support, being there as an ear, he can't just reach over and hug. he's not a comfort in that way. he could easily see those shoulders spiking up even higher, defensive, untrusting.
but he does lean in to pass a square of fabric, richly purple, his usual color, a handkerchief that he usually keeps tucked into his belt. it's clean, smells faintly of wicker and earth, almost like it's been caught on a breeze before.
smiling, )
Thanks. I have a pretty good picture now.
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You don't even know her.
[he knows those words are supposed to at least soothe him, but they don't; it feels like someone saying "what a tragedy that person died, I wish I'd gotten to know them better in life!" with the shallow enthusiasm that means they'll try for a week before returning to life as usual while the ones left in the unhappy comet tail of death continue to suffer]
[the thought makes him sick]
[she's not... she's not dead]
[a hand comes atop Rokurou's, pale fingers resting over tanner and rougher ones, pushing his hand and the offered fabric down gently while he swipes at his face with the back of a long sleeve to collect saline; he's not really worth dirtying something of his like that]
[an apology bubbles in his throat but he doesn't let it escape]
I should head back. [his hand reluctantly releases the one beneath it]
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( it's an agreement, because of course he doesn't. from a son's point of view—a son that knew her and remembers her—of course she's going to sound nice. but it's more a thought to his own memories of a woman that was always too strict and never praised him once that prompts him more than anything. Mo Guanshan's mom sounds nice. that's all there really is to it—she's alive, even if she's not here. and she probably misses her son.
they're all mild thoughts that run in the back of his mind, only half really acknowledged before a hand tries to push his offering away. he'd rather wipe his face with his own sleeve than take a square of fabric from a daemon? not an unusual response.
a soft sigh—not tired, not frustrated, a touch of humor at how stubborn Mo Guanshan can be. but shit, it doesn't sit right with even him to let someone leave his company with tears smeared all over face and eyes gone red. which is why he's insistent, wrapping fingers around a boney wrist and pressing that fabric into his palm.
his touch lingers for just a moment. feeling the thud of a pulse beneath fingerpads, the feeling of bone, but he doesn't think that it'd be easy to break. beansprout's long and thin, but doesn't feel like he's the type to snap.
but then that touch is gone. leaving behind that swatch of fabric without a word about it. just take it. )
If you want to. ( lips quirked up into a smile, as usual, ) You'll get tired once the buzz wears off. I always did.
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[he, too, wonders at how difficult it would be for him to snap it, but it's more in curiosity of Rokurou's strength than lauding his own resistance]
[after a few beats of lingering in the air, he draws back, clutching onto it and making another swipe at his puffy face with a sleeve]
[this gift he just wants to keep, untainted for as long as he can]
Mm'already tired. I just want a fuckin' nap.
[emotional breaks exhaust him more than anything, and he pulls himself up from the couch with difficulty, head still swimming, though not as much as before]
...thanks, though. [in general...] Wash and return that container to me when ya can, awright? I ain't got many.
[a gesture to the tupperware still sitting on the table -- and a vague hope that the swordsman doesn't see it as the bid for his attention and company it really is]
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the handkerchief is ignored but Rokurou doesn't say anything. what is he going to do, wipe it across Guanshan's face for him like a parent? no. it's there for when he needs it, maybe if he sheds tears later, and there aren't sleeves to dirty.
Mo stands and so does Rokurou, stretching his arms over his head like he had before, bending elbows and gently working out the kink that built in his neck from draping. )
Oh? ( he glances over at the container and—yeah, it is kind of fancy, isn't it? he doesn't think anything else of that. it's a reasonable request. ) Gotcha.
( resting his hands on his hips and offering the younger man a grin, )
I'll do that.
( he's not so rude as to not walk his guest to the door, so he's going to, regardless if Mo complains or not. )
Try not to fall asleep in the hallway, okay?
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[decides, eventually, it doesn't matter; he'll keep it -- and just like that, his trust in the daemon deepens, takes root and chains itself down somewhere, tight but not unbreakable... at least for now]
[a myriad of confusion and insecurity leave him without complaint, stubbornly refusing to sway or fall until he claims an edge of the doorframe with his spine in a slump as any drunk is wont to do]
[looking up, he squints at the other man, eyes still bloodshot but no longer leaking]
...Mm'I what you expected? In person.
[some first meeting indeed, and now he's looking for an analysis]
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his hand comes up to his chin, finger curled in thought as he gives the question serious consideration. )
Well... ( drifting, in thought, ) ... you have more freckles than I thought.
( from the video—he hadn't been able to tell, really, even if the picture was pretty good. but now, up close, he can see them perfectly well.
same amount of pale though. and just as boney.
dropping his hand, he brushes across Mo's shoulder, something like a pat but too soft to really be considered that. nothing he keeps there, his hand drops down to his hip again in a second.
as for the rest: well, he doesn't look put out, even with the tears. and no one's brought him a snack like this before. )
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[like he's trying to interpret it, what it means, too unaccustomed to physical contact that doesn't come from a fight or a blind, groping fumble in the dark]
...Ya ain't as tall as I thought. [one shallow bit of commentary traded for the other, not delving into deeper waters if he's going to be the only body swimming there]
[hands shove into pockets as he pulls up and off, slouched shoulders cutting a line through the hallway as he rubs softer fabric between fingers -- ]
Later, Rangetsu.
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