And I was starting to feel the way I used to So just keep on laughing at the bad news
'Cause it's bringing me back Bringing me back
'Cause it's bringing me back Bringing me back
The actual sight of the dagger has Nate dizzy, excitement and anticipation both swirling around in him. His hand opens and closes, flexing the faint scar already there. It’s silly, he knows it won’t hurt, knows he’d do it even it was going to hurt. Knows they’ve already done this, in a way, the wrong words but the same kind of sentiment. This is so much more than that had been though.
Nate can’t help but wince as the dagger runs easily over Sunjata’s palm, as blood wells up. Maybe though, in this moment, in the hazy, dreamlike state the sickness has put him in, he understands this tradition, better than he ever has. You can’t make a scar without digging deep, without opening yourself up, the same things you need to forge a bond. His chin tips up, offering up easy access to his throat, an easy smile on his face at the sensation. The blood starts to dry immediately, growing tacky, but it feel like more than that. Feels like soemthing he doesn’t have words for.
Then it’s his turn. And despite whatever lingering fears sit in his chest, there’s no hesitation as Nate takes the dagger, opens up his own scar, fluid pooling into his hand slower than the blood had. He mirrors Sunjata, dipping his fingers in the fluid and lifting them to the attuned’s neck, drawing a shimmering collar, a promise. ”Deur my,” Nate hesitates a moment, glances down at his hand, dripping fluid, ”bloed is jy myne van vandag af.”
Fingers drop away, an adoring blue eye the only thing Sunjata will have a chance to see before Nate leans forward, kisses him. Call it a moment of weakness, call it impatience. The ascended remembers himself quickly, pulls back with a sheepish grin. ”Sorry.” Moving to take the cloth from Sunjata’s hands, Nate wraps his lovers wound without looking, tying the makeshift bandage tight, then squeezing the other mans hand.
Nate can’t help but wince as the dagger runs easily over Sunjata’s palm, as blood wells up. Maybe though, in this moment, in the hazy, dreamlike state the sickness has put him in, he understands this tradition, better than he ever has. You can’t make a scar without digging deep, without opening yourself up, the same things you need to forge a bond. His chin tips up, offering up easy access to his throat, an easy smile on his face at the sensation. The blood starts to dry immediately, growing tacky, but it feel like more than that. Feels like soemthing he doesn’t have words for.
Then it’s his turn. And despite whatever lingering fears sit in his chest, there’s no hesitation as Nate takes the dagger, opens up his own scar, fluid pooling into his hand slower than the blood had. He mirrors Sunjata, dipping his fingers in the fluid and lifting them to the attuned’s neck, drawing a shimmering collar, a promise. ”Deur my,” Nate hesitates a moment, glances down at his hand, dripping fluid, ”bloed is jy myne van vandag af.”
Fingers drop away, an adoring blue eye the only thing Sunjata will have a chance to see before Nate leans forward, kisses him. Call it a moment of weakness, call it impatience. The ascended remembers himself quickly, pulls back with a sheepish grin. ”Sorry.” Moving to take the cloth from Sunjata’s hands, Nate wraps his lovers wound without looking, tying the makeshift bandage tight, then squeezing the other mans hand.
NATE
