until i'm fixed

                He’s not sure how to retort, liquid-brown eyes                 taking in the risen, angry skin; his own nerves                 sending shocks down his spine.

Like the scar, he, too, hurts — seeing Simon’s tattered skin.

                He makes an inaudible noise, his words                  stuck in his throat, like the flesh he used to consume. 

                Simon's eyes soften when he sees that it's Kieren,                 who deserves less flippancy and more explanations.                 He shakes his head, sees the taut expression on his                 face. He's quick to make motions to pull on his shirt,                 tugging it flat over his spine, smoothing his fingers                 under the lines of cloth.

                                "It's okay."

                He says this, but he's lying. He offers Kieren a tight                 smile, mind running over the right thing to say, some-                 thing to ease the look in his eyes. He can only come                 up with so much, because it's not okay, and Simon                 isn't entirely sure he's ready to go into any explana-                 tion of depth. He starts small.

          “—I couldn’t sleep,” he admitted to the stranger.    In the modern world filled with the hustle and bustle    of cities, the woods contributed to making Merlin    feel a sense of nostalgia, as if he were back ‘home’    in Camelot. It was a way of achieving detachment    from his unfortunate reality.

                Simon nods. S'a fair observation, accurate to boot;                 Simon likes people but he likes his alone time, too,                 time spent away from everything that is and every-                 thing he is. Sometimes it's good to get away and                 wander.

                                " - I like the quiet."

                A little glance around the place, which is full of the                 bustle of nature, wind against leaves and grass,                 and between them, their conversation.

                  Sebastian got into the habit of running in the morning… years ago.                   A continuation of morning training in the military after he retired. In                   the summer, the sun was usually up by the time he started running                   — a little after five most days, sometimes later if he hadn’t gotten                   enough sleep the night before — but in the later months of fall until                   the early months of spring, it was still dark or the sun was just barely                   beginning to rise.

                  It was light out today but barely. There were a few cars on the road,                   people coming home from late shifts or going to work for early ones,                   but it was quiet for the most part. Not many people liked waking up                   this early, he supposed, but it was to be expected. It just meant it                   was unlikely he would run into anyone on his run.

                  The air was crisp and there was evidence of the changing season in                   dead brown leaves on the ground and bright red and orange and                   yellow still remaining on the trees. It was certainly better conditions                   than the summer, something he was grateful for. Running in the heat                   was never fun.

                  However much stamina Sebastian had, he was well aware of his limits                   so after about two and a half miles, he slowed, pausing along his route                   to catch his breath. The voice startled him, though, because it wasn’t                   often that people talked to him when there even was anyone out.

                A measure of Simon feels bad for having - however slightly -                 caught the man off guard, and he makes it his mission to get                 all of the startles over with in one go, leaning forward and                 blinking up at him with his colourless eyes. In the pale light                 it's not always so evident when someone's talking to a dead                 man, and Simon always aims to get that out of the way first,                 in the event that it's some kind of issue.

                ( It's instinctual, the defensive attitude assuming that it might                 be an issue. Too many years of getting exactly the reaction                 he expects has put Simon on a permanent edge. )

                                                "Military man?"

                Just a guess. Simon's lips quirk up at the corners. It's the                 assumption that makes the most sense, after all. Simon                 scratches a patch of skin under his jaw that doesn't itch;                 the body may die but the habits rarely die with it, and fiddling                 around with his fingers is one of those habits that didn't die.

                After a moment, he leans up, extending out a hand in greeting.                 His skin will be cold, matching the temperature of the air                 around them.