to feel that we exist, even though in pain
♠︎ ♕ ♠︎
Some days he wakes up and everyone he looks at is just a locked chest and he must find the key. Or be the key, as it were, with his words and the way his eyes catch theirs and the movement of his body, every gesture the next step in a dance of his choreographing. Only some of the pleasure comes from learning what’s inside, waiting in the dark; most of it, for him, is the satisfaction in the moment the key slicks into the lock and the tumbles click and turn. The right pressure, the right twist at the right time, and: open sesame.
They are both lucky that this is not one of those days, for him. That August is not working but only living, though he finds the same enjoyment in each, most of the time. The darkness gathers and recedes from her eyes, from the corners of her mouth, without a glance from him - but he wonders.
Anyway, they are swept up, now, by the current of introductions, of conversation (however one-sided, in the case of the dragon and the half-bashful boy both). August enjoys knowing, and being known, and weaving and widening the net of his acquaintances - as though there weren’t enough personalities to keep him occupied at the Scarab. Oh, but he does love people; it is, Senna would probably say, one of his greater flaws.
“A good choice,” he says, watching the sweet bun vanish under wrappings and pass to the woman, but the real reaction he’s watching for is the one to the card. He can’t help his curiosity, his love of a game (however small and simple), his pride in his questionable home and more-questionable companions. It is surprisingly easy to picture her among them.
And August is not disappointed. His brows arch first, surprise and delight and maybe just a hint of something more wicked, a silver-eyed gleam at the way the offer sounded but did not mean. He lets it slide, for now - that is another game he generally enjoys.
But his pleasure is genuine when she goes on, and now he regards her the way he would any challenger, almost the way he’d first swept his gaze across her. The hard planes of muscles, the grace in the joining of her throat and shoulders and the slope of her croup. “Oh,” he says, his grin broadening, “that’s one of my favorite kinds of dancing. We could probably manage both - though you’ve already won first blood.” Already he’s thinking strategy - she has a full hand on him, and those horns besides, but it’s been too long since he’s had a new sparring partner. When he nods, face schooled back to near-seriousness, his eyes linger on hers.
“I’ll see you soon, Boudika,” he says, “on one floor or another.” and is gone with a dip of his head and the newborn sun gleaming full gold on his back.
@boudika | <3 wee lil closer for ya
