// Start a tiny riot //
He's not ordinarily the sort to hold much of a grudge, but maybe he'd just never had enough of a reason to. Between exes cosplaying as the x-men Storm (he couldn't even be bothered to get a wig?) and fathers attempting to ctrl+z a child and crashing out when it didn't work, he's starting to collect a few hatchets. Forgive and forget to avoid a life of regret sounds nice, but he can't quite hear it over the what the fuck? still bouncing back and forth.
His attention rises as her lips brush his hand, and he blinks back through the gloom of the past and pretend stars. A long time ago—yeah, maybe. He can tell as much becayse, well one she's not eight any more, and two she's able to talk about it without folding in entirely. It doesn't mean she doesn't carry it though, the whole forget part always the toughie in that grand ol' saying. It hasn't been very long at all for him, and even though it isn't his wound, blood stains whatever it can touch. "Hmm," is all that finds its way loose in his breath in response to that, like maybe he doesn't fully buy the little bow that time tries to add to trauma.
He'd like to ask more. To know what they've actually done to make up for it. To understand why she bothers with them at all still—although he can guess the answer to that, because shit or not it's who she's got. Ultimately, asking won't really help her, so happily he let's her pull him away from the water's surface before either of them drown in it. She manages to do so with the kiss she presses into the edges of his thoughts, the ones that seep into the lines of his face without him noticing, lingering on the fringes of his lips where cheeks and smile get lost to one another.
A hand rises to his forehead, splaying across his face with a sudden, groaning laugh that's half defeat and half show. "I'd never forget that." Although some sudden, chaotic voice inside his head is abruptly tempted to dare her to. The sane part of him keeps that voice inside—please applaud.
It seems she's running just as chaotic though as she, nearly proud about it too, offers to ruin the non-squinty moment he just said he loved. He pulls back, leaning away with a face that's all dramatic and not in the least bit purposefully dialed up. "Da fuuuuuq?" He draws it out, wonderful and weird in a way only comfort can provide. "I'm never telling you again next time we're in a non-squinty moment if you're gonna go all beach sand-castle stomper on it." He looks at her with all the incredulity of someone who's realized they just laid back with Godzilla instead of the hot chick from Baywatch, like she'd been some sort of humanoid Kelpie tricking him.
The non-squinty moments are the ones that are soft and a little fuzzy. The ones that aren't too bright or too dark, too loud or sad, or too anything really except right and wonderful. They're the moments that shimmer just enough, an ordinary river rock threaded with quartz, so that you never have to squint when you look at them. Sometimes, even the good times, are a lot of noise, activity, and color, and you smile so big and full it presses up into your eyes and makes you squint. Sometimes the days are so shit, and you're weary, worn out, and on the verge of a sob or completely lost to one, and everything's blurry and wet, so those ones you have to squint through too. This one though, it's stretched a little every which way with fun and fucked up, so nothing is squinty.
He doesn't stretch away far, or for long, pulling back in like a slinky as her hand presses a star to his heart. Combined with the one she put on his ribs, it's a bit like a celestial AED, but all he needs is her mouth-to-mouth and he'd be saved. He settles for a kiss to her forehead as she nestles back against him, gaze drifting over the ambient green of make-believe cosmos as she asks the frog on his shirt about childhood fears. The hand still around behind her, drifts lazy and slow up and down her side. "No," he says with the certainty of something outgrown and replaced with the harsher realities of the world. "Realized monsters don't care about the time of day, they're always around." Night maybe made them a little harder to see, but monsters are real good at smiling anyway even when you're looking right at 'em, so what's the difference? "Still a little creepy," he admits with a huff. "Like I definitely don't take my time putting out at the trash at night, but, no. Just ghosts and sharks and failure now." Normal, adult things to fear, especially ghosts.
"What're you scared of?" He glances over the wave of her hair, just able to see the edge of one eye. His hand stills and curls over her stomach, holding her like one might a stuffie that grants confidence in the dark when something has just gone bump.
His attention rises as her lips brush his hand, and he blinks back through the gloom of the past and pretend stars. A long time ago—yeah, maybe. He can tell as much becayse, well one she's not eight any more, and two she's able to talk about it without folding in entirely. It doesn't mean she doesn't carry it though, the whole forget part always the toughie in that grand ol' saying. It hasn't been very long at all for him, and even though it isn't his wound, blood stains whatever it can touch. "Hmm," is all that finds its way loose in his breath in response to that, like maybe he doesn't fully buy the little bow that time tries to add to trauma.
He'd like to ask more. To know what they've actually done to make up for it. To understand why she bothers with them at all still—although he can guess the answer to that, because shit or not it's who she's got. Ultimately, asking won't really help her, so happily he let's her pull him away from the water's surface before either of them drown in it. She manages to do so with the kiss she presses into the edges of his thoughts, the ones that seep into the lines of his face without him noticing, lingering on the fringes of his lips where cheeks and smile get lost to one another.
A hand rises to his forehead, splaying across his face with a sudden, groaning laugh that's half defeat and half show. "I'd never forget that." Although some sudden, chaotic voice inside his head is abruptly tempted to dare her to. The sane part of him keeps that voice inside—please applaud.
It seems she's running just as chaotic though as she, nearly proud about it too, offers to ruin the non-squinty moment he just said he loved. He pulls back, leaning away with a face that's all dramatic and not in the least bit purposefully dialed up. "Da fuuuuuq?" He draws it out, wonderful and weird in a way only comfort can provide. "I'm never telling you again next time we're in a non-squinty moment if you're gonna go all beach sand-castle stomper on it." He looks at her with all the incredulity of someone who's realized they just laid back with Godzilla instead of the hot chick from Baywatch, like she'd been some sort of humanoid Kelpie tricking him.
The non-squinty moments are the ones that are soft and a little fuzzy. The ones that aren't too bright or too dark, too loud or sad, or too anything really except right and wonderful. They're the moments that shimmer just enough, an ordinary river rock threaded with quartz, so that you never have to squint when you look at them. Sometimes, even the good times, are a lot of noise, activity, and color, and you smile so big and full it presses up into your eyes and makes you squint. Sometimes the days are so shit, and you're weary, worn out, and on the verge of a sob or completely lost to one, and everything's blurry and wet, so those ones you have to squint through too. This one though, it's stretched a little every which way with fun and fucked up, so nothing is squinty.
He doesn't stretch away far, or for long, pulling back in like a slinky as her hand presses a star to his heart. Combined with the one she put on his ribs, it's a bit like a celestial AED, but all he needs is her mouth-to-mouth and he'd be saved. He settles for a kiss to her forehead as she nestles back against him, gaze drifting over the ambient green of make-believe cosmos as she asks the frog on his shirt about childhood fears. The hand still around behind her, drifts lazy and slow up and down her side. "No," he says with the certainty of something outgrown and replaced with the harsher realities of the world. "Realized monsters don't care about the time of day, they're always around." Night maybe made them a little harder to see, but monsters are real good at smiling anyway even when you're looking right at 'em, so what's the difference? "Still a little creepy," he admits with a huff. "Like I definitely don't take my time putting out at the trash at night, but, no. Just ghosts and sharks and failure now." Normal, adult things to fear, especially ghosts.
"What're you scared of?" He glances over the wave of her hair, just able to see the edge of one eye. His hand stills and curls over her stomach, holding her like one might a stuffie that grants confidence in the dark when something has just gone bump.
Kaisel
// Stop being so goddamn quiet //
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
