The pain he had seen in Jigano's eyes—different shades of it, like the stages of a bruise—was one of the reasons for the laws Rory had made for himself. To know that he had, no matter how inadvertently, caused it... A careless, musing, whimsical comment on the strange and solitary inner workings of his feral soul.
And where did you draw the line between need and want, anyway? Could he need even if he did not suffer when that need was unmet? Wasn't loneliness just that: a symptom of a need unmet, like starvation, but of the soul?
So what did that make him, if his soul did not starve, even when not fed?
(A monster?)
The packless wolf, ever cautious, ever wary, roaming his empty wilds at night. He, who would never sing mournfully of regret, would never ask of the waning moon to deliver him to his kin when lost and alone.
He couldn't help but feel as if it was some error of translation, a misunderstanding based on their own perceptions and interpretations of the word, but.. this was not the time. Whatever blow he had unwittingly dealt felt too fresh, and digging about the wound wouldn't make it bleed less. And as their hands twined together again he thought that yes, some things would've been easier if Jigano had stayed a fox—words wouldn't have meant quite as much—but they wouldn't have had this. He wouldn't have had this, Jigano's hand in his hand, his fingers curling around the sharp chin and the blue eyes looking at him with hope and hurt.
His fingers over Jigano's mouth, warmed by his silent exhalation. His own eyes, less wild, less dark, meeting his.
But his heart still thundered on.
(How do you not know? he wanted to ask; have you never been wanted, and desired?)
Another part of him wanted to forsake words entirely, to fall onto Jigano and pin him to the floor with the kiss he had wanted to give him since first seeing his soul in a human body.
But that, too, could wait.
Instead he let the sensitive pads on his fingers rest against Jigano's lips, gently tracing the outline of his mouth as his other hand squeezed Jigano's. "If you will let me," he promised quietly, gently, wanting to soothe as much as his spirit wanted to run away from the vulnerable, trusting depths of the topic. What power he tried to give to Rory, who was inherently afraid of such a thing.
So he fled to safer pastures, his voice slowly going wry. "And the first lesson is that where I sit to get warmer doesn't matter much.. what matters is that you're with me."
And where did you draw the line between need and want, anyway? Could he need even if he did not suffer when that need was unmet? Wasn't loneliness just that: a symptom of a need unmet, like starvation, but of the soul?
So what did that make him, if his soul did not starve, even when not fed?
(A monster?)
The packless wolf, ever cautious, ever wary, roaming his empty wilds at night. He, who would never sing mournfully of regret, would never ask of the waning moon to deliver him to his kin when lost and alone.
He couldn't help but feel as if it was some error of translation, a misunderstanding based on their own perceptions and interpretations of the word, but.. this was not the time. Whatever blow he had unwittingly dealt felt too fresh, and digging about the wound wouldn't make it bleed less. And as their hands twined together again he thought that yes, some things would've been easier if Jigano had stayed a fox—words wouldn't have meant quite as much—but they wouldn't have had this. He wouldn't have had this, Jigano's hand in his hand, his fingers curling around the sharp chin and the blue eyes looking at him with hope and hurt.
His fingers over Jigano's mouth, warmed by his silent exhalation. His own eyes, less wild, less dark, meeting his.
But his heart still thundered on.
(How do you not know? he wanted to ask; have you never been wanted, and desired?)
Another part of him wanted to forsake words entirely, to fall onto Jigano and pin him to the floor with the kiss he had wanted to give him since first seeing his soul in a human body.
But that, too, could wait.
Instead he let the sensitive pads on his fingers rest against Jigano's lips, gently tracing the outline of his mouth as his other hand squeezed Jigano's. "If you will let me," he promised quietly, gently, wanting to soothe as much as his spirit wanted to run away from the vulnerable, trusting depths of the topic. What power he tried to give to Rory, who was inherently afraid of such a thing.
So he fled to safer pastures, his voice slowly going wry. "And the first lesson is that where I sit to get warmer doesn't matter much.. what matters is that you're with me."
