// Start a tiny riot //
Speechless is not something Kaisel comes by easy, it feels as eerie and artificial as a delayed sunrise, but it's got a chokehold on him now. He can hear the way the scars silver her voice, and what sterling moments they are. Scab?! Ronin fucking likened her to a godsdamned scab? Told her to stop trying to be part of his family??? White knight his fucking nuts. The man's so deluded from shoving his head up his ass he mistook the crumbs toilet paper caught on the ring of his butthole for a halo.
A twisted noise, maybe once a huh when it started, is certainly more mangled and unrecognizable by the time it trips out of his chest. It's his only manageable response to her being told to stop m o p i n g about her dead twin that she feels entirely responsible for. Chat, respectfully—nah fuck that—disrespectfully, what the FUCK?
Her quiet isn't comfort, but it is a chance for him to breathe, to try and get a handle on the outrage building like cancer inside him. It's all he can do to press some of the energy into her, mold the heat into something that could warm the chill out of her instead of make him combust and send him running to pick a fight with two of the strongest, shittiest demigods around. Godsdamnit, he's so mad he went to their barbeque.
That she considers Remi’s worst crime being absence rather than vitriol says everything about Flora. Of course, after recounting all the ways love’s been stripped from her, it’s the moments of nothing that hurt most. She’d rather be laid bare again and again than never be seen or touched at all. It's so representative of what matters most to Flora that he can't fight back the broken smile that creeps in. The feathering that had set into his rigid jaw disperses, the tight lip of his frown cracking open a bit. "You deserved so much better," he murmurs, offering to be her daddy instead.
Popcorn galaxies do not seem nearly enough to offer her now, but he tries all the same.
The splay of her beside him, spilling over him, it's right. Yet again he's faced with the truth of being unable to do something to repair a past hurt, some scars just simply not worth it, but if she can still find ways to shine like she does, he'll do his best to make sure that stays true going forward. He decides then, with one sideways glance to the grinning girl beside him, that he'll always celebrate her. Maybe with enough time and care, he could turn misery into a drought instead of the sea she just tries to weather.
"Snacks that aren't burnt and you?" he laughs into her hair, building a nest of daydreams and promises with each hopeful look towards their future. "Twist my arm why don't you." The sound of the humor dims into a vibration of appreciation as his arm wriggles from beneath them and curves around her, lying overtop the one she's flung out across his chest. His fingertips rub gently against her knuckles while he taps an idle beat into her foot with his.
Above, the stars radiate something that keeps the moment soft, not bright enough to reach every dark space, but dim enough to watch it shrink away into the corners without having to squint. "I love when we have these non-squinty moments," he informs her after a breath, as if she'd been inside his head to trace the meaning of that. The first night on the Sugar Tide had been non-squinty. The others had technically been squinty—tears and all—and he likes them too, just not in the way this one belongs to.
A twisted noise, maybe once a huh when it started, is certainly more mangled and unrecognizable by the time it trips out of his chest. It's his only manageable response to her being told to stop m o p i n g about her dead twin that she feels entirely responsible for. Chat, respectfully—nah fuck that—disrespectfully, what the FUCK?
Her quiet isn't comfort, but it is a chance for him to breathe, to try and get a handle on the outrage building like cancer inside him. It's all he can do to press some of the energy into her, mold the heat into something that could warm the chill out of her instead of make him combust and send him running to pick a fight with two of the strongest, shittiest demigods around. Godsdamnit, he's so mad he went to their barbeque.
That she considers Remi’s worst crime being absence rather than vitriol says everything about Flora. Of course, after recounting all the ways love’s been stripped from her, it’s the moments of nothing that hurt most. She’d rather be laid bare again and again than never be seen or touched at all. It's so representative of what matters most to Flora that he can't fight back the broken smile that creeps in. The feathering that had set into his rigid jaw disperses, the tight lip of his frown cracking open a bit. "You deserved so much better," he murmurs, offering to be her daddy instead.
Popcorn galaxies do not seem nearly enough to offer her now, but he tries all the same.
The splay of her beside him, spilling over him, it's right. Yet again he's faced with the truth of being unable to do something to repair a past hurt, some scars just simply not worth it, but if she can still find ways to shine like she does, he'll do his best to make sure that stays true going forward. He decides then, with one sideways glance to the grinning girl beside him, that he'll always celebrate her. Maybe with enough time and care, he could turn misery into a drought instead of the sea she just tries to weather.
"Snacks that aren't burnt and you?" he laughs into her hair, building a nest of daydreams and promises with each hopeful look towards their future. "Twist my arm why don't you." The sound of the humor dims into a vibration of appreciation as his arm wriggles from beneath them and curves around her, lying overtop the one she's flung out across his chest. His fingertips rub gently against her knuckles while he taps an idle beat into her foot with his.
Above, the stars radiate something that keeps the moment soft, not bright enough to reach every dark space, but dim enough to watch it shrink away into the corners without having to squint. "I love when we have these non-squinty moments," he informs her after a breath, as if she'd been inside his head to trace the meaning of that. The first night on the Sugar Tide had been non-squinty. The others had technically been squinty—tears and all—and he likes them too, just not in the way this one belongs to.
Kaisel
// Stop being so goddamn quiet //
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
