soldier boy
Icarus wethers the cheers and hearty pats on the back with a shy smile, pride kindling in his gut even as his face turns a light red from the attention. The simple good that came from Deimos' mouth, aimed at him like the stone from the trebuchet, quiet in its approval but as impactful as it smashing into the side of the target. He doesn't flinch or groan at the threat of increased difficulty, his mouth setting deep and firm into pure determination, though he knows the scream of his muscles the next day will make him regret his ambition.
As they move through the exercise, Icarus wipes all thoughts but perfect completion from his mind, forcing away all hopes and joys other than the pull of his body moving through the motion and the satisfaction of every new crater formed in their constructed enemy. When Deimos stalks his path towards Icarus, he prepares himself for a correction, already vowing to do better on the next round. Instead, he gets a whispered comment of fire, and Icarus risks an eyeroll and an affectionate smile. He grins up at Deimos, not quite calling his bluff but sensing the teasing in the words.
"Whatever you think is best, sir," He says with twinkling eyes, his grin curving into something young and cheeky. It's very carefully not insubordination, the words compliant, but toes the line in that expert way he's perfected over the years as the baby of the unit. Deimos would never catch a whine sneaking out of Icarus' mouth, would never sense something even close to insubordination or lack of loyalty; but, as his affection, his open admiration, and most of all, the years he's spent by the Sword's side colors his tone, he lets it veer dangerously close to affection.
As they move through the exercise, Icarus wipes all thoughts but perfect completion from his mind, forcing away all hopes and joys other than the pull of his body moving through the motion and the satisfaction of every new crater formed in their constructed enemy. When Deimos stalks his path towards Icarus, he prepares himself for a correction, already vowing to do better on the next round. Instead, he gets a whispered comment of fire, and Icarus risks an eyeroll and an affectionate smile. He grins up at Deimos, not quite calling his bluff but sensing the teasing in the words.
"Whatever you think is best, sir," He says with twinkling eyes, his grin curving into something young and cheeky. It's very carefully not insubordination, the words compliant, but toes the line in that expert way he's perfected over the years as the baby of the unit. Deimos would never catch a whine sneaking out of Icarus' mouth, would never sense something even close to insubordination or lack of loyalty; but, as his affection, his open admiration, and most of all, the years he's spent by the Sword's side colors his tone, he lets it veer dangerously close to affection.
Icarus
oh my little soldier boy
