Kaisel
The grip of her hand is answered with a press of his toes at her sides. Not the same warning of her fingers, but rather a hook to keep her with him, although she starts to submerge all the same.
Hurt enough. He wonders when it became enough. Where's the line between just saying fuck you to a brief fling and torching your own bar to the ground just to have enough ash to write it out instead? Is it the same line he crossed with Flora on the Sugartide, or is it the one he thought he erased in Haulani, only to see it got soaked in kerosene and handed to Caly like a wick. Is there a line for him, where arson would be a better answer than all the fist fighting he normally leans into? One look at Flora, slumped into him as best she can manage with the arrangement of the chairs, sooty and disheveled like some orphan street urchin, and the answer's yes. Too many times he's had to watch her crumple due to this wretched family—he can't bear for there to be any more.
It only gets worse as she describes the extent to which they ensured complete destruction. His unclaimed hand flexes against her leg, teeth clenching as distaste pulls on his lips. It's creatively cruel—thought out with an intention to do the most harm. He doesn't think they were hurt nearly enough in comparison. His gaze falls to the side as he rolls the knowledge back and forth, cursing through a heavy sigh. It's only the weight of her legs that keeps him in his seat, her presence more important than the energy coiling up inside, the sort that would send him pacing down these halls and inevitably getting into an argument with something inanimate. He puts it into the frame of her body instead, palm sliding down her leg in purposeful and repeating strokes from knee to ankle, as though he might coax comfort into them both where the wounds lie.
He doesn't see the return of her gaze, his still upending the corner of the room. He hears everything she says though, and the way she says it. It's when she cuts herself off that his focus swings back to the churning tide of her expressions. He doesn't realize the reason for her abruptly dropping her voice, but whatever affection remained in him for Caly, she smothered it in the smoke of this fire. It would not have been the kind that would be a risk in his heart, just the sort that comes from familiarity, but she's made sure to kill even the possibility of them returning to strangers.
"Who saw you?" he finally asks, jaw tight as it works around the words. "At the burn site—were you seen? Did you look sad?" He leans forward suddenly, both hands grabbing for hers, curling them into fists beneath the heat of his palms. "We spin this, make it seem like a good thing," he goes on, talking with a hurry that doesn't suit their chair lounging. "Make it seem like the fire was part of the demolition plan. Take ownership of the work done to hurt you. Rebuild another bar, name it The Phoenix, or Sunshine or, Smokehouse or whatever—hell decorate it and enchant it with fire to really take it back—just claim it. If anyone's gonna stab you, grab their arm and thank them for giving you a new knife." The normal, bright and copper light of his eyes has darkened to something almost black, narrowing as he talks. "Doesn't matter if you want another bar, the point is sending the message back—that you're stronger, that the stunt didn't harm you." His hands press in on hers, holding them like a heart between the two of them. Nothing upsets the haters more than their work seeming to flop, Kaisel has plenty of experience with that. If they wanted to reduce her to legacy to rubble, they'd smile through it and add some sprinkles, call it reclaimed history and make it seem like only the daring ignite what matters most to them, the way an artist might erase their completed work just as proof they can make it even better now that they've done it once.
Hurt enough. He wonders when it became enough. Where's the line between just saying fuck you to a brief fling and torching your own bar to the ground just to have enough ash to write it out instead? Is it the same line he crossed with Flora on the Sugartide, or is it the one he thought he erased in Haulani, only to see it got soaked in kerosene and handed to Caly like a wick. Is there a line for him, where arson would be a better answer than all the fist fighting he normally leans into? One look at Flora, slumped into him as best she can manage with the arrangement of the chairs, sooty and disheveled like some orphan street urchin, and the answer's yes. Too many times he's had to watch her crumple due to this wretched family—he can't bear for there to be any more.
It only gets worse as she describes the extent to which they ensured complete destruction. His unclaimed hand flexes against her leg, teeth clenching as distaste pulls on his lips. It's creatively cruel—thought out with an intention to do the most harm. He doesn't think they were hurt nearly enough in comparison. His gaze falls to the side as he rolls the knowledge back and forth, cursing through a heavy sigh. It's only the weight of her legs that keeps him in his seat, her presence more important than the energy coiling up inside, the sort that would send him pacing down these halls and inevitably getting into an argument with something inanimate. He puts it into the frame of her body instead, palm sliding down her leg in purposeful and repeating strokes from knee to ankle, as though he might coax comfort into them both where the wounds lie.
He doesn't see the return of her gaze, his still upending the corner of the room. He hears everything she says though, and the way she says it. It's when she cuts herself off that his focus swings back to the churning tide of her expressions. He doesn't realize the reason for her abruptly dropping her voice, but whatever affection remained in him for Caly, she smothered it in the smoke of this fire. It would not have been the kind that would be a risk in his heart, just the sort that comes from familiarity, but she's made sure to kill even the possibility of them returning to strangers.
"Who saw you?" he finally asks, jaw tight as it works around the words. "At the burn site—were you seen? Did you look sad?" He leans forward suddenly, both hands grabbing for hers, curling them into fists beneath the heat of his palms. "We spin this, make it seem like a good thing," he goes on, talking with a hurry that doesn't suit their chair lounging. "Make it seem like the fire was part of the demolition plan. Take ownership of the work done to hurt you. Rebuild another bar, name it The Phoenix, or Sunshine or, Smokehouse or whatever—hell decorate it and enchant it with fire to really take it back—just claim it. If anyone's gonna stab you, grab their arm and thank them for giving you a new knife." The normal, bright and copper light of his eyes has darkened to something almost black, narrowing as he talks. "Doesn't matter if you want another bar, the point is sending the message back—that you're stronger, that the stunt didn't harm you." His hands press in on hers, holding them like a heart between the two of them. Nothing upsets the haters more than their work seeming to flop, Kaisel has plenty of experience with that. If they wanted to reduce her to legacy to rubble, they'd smile through it and add some sprinkles, call it reclaimed history and make it seem like only the daring ignite what matters most to them, the way an artist might erase their completed work just as proof they can make it even better now that they've done it once.
Haters on my back like a backpack
Blowin' up I'm fucking flawless
Blowin' up I'm fucking flawless
Code stolen from Queen Sky
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
