#mukaede

it takes him half a second before he lifts his eyes. there's a clever trick to this - looking composed when his pulse is scraping across his throat. to keep his jaws loose, shoulders levelled, and gaze half a beat slower than his thoughts. people tend to think that this sort of calm and compose means control. it isn't. it's just damage control.

"rough's relative," he lets out a weak-willed laugh, one so gruff it feels punching iron bars and hoping for something more than a dent. amethysts scanned the other for a reflection. "you ever seen a smooth one?" he forces a smirk. it's a little too sharp, and a little too practiced, but it's enough to fool most people. the stranger is perceptive, though. caleb wishes it was enough to fool him, too.

the other chuckles. a mirthless sound, like it's a trap waiting to swallow him whole. despite the uneasiness, the tension of a live wire in his chest, caleb acknowledges it. he returns the same stoic nod and accepts the offered seat. the sunlight beams overheard, a little too bright despite the clouds looming over half the sky, looking like it'd rain any minute; he couldn't help but imagines the fluorescent fixtures of the lab, lights as bright as suns on the beach, the professor's voice, more gentler than he'd remembered, asking if anywhere hurt at all. needles in his hands, painful just by looking. no, not really. it almost feels like... being bitten by a mosquito. i'm alright. not because it was true, but because he'd learned that that answer rewards rather than punish.