[there is nothing but time here to waste. there are no jedi upon which to spend his cruelty, no vendetta by which he might draw purpose. but the stranger looks at the younger man, chin up and chest out and bright with brass, and cannot bring himself to be anything but gracious—and that's only a little bit of an act.]
Okay. I'll show you. But you still have to let me into your head. No memories. Promise.
[he stoops down then and moves koby's chair again. grip around the leg, rotating him so that they can face each other without losing the back support, which is important, whether you're pushing forty with decades of combat training or barely out of childhood and in need of a squat regimen, according to the soonest available data. and then the stranger is offering his hands. palm-up.
some days, it's very hard for 'qimir' to keep irony out of his face. life at saltburnt seems like a cosmic joke, and it's the only defiance he has, to give zero fucks about it. but koby is very earnest. don't nobody point out that the stranger's expression might be softer for it. unless they're doing it in the unknowable language of ducks.]
[koby keeps his determined posture until the stranger is gently tugging his chair around again, at which point he squawks a little (sorry, lincoln) and scrambles to grab the sides of it to keep from being dislodged. again, there’s a fluttery little feeling in his chest when he thinks about how easily this man in particular can move him around – across a ballroom, through a library, up against a wall – but licks his lips, clears his throat and pushes that back down into a box for the time being.
their chairs are facing one another, and koby sits back up, squares his shoulders, looks at the offered hands for a moment before reaching to settle his, palm-down. he doesn’t hesitate perhaps as much as he should, perhaps as much as truly wise man might’ve, but the way he looks upwards, hopeful, eager bright eyes suggests that pure wisdom is not part of koby’s appeal, in the end.
his mind calms, too, the sensation of early-sunset pink, something still barely peeking over the horizon, something not fully realized, but holding the potential of a sun, several suns, somewhere inside the unassuming boy offering his hands, his smile, his trust that the stranger will keep his word. lincoln watches, nonplussed but aware, ready to adjust her opinion accordingly. she’ll be the cautious, wary force that koby doesn’t possess.]
['qimir' and 'duck' exchange brief glances now. while koby's radiant doe eyes are closed, master and pet will achieve a cool, queer understanding. if the stranger tries something, he'll be out some wrist meat in the shape of a razor-edged beak bite. or his nose? nobody would fuck him if he didn't have a nose.
he looks at his student. maybe koby would feel sorry for him and fuck him if he didn't have a nose. the stranger twitches a smile off his own face. closes his eyes.
the storm wracks the air, splitting atmosphere with the cracking boom of thunder and the raw white light of electricity. claw marks in the sky. below, the sea is devouring maw, black veined with white. caving in one moment, rocketing up into peaks the next. of course it's the sea. but it's angry tonight. not the deep trench boil of the stranger's aura, or the taut, brisk promise of the illusions (hallucinations?) before. this sea is rage. an inhuman scream with no end to the depth of its stratospheric lungs.
and in it, the boat. sails full to bursting. it is so impossibly small. tosses up and down like a toy. there are bodies in it, of course. one of them, pink-haired and slender in moonlight; the other tatty black and skinny, a ship's cat befitting such a pitiful vessel. the wood is wont to burst in the chaos below.
a final detail emerges in a fork of lightning: land. neither near nor far. but the tide pulls away, and the wind pulls toward.]
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okay fine this was very anime bb boy
Okay. I'll show you. But you still have to let me into your head. No memories. Promise.
[he stoops down then and moves koby's chair again. grip around the leg, rotating him so that they can face each other without losing the back support, which is important, whether you're pushing forty with decades of combat training or barely out of childhood and in need of a squat regimen, according to the soonest available data. and then the stranger is offering his hands. palm-up.
some days, it's very hard for 'qimir' to keep irony out of his face. life at saltburnt seems like a cosmic joke, and it's the only defiance he has, to give zero fucks about it. but koby is very earnest. don't nobody point out that the stranger's expression might be softer for it. unless they're doing it in the unknowable language of ducks.]
no subject
their chairs are facing one another, and koby sits back up, squares his shoulders, looks at the offered hands for a moment before reaching to settle his, palm-down. he doesn’t hesitate perhaps as much as he should, perhaps as much as truly wise man might’ve, but the way he looks upwards, hopeful, eager bright eyes suggests that pure wisdom is not part of koby’s appeal, in the end.
his mind calms, too, the sensation of early-sunset pink, something still barely peeking over the horizon, something not fully realized, but holding the potential of a sun, several suns, somewhere inside the unassuming boy offering his hands, his smile, his trust that the stranger will keep his word. lincoln watches, nonplussed but aware, ready to adjust her opinion accordingly. she’ll be the cautious, wary force that koby doesn’t possess.]
no subject
he looks at his student. maybe koby would feel sorry for him and fuck him if he didn't have a nose. the stranger twitches a smile off his own face. closes his eyes.
the storm wracks the air, splitting atmosphere with the cracking boom of thunder and the raw white light of electricity. claw marks in the sky. below, the sea is devouring maw, black veined with white. caving in one moment, rocketing up into peaks the next. of course it's the sea. but it's angry tonight. not the deep trench boil of the stranger's aura, or the taut, brisk promise of the illusions (hallucinations?) before. this sea is rage. an inhuman scream with no end to the depth of its stratospheric lungs.
and in it, the boat. sails full to bursting. it is so impossibly small. tosses up and down like a toy. there are bodies in it, of course. one of them, pink-haired and slender in moonlight; the other tatty black and skinny, a ship's cat befitting such a pitiful vessel. the wood is wont to burst in the chaos below.
a final detail emerges in a fork of lightning: land. neither near nor far. but the tide pulls away, and the wind pulls toward.]