And what could he say? What did he want to say? What good would words be, in that moment? To speak of his human form, as if it was somehow more important than the fox, just felt .. wrong, as if the canine he had known for months had been not-quite-real. Not quite true. Lesser, somehow.
In the same way, apologizing for suddenly being a bit shocked and self-conscious to wake up and have him shift almost first thing felt wrong, too.
As if something about this moment had been—was—wrong. Imperfect. Defective. Less than the expected.
But there was nothing to apologize for. There was nothing, for him, to say thanks for. (Perhaps, thank you for trusting me, but even those words died on his lips as his hand nestled against Isuma's downy feathers and soft kitten fur.) This thing: it just was.
What would've been the morning after a difficult task, but was just another unspecified time in the unrelenting, hungry dark.
It wasn't until Jigano's hand left his hip that he noticed it had been there at all, and once he noticed, he was again struck by the realization that he didn't know how to feel about it; or rather, he knew how he felt about it, but he didn't want to acknowledge it. His life was built around not acknowledging it.
And yet, there he was, watching as a hand with blunt fox claws instead of nails covered his, and raised it back up again. He made no resistance, his blue eyes watching, his heart pounding.
(I shouldn't be doing this)
Jigano's cheek was smooth and warm under his hand. There was a weight to the touch, a head leaning against his fingers and palm; thank you the other whispered, and Rory wondered what those two words meant in that moment. He said nothing, just let his fingers move, slightly, his thumb stroking Jigano's cheek as his eyes once more rested on his face.
In the same way, apologizing for suddenly being a bit shocked and self-conscious to wake up and have him shift almost first thing felt wrong, too.
As if something about this moment had been—was—wrong. Imperfect. Defective. Less than the expected.
But there was nothing to apologize for. There was nothing, for him, to say thanks for. (Perhaps, thank you for trusting me, but even those words died on his lips as his hand nestled against Isuma's downy feathers and soft kitten fur.) This thing: it just was.
What would've been the morning after a difficult task, but was just another unspecified time in the unrelenting, hungry dark.
It wasn't until Jigano's hand left his hip that he noticed it had been there at all, and once he noticed, he was again struck by the realization that he didn't know how to feel about it; or rather, he knew how he felt about it, but he didn't want to acknowledge it. His life was built around not acknowledging it.
And yet, there he was, watching as a hand with blunt fox claws instead of nails covered his, and raised it back up again. He made no resistance, his blue eyes watching, his heart pounding.
(
Jigano's cheek was smooth and warm under his hand. There was a weight to the touch, a head leaning against his fingers and palm; thank you the other whispered, and Rory wondered what those two words meant in that moment. He said nothing, just let his fingers move, slightly, his thumb stroking Jigano's cheek as his eyes once more rested on his face.
