It was common for people to mistake his gravitas for aloofness, or assume that because he had no interest in sexual contact that he shied away from physical touch. But though he did not often initiate touch, Hadama still accepted it willingly, even gladly, from his friends. His fingers curled around Harper's in response, a grip as firm and gentle as the Tidebreaker's heart, and the worry in his emerald eyes eased at his friend's smile and the assurance that the Stalwart recognized him still, even after all the time that had flowed past, never to be recaptured.
It was a bittersweet moment of deja vu, hearing the father speak of bridges as the son once had. A man wounded and hurting, the shape of his nose and the curve of a jawline; for a moment his vision blurred from the sunset of Mourn to the moonlight of Torchline and bridges of ice in the sand.
But in the damaged relationship between a father and a son Hadama could give little more than support to both men, and the hope that time would dull the sharp edges and let them find their way back together again. He had heard Jude's pain. He could see Harper's. But he could only bow his head in acknowledgment and acceptance of a divide that no span of magic ice could cross, and no outsider could hope to construct.
As his hand was covered completely Hadama shifted to face Harper more fully, the pain in his eyes at his own helplessness a raw and open wound that he would not hide from his old friend even as he lifted his free hand to gently brush a too-long tress back from the other man's face, tucking it with painstaking care behind an ear for however long it would stay there. He let the joke slide past, his gaze intense as he studied Harper's face and the sudden light of his smile, so at odds with the exhausted despair of mere moments before.
He knew goodbye when he heard it. But he was not willing to hear it this time.
"Do not leave me at all," he said quietly, a plea as selfish and self-aware as Harper's retreat to hedonism, undeterred by the glimpse of his old humor. His hand, caught between both of his friend's, tightened carefully to return the squeeze. The Attuned bond trembled and then cracked open beneath the weight of a heart that was breaking, unshed tears filling it as deep as the sea. "I do not want to lose you again."
It was a bittersweet moment of deja vu, hearing the father speak of bridges as the son once had. A man wounded and hurting, the shape of his nose and the curve of a jawline; for a moment his vision blurred from the sunset of Mourn to the moonlight of Torchline and bridges of ice in the sand.
But in the damaged relationship between a father and a son Hadama could give little more than support to both men, and the hope that time would dull the sharp edges and let them find their way back together again. He had heard Jude's pain. He could see Harper's. But he could only bow his head in acknowledgment and acceptance of a divide that no span of magic ice could cross, and no outsider could hope to construct.
As his hand was covered completely Hadama shifted to face Harper more fully, the pain in his eyes at his own helplessness a raw and open wound that he would not hide from his old friend even as he lifted his free hand to gently brush a too-long tress back from the other man's face, tucking it with painstaking care behind an ear for however long it would stay there. He let the joke slide past, his gaze intense as he studied Harper's face and the sudden light of his smile, so at odds with the exhausted despair of mere moments before.
He knew goodbye when he heard it. But he was not willing to hear it this time.
"Do not leave me at all," he said quietly, a plea as selfish and self-aware as Harper's retreat to hedonism, undeterred by the glimpse of his old humor. His hand, caught between both of his friend's, tightened carefully to return the squeeze. The Attuned bond trembled and then cracked open beneath the weight of a heart that was breaking, unshed tears filling it as deep as the sea. "I do not want to lose you again."
