[ There, that smile. Kindling the world and twining together all the years they’ve known this man and borne delighted witness to this smile. And in this moment it is easy to feel how many of Rin’s days have been spent in Sen’s company, and how well they feel each day defined in large part by the breath and heartbeat of this man.
They let their hand hang in the air in the wake of Sen’s kiss, fingers gently flexing, as if the motion could capture further the impression of that kiss, as if Rin could feel and know the feeling of that press deeper and deeper with every shifting muscle. They let their hand linger, and they smile, nearly laugh, teeth briefly visible. Noticing the way Sen’s mirrored their language shifts in reverse. Knowing the way that mirroring echoes through the years, as well.
Knowing they’ll remember the impress of this kiss, and the sense of Sen against them, of Sen’s arm around them. The way they’ve always remember moments or hours spent with Sen. The ways scenes write themselves into Rin’s being, every raucous venture and quiet respite marking upon the walls within their veins.
They focus their attention on their hand, studying the site of the kiss, smiling and flexing their fingers again, again. Then, looking up at Sen— ]
Forty-five years? Tsk, imagine my surprise, to find I’ve been communing with an old man.
[ A wink and a gentle poke, and never mind that Rin’s got three years, give or take, on Sen. ]
And yet, to look at you, I never would have guessed.
[ A statement spoken in plain truth: it’s difficult to look at Senan and not recognize the youth within his heart, and the trace of every younger self he’s been. And now, even worn as Sen seems (worrisomely worn; not altered at heart, but something is flagging, dragged ragged in Sen’s wake), there’s captivation in those eyes, in every sprawling gesture and subtlety of ticked lip or softened brow. This man moves with a rhythm of his own, familiar to Rin and tangential to the world. This man is the being, the voice, the sight they’ve sought again and again, constancy in a far-flung, scrambling life.
They reach up, and set the backs of two fingers against Sen’s jaw, tilting gently upward, just enough to shift the fall of light and shadow, just enough to tilt their own head and feign to study - and in fact study, eyes tracing stubble and contour and all the way time’s touched (and incarceration touched, and the unknown trouble’s touching) that cheek - expression a scrutinizing neutrality, then blooming into a sudden, beaming smile. Their hand twists lithe, forefinger tapping twice against Sen’s jaw, then withdrawing to rest upon his chest. ]
What a rogue and pleasant sage you are, hm?
[ In Greek— ]
I could look upon this ragged jaw in perpetuity, and never ask a better show.
[ French— ]
No pageantry could gleam above the sight of Senan Wilkes with his well-regarded stubble.
…Strange to think you have a surname. Strange to hold it on my tongue. I’m afraid, mi pensador, I’ll have to dispense with that ‘W’ appended to your name, and call you ‘Sen’ alone, rascal of your own creation.
[ Without a beat, they plunge onward in Italian, and yes, they are flaunting, preening a little, relishing this chase through language and favoring Sen with a pleased and decidedly shit-eating grin— ]
You make an art of cultivated bristle, an aesthetic of polished impishness. To look at you is to recognize some glint of devilment, yes, but who outside your acquaintance could guess the depths of your commitment to roguery? Who could be so privileged to know how well you are you, a confirmed Sen’s self straight to your core?
What I mean to say is I am fortunate. Blessed, it might be said, and I might say, and I, in fact, do claim. And I am pleased, Senan—
[ A pause, and, in French— ]
I am gratified, to find you here again.
[ For a moment - passing, yes, but in this moment as if snared in amber - their smile flickers vaguely troubled, traced in sorrow. Because that ‘again’ conjures the time that wasn’t. Those two years out of twenty-five (they’ve known him, and he’s known them, for over half their lives) where Sen was distant, or Rin was distant, or in any case space and circumstance intervened.
(Hard now not to know how the world felt in Senan’s absence. How daily living hummed along, how life thrummed vivid all around, and yet some core was ever absent. And yet there was a hollow at the heart of things, and Rin felt at every step a little bit - a lot - like haunted. A little like a ghost, themself.)
They won’t dwell on that. There’s no good dwelling on that, and in any case, just now they feel warmed through and through. Just now, they feel at-home, and easy. And, smile turning fully to pleased appreciation, Rin presses a kiss to their fingertips, then sets those fingertips against Sen’s jaw, and lets them linger. ]
Never doubt that I am anything less than contented in your presence.
My life lately has been less harried. It surprises me, sometimes, how well I’ve settled into relative ease. And yet.
It is only here, beside my Sen, that I find complete tranquility.
no subject
They let their hand hang in the air in the wake of Sen’s kiss, fingers gently flexing, as if the motion could capture further the impression of that kiss, as if Rin could feel and know the feeling of that press deeper and deeper with every shifting muscle. They let their hand linger, and they smile, nearly laugh, teeth briefly visible. Noticing the way Sen’s mirrored their language shifts in reverse. Knowing the way that mirroring echoes through the years, as well.
Knowing they’ll remember the impress of this kiss, and the sense of Sen against them, of Sen’s arm around them. The way they’ve always remember moments or hours spent with Sen. The ways scenes write themselves into Rin’s being, every raucous venture and quiet respite marking upon the walls within their veins.
They focus their attention on their hand, studying the site of the kiss, smiling and flexing their fingers again, again. Then, looking up at Sen— ]
Forty-five years? Tsk, imagine my surprise, to find I’ve been communing with an old man.
[ A wink and a gentle poke, and never mind that Rin’s got three years, give or take, on Sen. ]
And yet, to look at you, I never would have guessed.
[ A statement spoken in plain truth: it’s difficult to look at Senan and not recognize the youth within his heart, and the trace of every younger self he’s been. And now, even worn as Sen seems (worrisomely worn; not altered at heart, but something is flagging, dragged ragged in Sen’s wake), there’s captivation in those eyes, in every sprawling gesture and subtlety of ticked lip or softened brow. This man moves with a rhythm of his own, familiar to Rin and tangential to the world. This man is the being, the voice, the sight they’ve sought again and again, constancy in a far-flung, scrambling life.
They reach up, and set the backs of two fingers against Sen’s jaw, tilting gently upward, just enough to shift the fall of light and shadow, just enough to tilt their own head and feign to study - and in fact study, eyes tracing stubble and contour and all the way time’s touched (and incarceration touched, and the unknown trouble’s touching) that cheek - expression a scrutinizing neutrality, then blooming into a sudden, beaming smile. Their hand twists lithe, forefinger tapping twice against Sen’s jaw, then withdrawing to rest upon his chest. ]
What a rogue and pleasant sage you are, hm?
[ In Greek— ]
I could look upon this ragged jaw in perpetuity, and never ask a better show.
[ French— ]
No pageantry could gleam above the sight of Senan Wilkes with his well-regarded stubble.
…Strange to think you have a surname. Strange to hold it on my tongue. I’m afraid, mi pensador, I’ll have to dispense with that ‘W’ appended to your name, and call you ‘Sen’ alone, rascal of your own creation.
[ Without a beat, they plunge onward in Italian, and yes, they are flaunting, preening a little, relishing this chase through language and favoring Sen with a pleased and decidedly shit-eating grin— ]
You make an art of cultivated bristle, an aesthetic of polished impishness. To look at you is to recognize some glint of devilment, yes, but who outside your acquaintance could guess the depths of your commitment to roguery? Who could be so privileged to know how well you are you, a confirmed Sen’s self straight to your core?
What I mean to say is I am fortunate. Blessed, it might be said, and I might say, and I, in fact, do claim. And I am pleased, Senan—
[ A pause, and, in French— ]
I am gratified, to find you here again.
[ For a moment - passing, yes, but in this moment as if snared in amber - their smile flickers vaguely troubled, traced in sorrow. Because that ‘again’ conjures the time that wasn’t. Those two years out of twenty-five (they’ve known him, and he’s known them, for over half their lives) where Sen was distant, or Rin was distant, or in any case space and circumstance intervened.
(Hard now not to know how the world felt in Senan’s absence. How daily living hummed along, how life thrummed vivid all around, and yet some core was ever absent. And yet there was a hollow at the heart of things, and Rin felt at every step a little bit - a lot - like haunted. A little like a ghost, themself.)
They won’t dwell on that. There’s no good dwelling on that, and in any case, just now they feel warmed through and through. Just now, they feel at-home, and easy. And, smile turning fully to pleased appreciation, Rin presses a kiss to their fingertips, then sets those fingertips against Sen’s jaw, and lets them linger. ]
Never doubt that I am anything less than contented in your presence.
My life lately has been less harried. It surprises me, sometimes, how well I’ve settled into relative ease. And yet.
It is only here, beside my Sen, that I find complete tranquility.