long live the trash

“It’s alright” catches Jaehyun’s attention and “it keeps people safe” makes his gaze sharpen unconsciously—like his pupils could turn to harsh, feline slits and cut a hole through Seunghyuk’s stiff, muddied expression. There is a wall between them and it will remain—it is this which Jaehyun cannot see through, and cannot find it within himself to reach past, either. It’s there for their safety, mutually, he would like to think (though he’s not so sure; he thinks it’s for him who’s bitter and vulnerable and weak underneath his mysterious mask, then thinks it’s more for Seunghyuk whose weakness is written in all the cracks in his expressions and fumbles between his words).

(He’s not sure which of them is weaker, which of them is pretending more—him, full of bluster, or Seunghyuk, painfully balling something up inside.)

Regardless, Jaehyun doesn’t show weakness—he orders a drink in the same deep, velvet voice as he always uses these days, Something with lavender—he won’t admit that he’s nervous, but any of his peers would know from the order alone that he is. Seunghyuk probably wouldn’t, though, so Jaehyun pays it no mind.

He finds himself scratching lightly at the side of his face as the silence ticks by; Seunghyuk wasn’t quite this awkward in the past, was he? A distant memory comes forth and the contrast unsettles him; this isn’t the kind of change he could’ve anticipated. The awkwardness feels heavy, now, and there’s a fleeting feeling of concern that briefly overcomes Jaehyun’s bitterness.

“Homestuck…?” he says quietly, finding it impossible not to have seen the name—and yet not understanding the relevance, The smile that reaches his lips at the mention of Seunghyuk’s dog is genuine, if a bit lopsided with confusion—endeared, more accurately, though Jaehyun is loathe to admit it. Indeed, he instead finds himself pushing the softer expressions down in favor of maintaining his cool—he’s trying to protect himself, but he’s always been soft.

The witch chuckles, shifting to cross his legs—leaning his chin lightly against his fingers. “I’m frankly uncertain of what I was asking,” he says quietly, honestly, “But you having a dog… it seems fitting, somehow.” And yet in the same thought Jaehyun’s heart sinks a bit—there was really nothing else to mention? Or is it possible that Seunghyuk is hiding something, lying? It’s hard to think that possible—Seunghyuk is transparent, in many ways, and Jaehyun has seen him at his worst—but he forcibly reminds himself that there is motivation to do such.

But Seunghyuk is flustered—and Jaehyun remains endeared, even as he tries his best to be cynical.

“Well—I suppose not so much has changed for me, either. I’ve continued my studies—” he tries not to stumble, but something in his tone catches strangely “—the same as ever, though I have recently completed the majority of them… though admittedly, ‘complete’ is a strange word, when study is a life-long process.” Jaehyun exhales a sigh, leaning back; it’s so strange, dodging the key words the same way he always has, but feeling confident enough with the ones he uses. “I’ve been working, as well, in wards and the like, though my specialties seem to lie elsewhere—properly pursuing such things takes time, though I’ve begun developing a clientele in my own way.” He’s rambling again—and unsure of how to stop himself.

For a moment he looks up at the ceiling, stares at one of the avant-garde light fixtures. He can’t just ask “do you hate me” in such simple terms—it’s not right, and besides that, the answer seems strangely obvious, yet hard to believe. (But if Seunghyuk doesn’t hate him, in specific, then does he hate everything supernatural? He says he’s keeping people safe—is he wrong, there? Is that really all?)

“But—I’m certain you don’t wish to hear more about what a witch does with his time,” he says in a tone that almost bites. “Professional and academic matters aside, I’ve been well,” silently, he admits to himself that elaborating beyond that is hard, “though I haven’t added any animal companions to my household, either.” He chuckles, though the joke isn’t really a joke at all; his gaze, curious but not cutting, serves as an invitation for Seunghyuk to continue speaking—about anything, Jaehyun thinks, besides the core tension at hand.

The fact that his life is unimpressive at best and pitiful at worst is something that only comes to mind once he spends so much time trying to think of it otherwise; it’s embarrassing in its own right, really, especially in front of Jaehyun like this, but he does his best to push the realization aside---it’s not something he can do much about, right now, given that all of his hobbies are just as unexciting as anything else is. Constantly taking refuge in one’s home would certainly exacerbate such---what would there be to speak about if truly, all the days blur within each other, some seeming all but unaccounted for at all, and everything else was centered around the details of his work? If he knows how to properly explain something like that, then he would---at least, he’d do so in a much better manner than he’d already had, where the lameness of his own admissions threatens to haunt his thoughts for the rest of the outing.

He swallows nerves down, rubs a palm against the side of his thigh. At least it keeps him from shifting in place so much.

A certain degree of weight lifts from his shoulders when Jaehyun approves (is that how he should interpret that? He doesn’t think it’s incorrect, at least---unless being the type to have a dog would have some negative meaning that he hadn’t been aware of, before. Is there anything like that anyway?) of Jade’s existence; it’s hard to imagine that even that could go wrong, but the gnawing in the back of his mind is incessant, and second-guessing himself in even such simple things had all but become commonplace for him over the years. 

It’s part of why he holds his tongue, keeps himself from rambling on about Jade and how good of a girl she is; he thinks about it, though, pushing aside for a time to focus more on Jaehyun as the topic shifts to the other once more.

There’s an odd sort of tension within him that causes his fingers to involuntarily twitch as Jaehyun speaks---nothing’s new or surprising, and yet there’s something about it that further prevents Seunghyuk from truly relaxing (as if doing so would be so much as possible, even). It’s strange, even (or perhaps especially) to him---how such things carry no inherently ominous context, and yet its as though the words themselves have a similar feeling to such regardless. 

He tries to ignore it, though---focusing on the fact that things don’t seem to be going bad right now is a start in that respect, and trying to see it in a good light, relying on how Jaehyun at least seems to be doing well despite the years manages to ease some of the coils wrapped around his muscles. 

They don’t fade, not entirely---but he can at least take a moment to give a bit of a small, almost shy smile as he nods along. 

(It shifts into something a touch more uncertain and uncomfortable with the brief silence, despite how he tries to keep it from doing so---reading Jaehyun had never truly been something he was capable of doing. Anticipating, maybe---some habits were common enough for even him to take notice---but that was in a time long ago, one they’ve both left behind.)

(He wonders if the sting he feels is from the way Jaehyun talks, or if it’s from the brief reminder of just why things have changed so much between them. He wonders, too, if he should try claiming otherwise---but the simple concept of doing so was much too far for him to consider. Lies were never much his specialty, even when they were only half so.) 

It’s not until Jaehyun chuckles that Seunghyuk realizes that the latter half of the comment wasn’t as serious as he’d been taking it originally; the sound he makes in response is weak, but it’s a strange sort of awkward-sounding laugh, still---he’ll likely be kicking himself over the thought of what it might come across as later, if his immediate fidgeting afterwards has any indication of that. 

“I’m glad,” he starts, with no lack of sincerity in his voice---in this, he can be honest. “That you’ve been alright. I...” 

He doesn’t say anything for a while after trailing off, uncertain of what he was trying to say,  what else he could say and how to even start; and he startles, almost, when the drinks make their way to the table, having been too momentarily preoccupied with trying to sort his thoughts. 

When was the last time conversation relied on his input to continue? He sincerely can’t recall---his fidgeting shifts to another target for the moment, taking a sip of the drink he’d ordered after fumbling momentarily with the straw.

The moment the taste hits his tongue, his face scrunches up---a near offended yet confused expression takes over his features when he pulls away from it, and the realization that he has not the slightest idea of what flavor it’s meant to be comes to mind. He’d think to call it fitting, but instead he sighs lightly and labels it bad luck---still, though, he doesn’t make an effort to wave someone down over it. He’s got enough to try and tackle already---and maybe he should work on that soon, because the atmospheric chatter is doing nothing to assuage the awkward silence at their table.

“J-Jade---” silently, he curses the fact that finding his voice had a hidden agenda of causing him to stammer, too; all that nervousness slips through in ways that only serve to make him more so. “The dog---my dog, I mean. She was a stray but she’s a really good girl. Strays are... somehow they’re easy to pick up. They... make nice companions... ?” Again he flusters in his pausing, taking yet another sip of the drink he hadn’t liked on first taste. He still dislikes it now. “You---familiars? Or are those not... not like...” 

The first thing he notices are eyes so warm Hongbin could drown in them. Then comes the prominent nose, the cheeks, and the elf-like ears– all colored red, undoubtedly kissed from the cold outside. He has a V-shaped jaw, and wind-tousled hair that made a very small part of Hongbin want to run his fingers through it. His skin looked soft, smooth– a lovely color, though it did not really matter much to Hongbin, neither did the one or two acne scars he could see. He was in a coat so large it looked like it was swallowing it whole, and yet the other still looked cold. 

His delivery man was absolutely delicious, yet absolutely terrifying.

It wasn’t because his delivery boy was incredibly attractive– Hongbin’s have had several of those before– but rather it was this…this flood of emotions that came along with it. Feelings he didn’t want, didn’t ask for, couldn’t possibly have after a first glance. The moment he opened the door there was some inexplainable desire to–to hold him, be held, talk, share, laugh, cry– everything. It was like being slapped in the face with the emotional capacity of a longtime harbored crush.

Judging by the way the other’s lovely parted lips were gaping, he was feeling the same type of way. And that was something that just could not happen.

Hongbin felt like he was going to throw up. As if he wasn’t having a rough enough day as it was, life decided to throw this in his face. Anxiety rose up so fast and furious in his body he was surprised he was still standing upright. It was like the blanket around his shoulders was now made of poison and led. “It’s fine,” he says, his voice sounding far away and feathery. He hated himself so much, hated how he sounded weak and pathetic. He needed to pretend that everything was fine because he couldn’t afford to fuck up even though he already was sure that he had. This couldn’t be happening to him, this can’t happen to him. 

He wouldn’t go through this again– he can’t. So he tells himself that he’s referring to the long wait because it was ridiculously long.

His hand was shaking so hard, it was a mystery as to how he managed to grab the receipt on the first try. Hongbin dimly registers that he has to sign the paper– he paid on his card, after all– but he also didn’t have a pen on him and his feet were firmly rooted to the ground. In fact, Hongbin was afraid he’d faint if he moved from that spot. He felt so lightheaded, so weak, he should probably lean up against something. 

“Do you– pen?” 

There’s a rhythmic beat in his heart that translates as music in his head, almost to the point of making him want to dance -- he doesn’t, though, mentally slapping himself on the wrist for even considering such a ridiculous first impression. Not that the impression he’s making right now could be any better -- staring at someone like this, like he’s a physical embodiment of every constellation, beautiful and ethereal and captivating standing in front of him, just within arm’s reach.

Even if he looks as though he’d just rolled out of bed, and that he might fall over at any given moment. 

Once the thought crosses his mind, Jaehwan all but chastises himself for being so blinded right out of the gate -- not that he could blame himself for it, really, but it nonetheless pulled him away from being grounded in reality. He bites into his lip, tries to keep the concern off of his face; if it were anyone else, would he feel such a strong desire to make sure they’re okay, despite that being well outside of his job description in more ways than one? He could be telling himself a lie when he decides yes, he would, but in the moment he opens his mouth to express those gentle worries, the other male speaks instead. 

Jaehwan has to remember to keep his heart from skipping at the sound.

“Pen--? A-Ah, yeah, right--here, here you go,” he fumbles, all too quickly fishing through his pockets to pull out the item requested. Handing it over takes no more than a couple of seconds, but everything registers as slower than it should be in his mind at the moment; he thinks that maybe he can excuse himself for that, if only just this once. 

Her lips part in a inviting smile. It’s not inviting in the same sense of how her dance drew him in, not in the way he felt drawn to her before, though that hasn’t gone; it’s genuine and bright with something that feels unassuming about it that makes him warm somehow. The way she draws closer, beaming even brighter makes his heart skip, just the slightest, with a realization that, oh. She’s cute too.

Part of him almost feels as if he’s too close now, though perhaps he’s merely aware of how close he had gotten to her, but she doesn’t seem to mind it at all. He mirrors her expression, his near smirk softening into something gentler. He nearly has to tamp down some shy feeling gaining strength as something in the back of his head sighs that he’s out of his depth. Wonshik tugs back at that daring feeling that had inspired him and lets himself admire her features as she speaks.

Ah, but she went for it? he grins. There’s only a slight fleeting thought that he hopes it doesn’t come off as too excited, or that the slight flush he can feel creeping up on his cheeks isn’t too visible in the club lighting or might be passed off as exertion.

“Totally, you can – both is good,” he says, a sheepish laugh tacked on the end of it from how disjointed the reply is. It’s spoken less confidently than he would like, nor as smooth; Wonshik wills himself to loosen in spite of it. The general atmosphere and the bass pumping through the walls help as he more easily gives a crooked grin.

He places a hand on her arm, touch solid but gentle.

“Why don’t I get you that drink then, and we can see how things go from there? …Since we’ve got all night,” he echoes, the implications of her words carried in his own as his tone lowers.

It’s a bit easier for someone of his height to part the mass of people as he leads the way to the bar. His hand trails behind him, holding her wrist with loose fingers almost absentmindedly placed there.

With a more serious expression he gets her what he usually does when he wants to impress at this place – it’s a dark drink that’s almost fruity, but not too sweet and goes down smoothly; strangely, it glitters, but that doesn’t seem to affect the taste or texture; under the spotty lighting, it almost looks like stars. (It’s also far, far more expensive than he’ll admit to paying for a drink.)

Wonshik slides the drink down to her with a grin.

“Hope you don’t mind I picked you somethin’ out; this is my favorite thing they offer here.”

As if suddenly remembering, he hums. “I should introduce myself and ask who it is I’m dedicating the rest of the night to, shouldn’t I?” A sheepish laugh and he’s grinning at her, resting his elbow on the bar. “I’m Wonshik, by the way.”

It’s oddly satisfying, having someone whose natural advantages can so easily make way through a throng of people; she finds herself grinning all the more about that, though it’s not as though the easy-going hold he has on her doesn’t go beyond her notice, either. It’s yet another positive to add to him ─ a touch that’s not too forceful or too demanding in its constructs. It tells a lot about the handsome stranger, but she doesn’t find him too difficult to read in the first place. 

The drink he chooses is an eye-catcher, one that pulls her attention and makes her smile in an appreciative way. “It’s pretty,” she says, admiring it wholeheartedly, fingers trailing along the rim before she takes a testing sip. It doesn’t taste the way she thought it might, but it’s far from bad, either ─ a bit surprising, as he claims it’s his favorite, but it’s yet another piece to put together the impression puzzle. “You have good taste, Wonshik.” 

His name rolls off her tongue as though she were tasting it, too ─ in a way, perhaps she were. She’s not one to play hard to get, either; when she provides her own, it’s with a purr of sorts. “Hyoah,” she gives, head tilted slightly and a hand tucking strands of hair behind her ear. "But Hyo is fine, if you’d like.”

                  ↪ @omniroulette

His hands are fidgeting and he doesn’t know why. It’s not the first time he’s been here, nor will it be the last. Yet no matter how many times he tells himself this, he can still feel the anxiety coursing through his veins like pop rocks in cola. His left leg is bouncing from it, his fingers are rubbing against each other in circles as a feeble attempt to calm himself. 

Hongbin picks at his lip as he watches his therapist get ready for their session. She was a nice woman, older with greying hair and infuriatingly put together. Hongbin envied her as he did most people. No matter how many angry outbursts or mental breakdowns she coaxes out of him, she’s never rustled. Every hair stays in place as she makes notes. Sometimes she doesn’t even takes notes, instead favoring to watch as he pathetically, miserably works through a tangent. 

There’s something terribly soothing about her, though, and Hongbin supposes that’s why he keeps on returning.

“Did you want tea today?” his therapist offers with a light smile. Hongbin politely declines even though he was aching for some chamomile. He glances at the clock on the wall as she turns on the hot water anyway. Perhaps she sensed his want despite what he said. She has a freaky knack for reading his mind.

They continue on with useless chatter, the how you’ve been’s and is your week going well’s, of which have been relatively average for Hongbin. Average is good. Average is fucking fantastic considering where they started off nearly a year and a half ago. Hongbin couldn’t believe he is in this sort of state– feeling as if his life is actually going back uphill instead of down– but he’s so scared of actually putting hope into that thought that it’d just spiral uncontrollably again just to spite him.

Hongbin finds himself staring off into space for a moment as the chatter dies off. There’s only one thing that had been on his mind lately. February will always be a shitty time for him, he’s come to realize, because of this. When all his hopes and dreams blew up in his face because of something so fairytale and childish. Bitterness rises quickly in his throat, coupled with a sadness that used to be absolutely unbearable but now just has a numbing effect. 

“We would’ve been married for a year– I– uh, tomorrow. Starting tomorrow. February twenty-second.” It’s awkward and clunky on his tongue, the thought ripping itself out of him before he had the power to properly phrase it. He doesn’t have to look at his therapist to know that she’s slipped on her professional persona with ease. Hongbin can also feel her gaze softening as he chances a glance at her.

Ridiculously, he feels tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. He laughs in spite of it, the back of his hand going to cover the scoff– a reflex. “It’s ridiculous how it’s been– almost two years now– and I’m still so affected by her.” Hongbin doesn’t babble often, and absolutely loathes talking about this topic in particular, but his therapist is the one, only, exception to all of it. Here, perhaps he can find solace in spilling his guts while having a crisis at the same time. 

For a bit, he explains how they had the whole day nearly planned. Why they chose February twenty-second– she liked all the two’s, they were “too” cute– how there’d be some sort of winter wonderland theme, she’d be the ice princess to his prince. He honestly couldn’t have cared when or what type of wedding they’d have. Just as long as she was happy, he’d be there standing at the alter in the most ridiculous outfit if she so wanted to.

This was absolutely terrible since they didn’t even get to November before it took a turn for the worst. She found her “soulmate”– a stupid term, a goddamn myth– she had told him, sobbing as he packed his suitcase after finding them. Naked. In his own bed. Neither of them even believed in the phenomenon when they became friends. Dated. Got engaged. It was amazing how it took so little to convince her otherwise when she found “the one”– their wedding planner. 

“Shouldn’t I be over this by now? I’ve been going through all the steps but I still– I still remember every little damn thing I want to forget.”

A click of a pen and the sound of his therapist fills the silence as Hongbin realizes with a start that he is much more of an emotional mess than he believed he was going to be today. Desperately, he tries to regain some of his composure, but with no surprise he found himself struggling to do so. He reaches over for the tissues and blows his nose, sniffling somewhat incessantly.

It’s going to be a long session.

Later at home Hongbin is wrapped up in so many layers on his cheap couch he might as well be a caterpillar waiting to break free of its cocoon of blankets. His heat isn’t working properly, which was just great considering it had started to snow as he ventured home after therapy. The meltdown today felt good to get off his chest, and he was still mulling over what they talked about all afternoon, but it left Hongbin feeling drained and exhausted without much will to do anything but lay there blankly.

It was dark out and Hongbin had ordered in chicken about an hour ago, which is ridiculous considering it isn’t too far from his shitty little apartment. He’s annoyed as he glares uselessly at the TV screen, not moving from being a useless lump in his living room. He wants his fried chicken, dammit, and the movie he put on to distract himself was doing little to nothing to actually do so. 

His phone lit up from its spot on the stained coffee table, and Hongbin only moved enough to get a glance of the screen. Several notifications were from his best friend Gongchan, asking him how everything went today and if he needed anything (which left Hongbin with a soft feeling inside) but really Hongbin was waiting for the text that meant his food was fucking here. Groaning when he didn’t see it he flopped back down onto the sofa, sulking as his stomach growled impatiently. 

Hongbin didn’t have to wait much longer– thank fuck– as the cheery little foodie app he ordered from dinged several minutes later. With most of the blankets falling to the floor, Hongbin nearly jumps up to buzz the delivery person into the building, his fingers moving quick to tell him he lives on the third floor, apartment number seven. He keeps one blanket around his sounders like a cape as he paces around his tiny kitchen. He had such a long day and he was so tired and all he wanted is his goddamn chicken. He didn’t want to think about he was closing tomorrow or how he had to pick up his new prescription of medication or how he had to make a trip to the dry cleaners. 

Hongbin just wanted to eat and go to bed.

Three knocks rap on his door followed by an unfamiliar voice and it took all of Hongbin’s self control to keep from whipping himself against it. Practically starved, he fumbles with the locks, groaning as the deadbolt sticks– yet again– before he manages to unlock the blasted thing. He wipes the sweat from one of his hands on his sweatpants as he grabs the doorknob and opens the door–

Only to have his whole world crash around him.

This job may not have been the best of things to start in the prime of winter, but any and all complaints of the sudden snowfall declaring its existence on his first official day is at least kept out of earshot of his new manager. In Jaehwan’s professional opinion, having to memorize delivery maps along with seven different back and forth orders in the snow should be something that the universe shouldn’t simply throw onto someone without warning, but alas. Here he is, close enough to being a popsicle that he’ll likely whine to Pookie about it when he gets home, squinting at the next address he’s meant to go to while hoping that (pretty hefty) delay could be charmed over with a smiling apology.

The chicken, at least, is a lot warmer than Jaehwan could claim to be ─ that’s one less problem to have with the customer, which he’s nothing but grateful for. His manager tells him to pick up the pace when he picks the order up, and it’s all he can do to promise he will when he rushes out, wondering if the ringing phone is someone already chewing off his head for being late.

Losing this job on the first day would be embarrassing, not to mention a plethora of other things.

Thankfully, the next address isn’t as far as the last one; three flights of stairs isn’t too bad a deal either, but rushing up them as he does still leaves his calves burning and a slight regret in the back of his mind. He can only hope that he doesn’t seem too ruffled when he knocks, fumbling to pull the pen out of his pocket as he brandishes the customer’s receipt just to make everything go by a fraction smoother.

Jaehwan’s not expecting his heart to stop the moment the door opens, as if it had gone and tumbled down all those stairs on its own. Or maybe tripping up the stairs would be more accurate in this case ─ rushing to something (someone) so eagerly that it stumbles over itself, beating as though it were truly the first time its ever done so. He’d always wondered how it ─ this ─ would feel; if the dreamy sounding, life-changing pull that he’d always heard about was something over-exaggerated or if it was really like that for everyone ─ if he would ever have a chance to experience it, too.

And yet here here is. Here it is, stealing his breath away with such ease that he nearly forgets his own name, much less what he’s supposed to do. In terms of work, that is.

He’s fumbling with the receipt within seconds, looking more like a flustered rookie than anyone even relatively competent at a simple job. Not that he seems to be paying much attention to it, even when he holds the receipt out for the other to sign; Jaehwan’s all but stuck staring, jaw slightly slack before he can so much as pull word together as he should.

The tension in the air is, to use yet another cliche, palpable; Jaehyun is particularly attuned to such things, the way the emotions pulling at his chest tend to also pull at the threads of magic around him, buzzing nervously as though overcharged, but sure to exhaust themselves quickly. Everything about this is awkward, to use a simpler phrasing: Seunghyuk, and Jaehyun too, the years between them, the things left unsaid, the questions unanswered, the reasons unexplained.

In a way, it feels as though they’re children again – though in a way more uncomfortable than not.

Because it’s nostalgic, yes, but everything is different – added information that caused them to break apart from each other (though more accurately, Jaehyun did most of the breaking, there), missing information from passed time that’s surely left its mark. Getting past the strangeness, Jaehyun realizes that he can sense a bit of magic on Seunghyuk, too – the kind hunters surely need to do their jobs, he thinks, which might be why it feels a bit resentful, if that comparison makes any sense for something that isn’t truly sentient. Bitter, a bit acrid – rough to the touch.

Jaehyun relaxes into his seat, smirking slightly – he thinks he’s doing alright, though he can’t be sure if Seunghyuk is just saying that or truly feels it. He wouldn’t acknowledge it, but he made some certain effort to look nice – one or two more pieces of jewelry than usual, one of his favorite long, dark jackets (he owns too many) – perhaps it’s a matter of confidence.

“Myself as well,” he says quietly, settling his hands in front of him on the table – it’s hard to know what to say, especially for someone so prone to overthinking as Jaehyun is. “I’m glad. That you waited for me, that is. I wasn’t so certain of what would occur as a result of my actions, but I – am pleased by this outcome, so.” The smile on his lips is a bit bitter, still, but no less pleased, indeed – even if he feels uncertain, Jaehyun is still capable of generating far too many words about the subject, it seems.

He gives another sigh, a bit lighter, as his gaze drops and he searches for what it is he wants to say – what he needs to say, really. “Truthfully, I’d had a strange feeling all day, today. Even so, I was surprised to find just what it was that’d had my energy so keyed up – mine is a rather useless sort of precognition, honestly.” It’s meant to be a bit of a joke but Jaehyun isn’t really a humorous person – though he still seems a bit amused, somehow, even though he’s just rambling to hide his nerves.

(He wants to understand it, though in part he already does know why Seunghyuk turned to hunting – he wants to know if he hates him, still, though part of that question seems to have been answered. He wants to know what he’s missed and if they can be friends again – or if there’s too much animosity between them, as individuals or as parts of a whole.)

(He knows that in part he is still bitter, himself, that it’s hard for him to forgive easily – but Jaehyun misses him, too. Perhaps he’d like to resolve his own bitterness, then – though he’s wary about doing so, still dimly wondering if Seunghyuk has no ulterior motive.)

His eyes finally fall back to Seunghyuk as he gathers his will. “You’re still hunting,” he comments lowly, “I presume it’s treating you well, then? I would – like to know how things have gone for you, as of late. In general, that is.” Perhaps it’s that lack of trust, but Jaehyun can’t bring himself to directly address the things he wants to know – but perhaps they can be reached nonetheless, indirectly.

It doesn’t get any easier to breathe the more time that passes by, though Seunghyuk knows well that believing it would was nothing more than a subconsciously crafted fallacy. Jaehyun isn’t ─ shouldn’t be ─ intimidating in the slightest, but it’s the closest word to describe the source of the pressure that Seunghyuk feels just by sitting across from him. That feeling that anything he does could be a mistake ─ that he could say something wrong in an instant and turn this awkward atmosphere into a recreation of past, where the pain of walking away, being walked away from was sharp enough to last for weeks (or was it months? it’s hard to remember, he finds) ─ is nothing more than a silent anxiety humming under his skin with each second.

He doesn’t want to mess up again, even if he’s hardly sure that doing any worse could be possible, knowing that they haven’t been ‘fixed’ in the first place despite this meeting. Yet still, being here like this is enough to say something, though Seunghyuk isn’t entirely sure if he should assume what that something might be; he thinks with his heart more than his head in a lot of ways, but he’s trying to tune that out for the time. 

Despite how it’s almost suffocating, there’s still some sense in comfort to be had in just listening to Jaehyun talk again; he’s not really different despite the years, but all that train of thought leads to is Seunghyuk wondering if he’s changed so much, himself. Too much, even. It’s not something he’s sure of, but again ─ is he really sure of anything to begin with?

He, at least, wishes he knew what to say and how to say it instead of leading gaps of silence for Jaehyun to fill. It’s never been as unnerving before as it is now, but that’s just yet another thing that’s so weird about seeing him again. 

To say he’s caught off guard by the focus shifting to him is, lightly speaking, an understatement. Perhaps if they were any other words, it wouldn’t feel so much as though ice cold water had been dumped on him suddenly, even if by ‘suddenly’ he means ‘sooner than expected’. His job is just as sensitive a topic as some hauntings of the past, he thinks, feels ─ and yet it’s practically unavoidable, given its place as centerpiece for all of their problems. 

He wonders if he’ll just be handing Jaehyun a knife to dig further into him with his responses and the information he gives. When the waiter stops by for a brief moment to ask if they’d like something to drink, he thoughtless asks for their day’s special, his thoughts still whirring around worries over what Jaehyun might be expecting from him. 

“It’s... alright,” he finally says, carefully as if he’d struggled to find the right term. Not that saying such would be wrong; how is he supposed to describe how hunting feels as of late to someone else when he himself were uncertain of it? “There’s not a lot that really... goes, I guess. It pays well, and it’s... it keeps people safe.” There’s no hint of comment on his thoughts towards it, if he likes things the way they are or otherwise; he’s almost happy to shift the topic slightly, even if he still internally frets over it being about him.

But that’s where he blanks even more, with much less nervousness; what has he been doing other than work? 

“I... ” The slight feeling of distress twists itself onto his face as he brings his knuckles to his lips, resting his chin partially on against the heel of his palm and staring at the table in thought, brows furrowed. This, of all things, is quite possibly the hardest thing to answer yet. A dark horse of questions that encourage critical thinking. 

“Homestuck ended...” he mumbles under his breath, completely to himself and yet still audible nonetheless. “After that it’s been... what was it again...” 

It takes him a moment, but ─ “I have a dog now?” comes in time. 

@omniroulette

There is a whirlwind of thoughts in Jaehyun’s mind, a storm of overlapping emotions and words and phrases – all of them feel cliched, painfully so, but none of them can stay still long enough for him to really be sure that they’re what he wants to say.

Fate is a strange mistress, Jaehyun knows this well; he is attuned to her whims, if loosely, and so he feels like he knows her, even if she is truly unknowable. Perhaps this is the end of what he knows, and the most important part, as well. He could feel something strange in the air when he woke up this morning, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end and his head light, goosebumps crawling over his skin whenever he stopped paying attention to it.

This kind of “precognition” is completely useless, he thinks; he may have been on edge all day, but no matter how on edge he was, he could not have truly been prepared to see Seunghyuk again like this.

And so follows an awkward exchange, stiff words and stiffer stances – a moment where he has to pretend that their interaction is far simpler than it is, just hunter and witch, not – whatever they are, for which even Jaehyun struggles to find words. Old friends with venom now between them, something a bit more than that – two people tied together by Fate’s whims, unable to be torn apart despite the resentment and bitterness that’s surely not unique to Jaehyun, here, set deep within his heart as it is – but the bitterness is one tinted with longing and sadness, he knows that as well, that he couldn’t truly bring himself to hate Seunghyuk even if he chose to bear a dagger at Jaehyun’s throat.

(Does it make sense to think of that as unlikely? Or is Jaehyun still just naive?)

A simple tracker spell – some call it “marco-polo” because, indeed, the two tags respond to one another when called. It’s a subtle thing, enough so that Jaehyun had some confidence Seunghyuk wouldn’t run into trouble for taking it from him – he doesn’t know how strict hunters are with their own for carrying around outside magic, but he chooses to take no risks other than the obvious: Seunghyuk will have to hold onto the bit of sigil-scrawled and briefly instructional (“wait for me somewhere quiet, I’ll come to you”) paper that Jaehyun gave him.

In a way, whether he does or not will answer part of Jaehyun’s question – but only a part.

It’s a bit of a relief, then, that when called for, the partner to the humming spell between his fingers guides him to a cafe in central – an inconspicuous place for either of them to be, much as it makes Jaehyun hyper-aware of how little time he spends in the central district these days as he walks there. The skyscrapers are unfamiliar and the energy around him seems distracted, hot – human in every way, but to such an extent that it overloads itself and Jaehyun can’t feel which way is up.

Regardless, he tries not to focus on that – there are already too many things to focus on, here, including the way his heart skips a beat or two when he finally does catch sight of Seunghyuk. Jaehyun’s steps pause for a second, but he catches himself and closes the rest of the distance between them soon enough – drops the paper he’d been holding onto the matching one on the table to watch them both fizzle out, reunited. How metaphorical.

The witch breathes a long sigh of relief, a small smile coming to his lips. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting terribly long,” he says a bit lamely, unable to look Seunghyuk in the eye; at least he can keep up his tone despite that. “Our earlier circumstances were – uncomfortable, so I had hoped to wait long enough that things would shift by a reasonable margin.” Jaehyun settles himself into the seat opposite the hunter, eyes downcast still. “As a chance to talk to you properly, without interference, would be preferable to – that.” Professionalism, hostility, pretending – Jaehyun leaves the descriptors out, uncharacteristically enough, but they are implied well enough, he feels.

Finally, as if it almost pains him, he turns his gaze upward to look at Seunghyuk – properly taking in, for a second, all the ways that he’s different and all the ways he’s the same, obviously filled out now rather than a collection of awkward limbs that’d grown too tall too fast, and yet – something about him is so much the same that it almost would put Jaehyun at ease, were he not so on edge for it.

“You seem to have been well.”

He’s just as awful at reunions as he is at partings. 

There’s some sense of comfort to be taken in the thought that he would’ve been better prepared from the start had he known who he’d be running into, but that’d be just as much of a fabrication as saying that he wasn’t a collection of too many nerves in too little space -- Seunghyuk could’ve been forewarned weeks, months in advanced and still nothing would’ve readied him for running into Jaehyun in such a way. Nothing would’ve (nor could’ve) prepared him for this, either; the fact that they’re meeting in a more intimate way despite it being not quite that (maybe that’s why he can’t seem to sit still). 

The fact that Jaehyun would want this is truly what’s causing it; there’s been notions in his head that would only hiss the opposite in the times that thoughts would ever consider otherwise, and he’d believed in them so easily that it’d practically become truth. Given the way that rift formed between them to begin with, however -- he’s not sure if he could be blamed for such an outlook, much less be faulted for the disbelief that’d almost flipped his stomach. 

It’s not every day that someone who you’ve been so sure hates you would suggest a meet-up, after all. 

He’s not sure what to call the feeling that’s coiled up around him, squeezing tighter with each second -- but he does feel it simultaneously release and grow near suffocating when the door to the cafe opens and his eyes, anxious and curious as they are, land on the figure that even on second look is just as familiar as it is that of a stranger’s.  

(Thinking of Jaehyun as such leaves a sour taste on his tongue; he regrets having not ordered something so that he could try washing it down.)

It’s all he can do to steel himself into some casual air, near-forced but hopefully not obvious on sight -- he wills his hands to stop idly rubbing at his thighs before they have the chance to betray him entirely, though he’s distantly certain that the way he folds them in his lap makes his nervousness more palpable than not. By the time that Jaehyun’s already come close enough to place the two papers together, Seunghyuk’s gone through at least ten different ways to settle himself; he’s not sure if any of them work better than the one he finally gives in on, but he can only hope that this ends the course of all his fidgeting.

(He breaks that almost immediately as Jaehyun sighs -- no, when he smiles even in that slight way; his hands settle on the cushions of the space beside him, and there they finally stay, though he finds it hard to be relaxed, still.)

It hasn’t been that long, he thinks, though truth be told, he doesn’t have too much of an idea. 

I know, he agrees; their perspectives were surely different but the outcome likely gave the same sort of feeling -- it was too awkward, too tense, too forced. Even trying to speak as he should back then felt too wrong. He wonders if it’d be held against him all the same.

(He’d do well to find his voice, but it catches before it can start when Jaehyun looks up; for all he’d been staring, Seunghyuk startles a bit, as though he’d been caught doing something strange.)

It’s only due to being caught off guard that he clears his throat of nothing more than a slightly flustered awkwardness, nodding slightly when he finally speaks up; it’s lacking every hint of whatever professional pretense it’d held, instead sounding more like him even through the nerves.

“Y-You too,” is what he finally manages, though the idle thought to answer with really? is so close to leaving his tongue that the sense of uncertain confusion flashes for a moment before he finally averts his gaze to the table between them. “Look good, I mean.”

Somehow, this feels something similar to what he thinks an interview might; the comparison has him gnaw at the inside of his cheek -- it’s yet another one of those things that feel so wrong to think (he’s known Jaehyun for much longer than the time they’ve spent apart -- he’s still Jaehyun) and yet it’s the only description that seems close.

(There are things he should’ve said, should’ve asked, should’ve noticed back then that he knows now, but they’re much too out of place; he’s not sure if they have any place being said after all this time, but simply knowing them is enough to leave him at more of a loss than ever.)

He clears his throat a little again. It’s still as needless as before.

He’s found he’s drifted to here for the night – it feels nice to just let himself get caught up in the crowds and just move, letting his whims guide him. There’s something restless in him that makes staying in the observatory pointless even though there’s always a little part of him that thinks it would be better if he were to not leave. This is harmless enough, if Wonshik’s calm and in control and letting everything else go – forgetting about anything but the crowd around him and the liquor flowing through his veins he’d acquired a few clubs over. To him it feels there’s a certain kind of safety in the anonymity of a crowd too, and being among others who just want to feel good too – nothing expected or needed from him.

The thrum of people around him is comforting if anything, and the little things slip away as he loosens, following the rhythm of those around him until he’s swept up into their current, drink forgotten as he makes his way away from the bar and onto the darkened floor.

And then he’s ensnared.

Perhaps an exaggeration for how his attention has been grabbed from across the room, but it’s like his gaze has been taken hostage by the woman now making the platform her own. He’s drawn closer under the flashing club lights, somehow making his way forward through the small throng gathering to watch. He’s entranced, enraptured by the effortless sway of her hips, the nonchalance and finesse in which she owns her temporary stage – he’d be lying if he didn’t suddenly wish he were closer to see how well that natural ease comes with a partner.

Her eyes meet his on what seems chance, but there’s something else there, directed at him, and he feels it too, a current that sends the hair on the back of his neck rising. It seems like there’s a subtle shift then – he feels her movement as though it’s directed at him. His gaze certainly doesn’t stray – at least, not from the platform. Wonshik tries to meet her eyes again and yet without fail his gaze wanders lower, following the lines and curves of her body as she so gracefully displays them, anything but subtle in that regard.

With the sheer confidence she flaunts her body he doesn’t think he can be blamed if he wants to follow those lines with a hand instead, or if his gaze starts to lingers too heavily when he starts to chase that train of thought. There’s nothing held back in her seemingly impromptu performance that he should mistake this for anything but being beckoned, and he’s absolutely caught, the final hook as her smile greets him again.

Wonshik is still almost surprised when she makes her way over to him. Not that he thought that smile held an empty promise – maybe there’s just something heady in the air that makes his head spin more than it should. He doesn’t see himself as shy, by any means, but there’s still extra color on his cheeks that can’t be attributed to the drinks or the rising heat of the dancing crowd under the multicolored lights.

His tongue passes over the corner of his lips.

“I came here to drink and let loose,” he replies, a half-smile curling his mouth. He’s already drawn perhaps too close in order to be heard over the roar of the crowd. “I’ve already had a drink – so I might be up for a few things.”

It’s a little more daring than he feels he really is but he keeps going anyway, emboldened by her interest and perhaps a bit more than he would admit by liquid courage. A hand pushes back his hair as his gaze is still appreciative, lingering.

“A dance or two – ” Wonshik echoes, “ – or something more than that? – Buying you a drink, maybe?”

There’s an unwritten method to these sorts of things, she thinks; some sort of internal checklist that predetermines if certain company is best kept or abandoned. As far as things go, Hyosung’s own is just as lax on judgment as she herself is in everyday circumstances ─ little gets under her skin and even less prove to be a definite refusal. To say the handsome stranger was on the right track wasn’t saying much of anything at all in such context, but it remains just as true; her penchant for landing in more favorable and pleasant circumstances despite how she chooses paths based solely on her whims could only be a skill unintentionally acquired by natural means.

Or perhaps it’s something best attributed to luck ─ either way, she has no intention of questioning it.

This club is one that finds her presence to be frequent enough to be familiar, though it’s the dance floor that makes her acquaintance more than the bar itself. She hasn’t kept track of how many hours she’s been out already but the amount of drinks she’s had is far less for the time; if she remembers right, there’d only been the two from the start of the night, with the thought of others crossing her mind and yet not being acted on. It’s not the first time, either, that someone’s given her an offer for more ─ there’s been plenty of that to go around, though each time was considered with even less seriousness than the last, her focus instead placed elsewhere with the ill timing.

But it’s different when it’s an offer from someone who happens to have all of her attention in the moment.

The grin that spreads is too innocuous and bright in the club’s lighting ─ it doesn’t match the aura she’d given on her miniature stage, but it’s genuine in its craft, open and accepting if not inviting in itself. That good feeling she’s picking up from him can only be classed as intuition; she’s not so much the pessimistic type, either, so the idea that she could be mistaken in that regard is brushed off before it’s so much as considered. She’s always been one to go with her feeling, after all.

If the close proximity between them bothered her in the slightest, there’s not a hint of it to be found; if anything, she leans just the slightest bit closer, just out of some desire to not mishear a thing. Her smile answers him before she gets the chance to verbally. 

                       But, she is still so amazingly pure—she truly doesn’t understand (a relief, and a bother) what’s happened to him, being still so innocuously curious with her question—and it makes him laugh a short and fragile chuckle (how can it be anything but funny? in his mind he’s already destroyed that immaculate image of her, and at this rate, he’ll surely destroy its reality).  His fingers wander a bit more into her hair (she shouldn’t even allow such a gentle touch from him while his intentions are so muddled) and he shifts all the more beneath her (and why is she still there, cutting such an easily warped image—?).

                        Something in his composure finally falls from his grasp (he can’t take this anymore; shame be damned, he’s going mad) and a fit of honesty overtakes him (do as she asks, answer her if that’s what she wants, you are hers after all).  “Like that—like you’re picking me apart—like you—” he cuts himself off once more with a conflicted sound, words lost in the scramble.  Ordinarily, he’d certainly be strong enough to simply lift her and move her as he pleased, but he is drained in more ways than one—but he finds the strength (albeit through sheer madness) to sit up (still under her, as he should be) and bring their bodies together, their faces almost touching before he speaks again.

                         “—You really can’t tell…?” he mutters—of course she can’t, she wouldn’t know about something like this—he must look pathetic, but about that much, he no longer has the mind to care, not when he’s ready to let himself make such a mess of everything.  Like she did before, he finds himself pressing against her (it’s not enough; the way he’s been starved for touch for so long is so suddenly obvious that it hurts), his eye downturned—it’s more than simple lust, it’s centered around her and her alone—he has to explain it to her, somehow.

But he moves (not from her ─ her fingers twitched, all too ready to keep him there, and she’s not even aware of how immediate a reaction it was to place her hands to his sides, prepared to dig her fingertips (were they not more like claws... ?) into his sides, push him back down, anything to make him stay as though it was the only thing important (why could she not shake those thoughts? why did it seem as though he only continued to draw more out?) ─ but closer, where she can feel his unsteady breath glance over her skin as it strokes the spark of that earlier sensation rather than simply listen to it) and her internal struggling is halted ─ she’s halted, in a way that stops her worry but starts something that has her hold tighten, if only a little, in automatic response. 

Air pulls sharply between her lips, a replica of hitched breath; he’s so close ─ he’s so close and briefly there’s an attempt to think of if the distance between them has ever been shorter before (no luck; she’s never been so flush against him that the rising of his chest and the rhythm of his heart nearly begged for hers to match) but the very prospect of it has any chance of speech tumbling away from her easier than a ball of unraveled yarn down a steep hill (yet it seemed that her entire state was slowly succumbing to that same notion), rendering her barely moving lips incapable of producing sound.

They needn’t in only moment’s time even if they could ─ torn between allowing her eyes to widen in surprise or shut in no-questions-asked acceptance and desire (as if she hadn’t fascinated about this very thing before!), she could only manage the flickers of a reaction to cross her countenance ─ it’s then that it clicks, where exactly she’s seen that look he wore, and it causes a fleeting sense of being stunned; how could she have ever expected to find herself in the same situation as a fantasy from a night like this? Her books were more than mere entertainment, certainly, and she aimed to integrate their wise teachings into her lifestyle (back when she truly had a life to live), but to think that a slip of control over animalistic (and, frankly, licentious) callings would lead her, lead him to portray such pages of fiction nearly had her outright question if this truly wasn’t some sort of extended dream.  

                      No, this is not something that will understand him if he speaks, so the solution is far simple: he must communicate in such a primitive and awful way that—that what?  It suddenly seems so distant, whatever point he was trying to get across, in this moment that feels far longer than it must be, and he stiffens over her collapsed form (it is still HER form, even if it has changed so it is not unrecognizable to one who relies on far more than sight), chest gripped by a bitter feeling as he stands.

                       He glances at the weapon in his hand (it was never meant to turn on her, NEVER; it is her sword as much as his), appalled as his fingers tighten around it and he clicks his tongue—she will almost certainly forgive him, yes, but just as certainly she SHOULDN’T, just as he won’t.  But he cannot simply freeze up; he all but slams the bottom of cane into the ground beside her, staring at the gashes on his arm; funny how they don’t really hurt, don’t even sting despite being so fresh, but perhaps that is only a factor of their source.

A snarl remained regardless of her bested position, curling tiers and baring fangs even if pushing herself upright proved to be fairly difficult in the moment (to overwork her body so terribly before it had a chance to recover from what it’d put itself through was a mistake; she’s made plenty of those, though instincts would not steer her another way, and it was near impossible to determine if engaging him was worse than not running entirely). Trying to determine what to expect from the simple existence of the cane being in the open did not deter her, though it clearly had more of an effect than initially hinted to when she all but flinches at its slamming, an apologetic whimper responding to it as if it were only natural to expect pain to follow.

Conditioning is not something foreign to her kind ─ it was what kept the dynamics working, oiled the wheels and kept things going smoothly (distantly, there’s a thought ─ it’s her voice but it’s nearly unfamiliar in its wispy lilt, something like a reminder that the resignation was not as true as believed), so was it really unexpected that she, too, regardless of her strength of will, would succumb to something so ingrained in her nature? 

It was his win, his title as alpha now; her life was merely a luxury at points beyond this, was it not? Though temptation to fight until that end idly ran through her blood, the persistent throbbing in her bones, only exemplified by the echoes of the hits she’d taken, begged for rest of any kind; her breaths came heavy, in pants, as she simply stopped trying to stand against him as she was. 

                          The sound of his name is enough to bring his eye to rest on her; she still looks so disheveled from the torment she surely endured at the hand of her nature, yet all her elegance and poise is not lost in the tangles of her hair and the wrinkles of her nightdress.  She’s still staring at him so (observing her handiwork, maybe) and the idea that she’ll see him is too much (embarrassing, exciting, he’s sick with himself but can barely show it)—still, as a poor answer to her expectations his fingers slide away from his face, bright pink evident through paper-pale skin, his lips parted to breathe and his brows resting at a conflicted neutral.

                           He turns away again with a hissing hitch of his breath, muscles fidgeting as something instinctive seeks friction—he is stuck somewhere between her worry and his shame and a disturbingly pleasant sense of weakness.  “I—” he begins, attempts only to be caught by another rush of strange and intrusive ideas (she only need shift a bit, how might she punish him for this degree of inappropriateness?), his body becoming hot under her cool; he’s hoping she’ll understand (lord, how he hopes she will not) and will take her rightly claimed dominance over him to—no, he has to pull it together, somehow—

                           Stubborn and stupid willpower lets him lean up toward her (if she won’t come to him, he can come to her) and a gentle hand cups her cheek (as though it is fragile, not at all the one that was against his neck as she drew out his blood); still, he’s only growing worse at measuring his breathing, and his eyelid is heavy still, his smile half-hearted and yet more genuine than the full-effort smirks he so often displayed.  “Sharon,” he breathes again, just an answer to her calling his name as he glances at her, “Please—don’t look at me—like that.  I can’t—stand it…”  His facade of sanity is strung so thin that a mere tap would send it tumbling, and his body is drumming against his sense of shame, against his constant reminding himself of who this is on top of him.

Even now, even like this, still atop him as she was (there’s a sense of something simply described as ‘must’ that keeps her there, as if the very thought of being able to control him to some extent was overriding any thoughts to move ─ was it really fine to start ignoring the idea of that?), she cannot help but become flustered with such actions despite the way her body refuses to show it any longer ─ it was not the first time she’s longed for that feeling of normalcy again, to not be reminded of her lack thereof, but she can’t help but wish that there was some way to relieve herself of the strange discord it leaves behind. She fidgets in her place but does not draw away from his hand, instead almost leaning into it instead; it’s hard not to focus on the expression that he wears and how honest it appeared, much less how familiar it was, in a way that she couldn’t place ─ it was certainly not because she had seen him look like that before, but it felt as though on someone, somewhere, surely... 

Each passing second has her questioning just how far from fine he was ─ because it is as clear as his outline is to her even in the shadows, no doubt a perk of her adjusted vision ─ and just how much longer it could be left unattended (how, exactly, would they go about explaining his ailment, whatever it may be, to a nurse?) before it became a more serious manner in any way it could manage (how she dreaded the branches of thoughts that single one led to, her concern swelling even more so thanks to it). She tries to the best of her ability to simply see what the cause was by allowing her gaze to quite nearly peel him apart, lest he deem it fit to lie to her again ─ if she could just find out what it was that kept his state as odd as it was, then maybe ─

When he voices his request, however, she becomes even more unsure of what to think ─ what kind of look had she been giving him? Whether it’s confusion that scrunches her brows together or anxiousness or something else (maybe just a desire to know ─ he didn’t answer her in the way she wished, after all), her expression does not shift to something resembling judgement; it’s, instead, a form of curiousity that shines in the shades that appraise him as the same feeling leaks into the base of her tentative inquiry. 

                        Enduring the pause is almost unbearable, even for a short time; his legs shift and press against each other absently and his teeth press together to hold back the threat of some sort of inappropriate sound escaping, fingers still lightly covering his face.  He’s on the verge of surrender, ready to give himself completely to her again—but he can’t do that, he’s too proud to give in, to let her see the shameful feelings brewing inside him (he shouldn’t do that, he has to protect any remnant of her innocence that he can).

                        She finally speaks and it’s immediately a bit easier to breathe (though not much—he’s far from out of this situation, though at least she’s alright).  A sigh of relief falls from his lips and he lets his head fall back, resting a bit, trying to regain his drained strength; it’s enough, knowing she’s fine, for him to relax slightly in spite of himself and how tightly he needs to hold his thoughts to keep them from slipping away again.  “I’m fine,” he lies effortlessly—while he is not hurt, merely addled, he is almost certainly not fine, either—but the way that he draws a long gasp and shivers when her fingers merely glance over his wounds is far more truthful.

Long ago she’d been taught that a woman’s intuition was one of the strongest weapons she could possess (before she was discarded by humanity and forced to live in the shadows of it as something she finds parasitic), and it’s that feeling that she listens to now, strengthening her voice (though it is certainly still quiet, given the hour ─ the willful timbre, however, is something stronger than her previous responses). 

“Break,” his name is spoken with a high level of expectance despite her internal voice whispering her reluctance to even know the truth ─ there was no telling what damage she could’ve done, how much harm she might’ve caused him in the moments that seemed fuzzy now that the heart of the matter had been tended to, and there certainly was no way to decide how dangerous any lingering side-effects might’ve been. As with any first, she was wholly unsure, nervous (as if the term could come close to describing the fretting feeling that began to stir inside her the longer she observed) of herself and, though she’d never been the direct cause before, of his safety.

(Was it really safe for to be around him ─ around anyone at all, anymore?)

                      He approaches slowly while she is prone, even for only a moment—there is something menacing in his stride, noticeable even to himself (a hint of bloodlust is curling up through his spine, and just barely he knows to be afraid of it) as his posture holds ready.  Yet, some remnant of his weaker (…?) self has not allowed him to draw his blade—he does not mean to kill her, that much is certain: even his worst parts have no intention of seeing this beast (no, no, that’s wrong—) dead.

                      But the air is laden with her intent regardless, feral and bloody, and he can feel it into his bones with each strike—

                      Experience has played sculptor to his instinct in a way that it has not so much as touched hers (and he will not ALLOW IT TO, he will not let her become like HIM even if that means—what?), taken it into careful hands and molded it into some grotesquely beautiful form, and it is WILDLY evident as he flows against her assault, fending her off naturally.  The sheath of his blade is showing the same thin lines as his flesh (if different in color and not dripping)—her strikes are HEAVY, awfully so, and he finds it hard to hold his feet steady against them and they will only get stronger as her muscles set into place completely.  He should strike it down quickly—he’s losing grip on the idea that it’s her and that’s by far the most unsettling thing that’s crossed his scattered thoughts.

(But did he not know her? Could he not recognize her as his leader, his keeper? She is not who she was and yet she is no different all the same ─ it is a matter of what simply overtakes the other, which part directs each move, which ideals stay while the rest remain silent until the night’s end ─ but there is no mistaking which designates her being now, snarls and low tones truly befitting of an animal conducting the song she sings, rather than the chiming, light and feathery notes her voice would normally carry in the air. The grace and poise she held day-to-day was nowhere to be found, but her stubbornness and sense of dignity still reigns, even as the wolf that she was. Was it not enough?)

Her pride, then, takes the hits that she does not land, and the wound only deepens when she is forced back yet again. Time is no friend of hers ─ not here, in this room, and not elsewhere (for certainly it would have hastened the passing of the moon for her sake if it were; for certainly the moments she needed to react before oxygen is forcefully spent from her lungs at the thrust of that damned tool would have been given to her if time were any sort of companion) but she cannot think to curse it when sudden, sharp pain strikes her and brings forth another cry. It’s enough to make her stumble back, lose her footing and give him the true opening he so desired ─ it’s enough to make her very thoughts stutter in kind, as if the blow had shaken her mentally as well, rendering the forming of a proper retaliation useless. 

Heavy are her breaths as she tries, quickly, to pull herself together, the panicked staccato of her heart ramming frantically in her chest as fear seeped into her bones. This was bad, no matter how slowly everything seemed to be moving around her ─ the advantage was his and she could die in an instant if he chose to see it through.