( 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 -- ]
( not as tall, huh? that draws a huff from him as he crosses his arms. if he was looking for something else it's not going to be offered now—maybe his mind's not made up, maybe he never really had any expectations at all.
watching the way those shoulders slouch for a moment, he doesn't say anything, just considers before nodding his chin up, )
See you, beansprout.
( he'll be fine. so he just watches for a moment before turning, closing the cabin door and leaving the hallway quiet. )
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
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.
no subject
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]
no subject
( 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.
no subject
[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]
no subject
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?
no subject
[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]
no subject
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. )
no subject
[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.
no subject
watching the way those shoulders slouch for a moment, he doesn't say anything, just considers before nodding his chin up, )
See you, beansprout.
( he'll be fine. so he just watches for a moment before turning, closing the cabin door and leaving the hallway quiet. )