The problem with the world is that everyone is a few drinks behind
”Seems like an answer to me,” she quips back, easily enough though she’s clearly beginning to settle in and in no rush to leave. Even if she should. Gods, she is tired of that word, tired of doing the things she should. Tired too of tiptoeing around her brother lately as if anything she does wrong might break their relationship. When did it become such a fragile thing? ”That couch is barely big enough for you. I could sleep in a nest of all these furs that you don’t want though, if it makes you feel better.” She pulls the furs around her criss-crossed legs, looking very much like a human bird who has probably slept on the floor in a pile of furs many times in her life.
He answers the question in her touch though, speaking again of Maea, telling him about how they were attacked by sharks. He rolls, showing her more scars and explaining them. Though she has many scars of her own, the only interesting one was from the ursur. The rest were just from living life as a hunter in Halo, and fighting with her brothers on the regular. They were good scars, generally. ”I think you need to explain the Loren and Deimos ones a bit better than that,” she says, gaze lingering on the marks for a moment, curious how those had happened.
Then he shows her the scar from where Lusea had patched him, and she can see how his life is ripped pr painted into his flesh. How he bears the marks of them all, formed in scars and tattoos. He takes her hand, moving it to the scar on his hip. Her fingers are light, gently tracing the pattern of it. Of him. She cannot really help it, for they are one in the same, and damn if he isn’t an attractive man. She doesn’t have to want to date the boy to see that. Then he lifts her hand to the tattoos on his neck, to a scar beneath his ear she’d never noticed before. The sort of scar she is familiar with, the sort that should have killed you. ”And what of the tattoos?” she asks, fingers still light on his skin, tracing down the scar.
She chuckles at that. ”For someone who hates the cold, you are well equipped for it.” His skin is warm, far warmer than she would have expected. ”Is that in part thanks to your shifts, or should I be concerned you have a fever?” she asks. She may not feel the cold anymore, but she knows her own skin is certainly not so warm. Her fingers are always slightly icy, her toes too, though her face is certainly flushed and warm from the booze and the fire, the only light currently in the otherwise dark room.
He answers the question in her touch though, speaking again of Maea, telling him about how they were attacked by sharks. He rolls, showing her more scars and explaining them. Though she has many scars of her own, the only interesting one was from the ursur. The rest were just from living life as a hunter in Halo, and fighting with her brothers on the regular. They were good scars, generally. ”I think you need to explain the Loren and Deimos ones a bit better than that,” she says, gaze lingering on the marks for a moment, curious how those had happened.
Then he shows her the scar from where Lusea had patched him, and she can see how his life is ripped pr painted into his flesh. How he bears the marks of them all, formed in scars and tattoos. He takes her hand, moving it to the scar on his hip. Her fingers are light, gently tracing the pattern of it. Of him. She cannot really help it, for they are one in the same, and damn if he isn’t an attractive man. She doesn’t have to want to date the boy to see that. Then he lifts her hand to the tattoos on his neck, to a scar beneath his ear she’d never noticed before. The sort of scar she is familiar with, the sort that should have killed you. ”And what of the tattoos?” she asks, fingers still light on his skin, tracing down the scar.
She chuckles at that. ”For someone who hates the cold, you are well equipped for it.” His skin is warm, far warmer than she would have expected. ”Is that in part thanks to your shifts, or should I be concerned you have a fever?” she asks. She may not feel the cold anymore, but she knows her own skin is certainly not so warm. Her fingers are always slightly icy, her toes too, though her face is certainly flushed and warm from the booze and the fire, the only light currently in the otherwise dark room.
Weaver
