#defideis

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closed starter ⊱ @defideis.

⸻ he's out of place. he knows he is and, in many respects, that's the hardest part of it all. still, jasim had never been the type to turn away the prospect of company, for better or for worse. quiet is thick and suffocating in the air, save for the soft swish of his slacks and the tapping of a boot when he can't stop bouncing his leg.

fuck, is he ever going to break that habit? he'll shatter the silence first—

❝ the other day, as i was walking up a flight of stairs, ❞ pause. he hesitates, then carries on, ❝ i met a woman who wasn't there. she wasn't there again, today. ❞ finally, he's searching for selah's gaze, because it's the polite thing—the respectful thing—to do when conversing with someone.

❝ have you ever had that happen to you? ❞

Dirt collected beneath the fingernails, she can never be washed away. Never unfill that space that so eloquently keeps her steady, steady. Without it, Vera would suffocate.

She'd implode.

"Do you think peace is what I'm after?" countering in that half-webbed sort of beautiful madness, the very same that has her fingertips dripping with her father's-- uncle's-- millennia of soiled ancestry's-- legacy. A hairline fracture says she tried; oh, Vera has tried. A starving serpent's cyclical consumption of the self is all she has to show for it, for every moment she's attempted to wriggle away. One too many teeth, twice as many tongues.

How pointless to realize that she does, truly, regret letting Selah down, in this capacity or any other rhetoric.

𝑠𝑒𝑛𝑑 📐 + 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑒𝑟'𝑠 ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑜𝑟 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑒! ... @defideis

This is what normal people did.

Angel, his pale blonde hair tied in a tight bun (no flyaways to be seen), his smile warm on his face. Blue eyes gentle on her, and if anything is hidden behind them, it stays hidden.

"miss santori," he says, holding up the teapot and crossing over to the table where he pours two into delicate teacups and then returns momentarily to the kitchen to lay the kettle back on the stove. Then into the ornate dining room he comes once again and sits, pulling his cup into his hands. He does not offer sugar, nor is there any on the table.

This is an ordinary interaction.