#deathsmark

@deathsmark - con't from here.

the   mountaintop   soothes   the   weary   soul,   the   monastery   a   balm   to   all   those   who   behold   it.   he   knows   this   to   be   true,   because   even   in   his   darkest   hour   the   monks   had   called   him   home,   banishment   an   ire   upon   the   vestiges   of   his   soul,   but   no   longer   haunting   him   how   it   had   so   many   years   prior.   perhaps   it   had   been   because   the   dragon   had   sought   to   take   his   eyes,   or   perhaps   it   was   the   wartorn   weariness   that   came   with   fighting   for   the   independence   of   their   homelands.   regardless,   there   was   no   gentler   sanctuary   than   the   monastery   -   no   warmer   peace   to   be   had.   

he   knows   it   to   be   a   comfort   to   zed,   for   lee   sin   does   not   need   his   eyes   to   understand   the   weight   that   rests   on   his   shoulders   -   on   all   their   shoulders.   where   the   master   of   shadows   had   long   since   walked   a   path   of   darkness   and   bloodshed,   there   was   much   to   be   said   in   the   burdens   war   left   upon   the   souls   of   mortal   men   -   especially   men   like   zed,   who   despite   all   their   ire   or   composition,   came   with   a   well   of   emotions   so   deep   that   even   he   and   the   dragon   had   trouble   fathoming   how   far   down   they   truly   went.   he   wouldn't   lie   either.   having   him   here   was   a   comfort,   for   he   was   not   without   his   burdens   -   even   if   it   seemed   as   such.   

he   wishes   he   could   see   the   other's   appearance   as   clearly   as   he   had   prior   -   bed   head   and   evidence   of   the   night   he   had   insisted   wouldn't   happen,   but   happened   anyway.   regardless   he   settles   for   zed's   presence,   sensing   him   in   ways   those   who   could   see   could   not,   and   moves   to   pass   him   the   warmed   cup   of   tea   as   he   too   folds   his   legs   beneath   him.   outside   the   wind   howls,   but   he   pays   it   no   mind,   blowing   gently   at   the   cup   in   hand   but   not   yet   taking   a   drink.

“That’s…kinda what you’re doin’ now, right?”

Ezreal’s back was firmly placed against the wall, caged within the arms of the ( slightly ) shorter man, head cocked to the side, lips pulling back into a wide grin as the younger leaned back against the wall a bit more and managed to cross his hands over his chest.

His attitude is a little on the smug side; tongue clicking idly as his grin lessens into more of a cheeky smile, an amused hum coming from him. Lips purse in thought briefly before he finds his words again.

Kayn holds onto every note that Zed coaxes out of the guitar. They've spent so much time like this, talking about music, about life, about all the pain they've endured. Kayn's listened to everything Zed's ever published about a thousand times, knows all the songs inside and out, and still he wants more. Each nose that Zed plays is a diamond in Kayn's eyes, each chord too valuable to be bought.

How can he explain that to someone? It's far beyond being a fan — Kayn breathes admiration for Zed, like Kayn's body is fully made up of desire for his approval. How can he explain the need to consume everything that Zed ever creates? It's madness — Kayn knows how it sounds — OBSESSIVE, CRAZY, OUT OF CONTROL — words he's heard a thousand times from other people and inside his own mind — but it's the truth.

His eyes lift involuntarily when Zed speaks next. The words don't make sense at first, and even when Zed lifts the guitar strap off his shoulder, Kayn doesn't process what's happening. Even when his hands reach out to bear the weight on his own, he doesn't understand. His fingers curl around the neck on one side and the strap on the other, and Kayn's lips come open to ask a question when Zed continues.

Does he know what it's like to be valued like that? Does he know what it's like to finally, finally have someone in Kayn's corner? Zed's seen all the worst of him and still doesn't shy away, and Kayn will never, never be able to repay that debt.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐄𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐘, 𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐒𝐓 joining them for lunch had been...an interesting addition. K'Sante didn't think that the other would even dare given the bad (?) blood between him & his bandmates, but he's pleasantly surprised that there's no bloodshed on sight. Even the few sharp words thrown back & forth have less heat than K'Sante could have imagined, given that it's Kayn, who has never given up or in since the day Sett dragged him into K'Sante's life.

It's fascinating--almost as if he's an observer in a zoo. As he picks at his gigantic taco bowl, he tunes out of most of the conversation, soaking up the peace for the time being. Perhaps that it why it takes him a moment to realise he's being spoken to--a request to 'see his hand' as if that is a normal thing to ask virtual strangers. Zed does not wait for his response, tugging K'Sante's hand away & eagerly slapping their palms together.

K'Sante knew that their hands would be radically different from their heights alone, but seeing the proof still stuns him. The guitarist's fingers barely extend past K'Sante's second knuckles, the hard callouses resting almost childlike in the creases of each finger. It's absolutely wild hands this small could wreak such havoc on a guitar fretboard & K'Sante throws his head back in laughter.

HOW IS MY PORTRAYAL?

There wasn’t much space between himself and the wall in the first place, and now Zed made that much worse by caging him in with two hands near his head. Glasses slip down the bridge of his nose and he squeaks in surprise, mostly—He actually thought that Zed would just get annoyed and leave; not actually go through with…whatever the hell this was.

“Uh, Zed, look—“ his hands came up in front of him defensively, afraid that he would potentially get his shit kicked in; but instead the other man’s lips are pressed to his own, Ezreal’s hands that were up in defence were now placed on Zed’s chest when the other leaned closer; and Ezreal could feel heat rush to his face as honeyed citrine gaze widened. He blinks a few times when Zed pulls away and speaks, trying to find his words.

“Uh—what the hell was that!?” Maybe a little too loud—an honest mistake. The confidence he wore when making quips at Zed had melted away from what had just transpired—if only briefly. He swallows the lump in his throat and coughs into his hand.

“…S’gonna take a lot more then that to get me to shut up, shortstack. And uh, yeah, maybe I’ve heard that once or twice. But not too annoying for you to kiss me, huh?”

Ah, there it is.