Frey doesn’t pull away when Sunjata looks back at them; if anything, their fingers slip deeper into his hair, nails just barely grazing his scalp in a way that hums rather than scratches, their gaze meeting his with an ease that doesn’t flinch at what he’s become or what he’s lost. There’s recognition there, certainly—of Nate’s shape in the lines of their face—but it’s worn loosely, like a form chosen for familiarity rather than fidelity.
"Because judging is easier," they say with a small, unbothered shrug, their voice low and warm at the edges. "It takes far less effort to decide what someone is than it does to understand why they are that way."
When he opens himself, Frey settles into his thoughts like warmth into cold water, a buoyant, steadying thing that doesn’t press or pry, only drifts, only is. Their hands resume their slow work at his shoulders, thumbs circling into old, stubborn knots. " You humans love your stories," they go on thoughtfully, head tilting just slightly as though considering something well-worn. "And in every story, there are good characters and bad ones. Heroes and villains. You’re taught that from the very beginning. You tell these stories to babies who can't even use words yet." A soft exhale, almost amused. *"And then you grow up and keep telling the same kinds of stories, just with bigger words and messier consequences."
Another shrug, careless but not dismissive. "No one ever thinks they’re the villain in their own story, of course." Their fingers press, release, press again. "But if those are the only roles anyone knows how to cast, then when you don’t fit neatly into ‘good,’ you get painted in black. Not because it’s true.."Their mouth curves faintly. "But because it’s the only other colour they’ve got."
Their nose wrinkles slightly at his thoughts, then, at the name that brushes through them, though there’s no sharpness to it, only a quiet sort of acknowledgement. "The Voice is a perfect example," Frey adds, tone drifting toward the contemplative. "Painted as something simple and bad. Something singular. When there was always more to her than that." A pause, brief but intentional, before their attention settles more firmly back on him. Their hands don’t stop moving, but the pressure eases, shifting from working tension loose to something slower, more soothing, as if the act itself is as much for his mind as his body.
"The squeaky wheel gets the grease for a reason," they murmur with a soft, almost knowing sigh, the faintest hint of wryness threading through it as his thoughts edge toward ones about Colt. "And the loudest complaints are the ones that get heard." Another small shrug follows. "But that problem’s already solved itself, hasn’t it? From what I’ve seen, your region will continue to flourish just fine, as it has."
There’s a subtle shift then, a repositioning, and one of their hands slips free from his shoulder to cup Sunjata's cheek, warm and steady, guiding his attention back to them without force. The touch is softer now, less indulgent, more deliberate. "If I could tell you not to care what anyone thinks of you.." Frey begins, their voice dipping, something almost regretful threading through the edges of it, "and have that be enough, I would." Their smile changes, just slightly; not losing its warmth, but gaining something quieter, something that understands the weight he carries whether he wants to or not. "But you do care." It isn’t said as a flaw. It isn’t said as praise. It simply is. Their thumb brushes lightly across his lips, gaze steady on his, blue eyes holding his storm without trying to calm it. "And you probably always will." The words don’t linger heavily; they’re offered the same way everything else is. Open, unforced, allowed to settle where they will. This was Sunjata's particular cross to bear, and it was up to him to find the strength to either carry on or toss off the weight.
"I will come to your bed," Frey adds softly, their tone slipping back toward that familiar, low warmth, though tempered now, shaped to him rather than spilling outward unchecked, "anytime you find it too lonely. In any capacity you might want."
"Because judging is easier," they say with a small, unbothered shrug, their voice low and warm at the edges. "It takes far less effort to decide what someone is than it does to understand why they are that way."
When he opens himself, Frey settles into his thoughts like warmth into cold water, a buoyant, steadying thing that doesn’t press or pry, only drifts, only is. Their hands resume their slow work at his shoulders, thumbs circling into old, stubborn knots. " You humans love your stories," they go on thoughtfully, head tilting just slightly as though considering something well-worn. "And in every story, there are good characters and bad ones. Heroes and villains. You’re taught that from the very beginning. You tell these stories to babies who can't even use words yet." A soft exhale, almost amused. *"And then you grow up and keep telling the same kinds of stories, just with bigger words and messier consequences."
Another shrug, careless but not dismissive. "No one ever thinks they’re the villain in their own story, of course." Their fingers press, release, press again. "But if those are the only roles anyone knows how to cast, then when you don’t fit neatly into ‘good,’ you get painted in black. Not because it’s true.."Their mouth curves faintly. "But because it’s the only other colour they’ve got."
Their nose wrinkles slightly at his thoughts, then, at the name that brushes through them, though there’s no sharpness to it, only a quiet sort of acknowledgement. "The Voice is a perfect example," Frey adds, tone drifting toward the contemplative. "Painted as something simple and bad. Something singular. When there was always more to her than that." A pause, brief but intentional, before their attention settles more firmly back on him. Their hands don’t stop moving, but the pressure eases, shifting from working tension loose to something slower, more soothing, as if the act itself is as much for his mind as his body.
"The squeaky wheel gets the grease for a reason," they murmur with a soft, almost knowing sigh, the faintest hint of wryness threading through it as his thoughts edge toward ones about Colt. "And the loudest complaints are the ones that get heard." Another small shrug follows. "But that problem’s already solved itself, hasn’t it? From what I’ve seen, your region will continue to flourish just fine, as it has."
There’s a subtle shift then, a repositioning, and one of their hands slips free from his shoulder to cup Sunjata's cheek, warm and steady, guiding his attention back to them without force. The touch is softer now, less indulgent, more deliberate. "If I could tell you not to care what anyone thinks of you.." Frey begins, their voice dipping, something almost regretful threading through the edges of it, "and have that be enough, I would." Their smile changes, just slightly; not losing its warmth, but gaining something quieter, something that understands the weight he carries whether he wants to or not. "But you do care." It isn’t said as a flaw. It isn’t said as praise. It simply is. Their thumb brushes lightly across his lips, gaze steady on his, blue eyes holding his storm without trying to calm it. "And you probably always will." The words don’t linger heavily; they’re offered the same way everything else is. Open, unforced, allowed to settle where they will. This was Sunjata's particular cross to bear, and it was up to him to find the strength to either carry on or toss off the weight.
"I will come to your bed," Frey adds softly, their tone slipping back toward that familiar, low warmth, though tempered now, shaped to him rather than spilling outward unchecked, "anytime you find it too lonely. In any capacity you might want."
