[ Sen watches their hand hover in the air, charmed to silence by the gesture. His own hand lingers near, fingertips tracing the warmth of space near their skin as though their aura can be felt, bare centimeters from their physical boundary.
There is always something otherworldly about Rin. And Sen, in Rin's presence. Before their irreproachable and unapproachable beauty. The glow of candlelit poverty and time that ceased, never to be a moment past 7:34 on November 2nd. The dance of their hands in the air now. Rin is a daydream.
Rin is every dream.
(What is Rin thinking of now as their fingers flex? Does some part - does any part - of them feel singed by his kiss? What would it be like to set them on fire?
Senan believes they're merely charmed; that they love beauty, they love works of art. (They don't love him. Not the way he'd like them to.) They are enamored of the idea of their hand having been kissed.) (He's pleased by this.)
His eyes shift past their hand just as it leaves the company of his own, seeking the familiarity of their face, and is delighted - faintly surprised, to feel the press of their fingertips to his jaw. He permits (conspires with) the silent direction of touch and angles his head, his eyes slipping close. Written in the lines between pleasure and mischief and contentment is something euphoric - the way he looked when that first kiss ended.
(He doesn't remember who began it, be he remembers who ended it. He remembers he had to end it, for fear of a ruptured heart. It would have been the most lethal dose of pleasure he'd ever found, if he hadn't drawn away. He had spoken, too, hadn't he? Oh, Rin, soft and smiling and rueful, and between all those lines, there had been perfect (but not lethal) bliss.)
He loves when they touch him. When has there ever been anything but appreciation in their (caress) touch? Along the unkempt grain of two days' growth, and it's a wonder they think him attractive. It's a delight of its own, and their multilingual praise summons another low laugh from him.
(Privately. Privately, he thinks - he would dispense with the Wilkes, given the chance. But only for an upgrade. Only if leaving behind his name meant taking theirs. (A dangerous thought he doesn't consider often.) (Has only dared to approach it a handful of times, drunk or high and alone long after everyone - including Rin - has fallen asleep. It's a dangerous set of words stolen in the dark and whispered to no one, just so Sen could hear the sound of them. So Sen could taste it. His own name, appended to theirs. A warmth in his chest, verdant blooms of longing and satisfaction. Senan Rinault.)
(In this far-off daydream where he appends and Senan to Rin, he has tested the weight of their name with his own, and found Rin Wilkes to be distastefully common.
Which says something. About the likelihood of Rin in conjunction with Sen. He is, himself, distastefully common.)
He senses the shift of their mood as surely as a change in the weather, and his eyes open, himself falling still from the was-inclined angle of his head, the invitation for further trespass of their fingers. They look troubled.
They're thinking of the two years without him.
(They're blaming themself? Or, like him, they dislike the distance? Hard to say.)
He shakes his head minutely at them - it's so much nothing, those two years. When he's lived more than half his life with them. When he survived the separation on the notion that he would come and find home.
It happens in a perfectly formed crystal of time, slow and rapid, unmoving and bolting forward, all things occurring at once and all things frozen: they kiss their fingertips and the kiss is given. Sen's hand drifts across theirs, finding it still at his jaw, hearing words (my Sen) (tranquility) resound in gentleness.
There's a kiss on their fingertips. It's a thought snagged on a nail in his mind, and he can't help himself. He draws their hand, their kissed fingertips, to his lips again. (How many times has he kissed the air and watched them feign tossing those kisses aside. Batting them away. Dodging them. How long has it gone on, that now it's simply a game they play: Senan kisses, and Rin avoids, and Senan pretends there's nothing more to it? That he doesn't wish they would just catch one.) (They have to catch this one. Or, at least, let him take the trace of their lips against his own, conveyed by fingertips.)
Over the crest of their hand, he offers a quiet reply. ]
Another role I am glad to play, for the sake of Rin. Be at peace with me; be tranquil and happy. These odd hours when you and I may take refuge from the world together are precious - incomparably precious to me. What more could I ask than this: to hold you near and steadfast, and know your heart beats contented - to watch the play of movements, a shift of hand, a smile, a gestures, a fluttering hand, and know in each is the same note of tranquility?
[ He releases their hand in favor of brushing their own cheek in the same manner they offered, fingertips light as a breath.
Exploratory. ]
But.
There is a problem you and I must address, Pookie:
[ His smile turns impish, just as he's been so sorely accused of impishness, though he quickly recovers and affects a somber note. Feigned concern. ]
I promised to give you cause to blush. Are you so inured to compliments that they no longer give you cause for such an absurd reaction?
Or perhaps you don't feel the flush of pleasure as mere mortals do?
[ He shifts, settling lower so that his eyes are level(ish) with theirs, and draws nearer - inches away and conspiratorial. His language shifts, following the backwards track of their own. ]
Or am I to blame, hm? Do you require more praise, until your heart splits apart and all your lifeblood burns crimson?
[ Another shift of language, another fine-honed, pleasant smirk. ]
The problem is, you see: if I did employ the most incisive of compliments for my Rin, how on earth could I mend their heart after? Poor Rin, bled out by pretty words.
True words. Pretty, and true. But though I can give you tranquility, and I can perform open-heart laudation, I am no healer.
[ His hand drops, and presses their chest above their heart (his smile returning, fond, terribly fond as he regards his hand against them.) And again, he veers from one language to another. ]
No. Better to leave it unscathed. It wouldn't do to break it, when there is no other like it in the world.
[ A tsk, and he chucks them under their chin gently, affectionately. ]
no subject
There is always something otherworldly about Rin. And Sen, in Rin's presence. Before their irreproachable and unapproachable beauty. The glow of candlelit poverty and time that ceased, never to be a moment past 7:34 on November 2nd. The dance of their hands in the air now. Rin is a daydream.
Rin is every dream.
(What is Rin thinking of now as their fingers flex? Does some part - does any part - of them feel singed by his kiss? What would it be like to set them on fire?
Senan believes they're merely charmed; that they love beauty, they love works of art. (They don't love him. Not the way he'd like them to.) They are enamored of the idea of their hand having been kissed.) (He's pleased by this.)
His eyes shift past their hand just as it leaves the company of his own, seeking the familiarity of their face, and is delighted - faintly surprised, to feel the press of their fingertips to his jaw. He permits (conspires with) the silent direction of touch and angles his head, his eyes slipping close. Written in the lines between pleasure and mischief and contentment is something euphoric - the way he looked when that first kiss ended.
(He doesn't remember who began it, be he remembers who ended it. He remembers he had to end it, for fear of a ruptured heart. It would have been the most lethal dose of pleasure he'd ever found, if he hadn't drawn away. He had spoken, too, hadn't he? Oh, Rin, soft and smiling and rueful, and between all those lines, there had been perfect (but not lethal) bliss.)
He loves when they touch him. When has there ever been anything but appreciation in their (caress) touch? Along the unkempt grain of two days' growth, and it's a wonder they think him attractive. It's a delight of its own, and their multilingual praise summons another low laugh from him.
(Privately. Privately, he thinks - he would dispense with the Wilkes, given the chance. But only for an upgrade. Only if leaving behind his name meant taking theirs. (A dangerous thought he doesn't consider often.) (Has only dared to approach it a handful of times, drunk or high and alone long after everyone - including Rin - has fallen asleep. It's a dangerous set of words stolen in the dark and whispered to no one, just so Sen could hear the sound of them. So Sen could taste it. His own name, appended to theirs. A warmth in his chest, verdant blooms of longing and satisfaction. Senan Rinault.)
(In this far-off daydream where he appends and Senan to Rin, he has tested the weight of their name with his own, and found Rin Wilkes to be distastefully common.
Which says something. About the likelihood of Rin in conjunction with Sen. He is, himself, distastefully common.)
He senses the shift of their mood as surely as a change in the weather, and his eyes open, himself falling still from the was-inclined angle of his head, the invitation for further trespass of their fingers. They look troubled.
They're thinking of the two years without him.
(They're blaming themself? Or, like him, they dislike the distance? Hard to say.)
He shakes his head minutely at them - it's so much nothing, those two years. When he's lived more than half his life with them. When he survived the separation on the notion that he would come and find home.
It happens in a perfectly formed crystal of time, slow and rapid, unmoving and bolting forward, all things occurring at once and all things frozen: they kiss their fingertips and the kiss is given. Sen's hand drifts across theirs, finding it still at his jaw, hearing words (my Sen) (tranquility) resound in gentleness.
There's a kiss on their fingertips. It's a thought snagged on a nail in his mind, and he can't help himself. He draws their hand, their kissed fingertips, to his lips again. (How many times has he kissed the air and watched them feign tossing those kisses aside. Batting them away. Dodging them. How long has it gone on, that now it's simply a game they play: Senan kisses, and Rin avoids, and Senan pretends there's nothing more to it? That he doesn't wish they would just catch one.) (They have to catch this one. Or, at least, let him take the trace of their lips against his own, conveyed by fingertips.)
Over the crest of their hand, he offers a quiet reply. ]
Another role I am glad to play, for the sake of Rin. Be at peace with me; be tranquil and happy. These odd hours when you and I may take refuge from the world together are precious - incomparably precious to me. What more could I ask than this: to hold you near and steadfast, and know your heart beats contented - to watch the play of movements, a shift of hand, a smile, a gestures, a fluttering hand, and know in each is the same note of tranquility?
[ He releases their hand in favor of brushing their own cheek in the same manner they offered, fingertips light as a breath.
Exploratory. ]
But.
There is a problem you and I must address, Pookie:
[ His smile turns impish, just as he's been so sorely accused of impishness, though he quickly recovers and affects a somber note. Feigned concern. ]
I promised to give you cause to blush. Are you so inured to compliments that they no longer give you cause for such an absurd reaction?
Or perhaps you don't feel the flush of pleasure as mere mortals do?
[ He shifts, settling lower so that his eyes are level(ish) with theirs, and draws nearer - inches away and conspiratorial. His language shifts, following the backwards track of their own. ]
Or am I to blame, hm? Do you require more praise, until your heart splits apart and all your lifeblood burns crimson?
[ Another shift of language, another fine-honed, pleasant smirk. ]
The problem is, you see: if I did employ the most incisive of compliments for my Rin, how on earth could I mend their heart after? Poor Rin, bled out by pretty words.
True words. Pretty, and true. But though I can give you tranquility, and I can perform open-heart laudation, I am no healer.
[ His hand drops, and presses their chest above their heart (his smile returning, fond, terribly fond as he regards his hand against them.) And again, he veers from one language to another. ]
No. Better to leave it unscathed. It wouldn't do to break it, when there is no other like it in the world.
[ A tsk, and he chucks them under their chin gently, affectionately. ]
Keep your blushes, then. Miserly null.