[ It’s simple, to take Sen’s hand and feel a gentle-flustered pleasure, to follow his lead and settle in against him, smoothing their pants and setting a hand against Sen’s arm, and it’s as if time’s never passed, or as if all of time lingers together, joined in every space shared by Senan and Rin. Yes, of course, they’re leaning easily against Sen, and yes, of course, that’s Sen’s arm around their waist, welcome and having-been-missed (deeply missed, another absence felt at every turn, through every year) and as if they’ve always, always been like this.
All these years and all of that striving, across the borders of a dozen different countries and through nights lit with fire, through days defined by flight and fight and disreputable enterprise and a thousand attempts at self-discernment, and there was always this: Sen adamantly present, Rin leaning against Sen in perfect trust, Sen’s arm reflecting accord, and the world brought to stillness in their resting.
They’ve missed this. This foolish, brilliantly voluble man. Whose words are never empty, never fruitless; whose words tone the atmosphere toward warmth and vibrance. Whose words make a splendor of everything static. There is nothing, no, nothing prosaic in the presence of this man. There is nothing that can remain dull, and no part of life that doesn’t gain a greater shine.
They feel Sen breathing against them, and they allow themself a traquil exhale, an effortless, unguarded contentment clear in their expression, in the softness of their eyes.
(What is unnerving: How Sen’s form against their own is less substantial. How there’s a sallowness toned through his skin. How something, something vital and enduring has been altered.
A word for it: frailty. In traces, in hints, in expressions wavered, sorrowful, gone distant.)
(What is unnerving: The recurrent questions. The recurrent, quiet, gnawing certainty that time - this time, their time together, …Sen’s time - is limited.)
Hard not to think about this now, when held so near. When their hand lingers, brushes light along Sen’s forearm.
And, as well, best not to miss the contentment of this moment and its every iteration. Best to let themself drift along the current of Sen’s sun-struck, wholly gratifying discourse.
(Sun-struck, ha, well, Rin is Sen-struck. A thought that quirks a further grin from them, and sets them nestling a little closer against Sen’s side.)
Sen holds that finger, and Rin watches, smile brightening faux-arch approval. ]
These are perilous waters, Senan.
Oh, this null’s vanity flourishes with every slip of silvered phrase. You, as ever, speak with grace unparalleled. Unimaginable, beyond the context of you. Unmatched by any would-be courtier.
Who could hope to meet you, pace for pace, in a contest of wits or words? The answer, dear Sen, loquacious Sen, is ‘no one.’ You speak to the very core of this null’s pride—
And therein lies the trouble.
You see, your praise may hold an overabundance of power. Beneath the application of acclamatory terms, my vanity may grow insatiable. And what then will be done? What a creature will have been created?
I don’t mean to suggest a cessation of praise. No, oh, far be it from me, and never! Only you must think what you are doing, hm? About the responsibilities you incur.
no subject
All these years and all of that striving, across the borders of a dozen different countries and through nights lit with fire, through days defined by flight and fight and disreputable enterprise and a thousand attempts at self-discernment, and there was always this: Sen adamantly present, Rin leaning against Sen in perfect trust, Sen’s arm reflecting accord, and the world brought to stillness in their resting.
They’ve missed this. This foolish, brilliantly voluble man. Whose words are never empty, never fruitless; whose words tone the atmosphere toward warmth and vibrance. Whose words make a splendor of everything static. There is nothing, no, nothing prosaic in the presence of this man. There is nothing that can remain dull, and no part of life that doesn’t gain a greater shine.
They feel Sen breathing against them, and they allow themself a traquil exhale, an effortless, unguarded contentment clear in their expression, in the softness of their eyes.
(What is unnerving: How Sen’s form against their own is less substantial. How there’s a sallowness toned through his skin. How something, something vital and enduring has been altered.
A word for it: frailty. In traces, in hints, in expressions wavered, sorrowful, gone distant.)
(What is unnerving: The recurrent questions. The recurrent, quiet, gnawing certainty that time - this time, their time together, …Sen’s time - is limited.)
Hard not to think about this now, when held so near. When their hand lingers, brushes light along Sen’s forearm.
And, as well, best not to miss the contentment of this moment and its every iteration. Best to let themself drift along the current of Sen’s sun-struck, wholly gratifying discourse.
(Sun-struck, ha, well, Rin is Sen-struck. A thought that quirks a further grin from them, and sets them nestling a little closer against Sen’s side.)
Sen holds that finger, and Rin watches, smile brightening faux-arch approval. ]
These are perilous waters, Senan.
Oh, this null’s vanity flourishes with every slip of silvered phrase. You, as ever, speak with grace unparalleled. Unimaginable, beyond the context of you. Unmatched by any would-be courtier.
Who could hope to meet you, pace for pace, in a contest of wits or words? The answer, dear Sen, loquacious Sen, is ‘no one.’ You speak to the very core of this null’s pride—
And therein lies the trouble.
You see, your praise may hold an overabundance of power. Beneath the application of acclamatory terms, my vanity may grow insatiable. And what then will be done? What a creature will have been created?
I don’t mean to suggest a cessation of praise. No, oh, far be it from me, and never! Only you must think what you are doing, hm? About the responsibilities you incur.