Who would he be, to tell someone else to calm down? He had breathed in ash, had breathed out destruction, had tasted the copper-tang of blood on his tongue until it had become the only thing he could taste. His ribs had housed an inferno, his heart a blackened husk, his sins too numerous to count and too heavy to carry unless he had buried them deep. He had burned down a kingdom, had faced down a self-made god, had existed purely on rage and spite until he hadn’t known anything else. He thinks, maybe, that Andras doesn’t either, that they are two damaged boys who would shy away from a gentle touch but rush headlong into the hurt that comes with the comfort of rage, would dance on the edge of a knife before they’d dance with a lover to a soft melody. He doesn’t comment on it -- what use would that do? -- only allows the barest, weary smile to curl his lips into something that isn’t quite a snarl but isn’t quite a smile either. He’s still not entirely sure how to smile without baring his teeth. Maybe he won’t ever be. The silence between them stretches, broken only by the chatter of the birds in the trees. There is an understanding between them, heavy on their shoulders, and he notices for the first time how much smaller Andras is, that if he wanted to he could curl his neck over the winged back without having to stretch too far. He wants to say something smart. He wants to bare his teeth and see if Andras would smile or snarl back. He catches the bag of birdseed instead, fumbling just slightly with the rough-hewn fabric, and by the time he looks up Andras has already turned and begun his departure. He opens his mouth, his tongue tripping over the words you too -- and then he closes it with an audible snap of teeth, turning his shoulder so that he is facing towards the curious flock of birds instead. It was just a fluke, he’s sure. Better to pretend it had never happened. |
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