Andras Demyan
"All you want to do is dance out of your skin into another song not quite about heroes, but still a song where you can lift your spear and say 'yes' as it flashes."
"All you want to do is dance out of your skin into another song not quite about heroes, but still a song where you can lift your spear and say 'yes' as it flashes."
Andras has never been good at dancing - cannot move with much grace, and he is not so much like a stream as he is a geyser, superheated and belching acid over and over until everything around him is dead and bone-white. And--standing so close to a person, face to face, chest to chest, eye to eye... a hell which hath no equal.
Which is why it is no surprise that, with nothing but the birds and the weather and the lull of the library to break each long, tense stretch of silence, Andras is the one that trips--maybe not this moment, but soon enough that he feels he has lost whatever game they're playing. Ipomoea is speaking, level and calm, and then suddenly he isn't, sifting through books on the shelf like Andras might, like someone else would shuffle their feet, or twiddle their thumbs.
Or, float their glasses off of the bridge of their nose and clean them for the twentieth time in a day, rubbing a nonexistent spot off the lens before holding the pair up to the light, as if to examine--as the pegasus does.
"I don't know, maybe they're prominent enough to be... at least a little interesting." He gives a thoughtful pause, not as long as the others and not quite so stiff. "Well, probably not." he decides, finally. This pause is long, and possibly more tense, as Andras places his glasses back on his face and takes several short breaths to steel himself.
When he looks back to Ipomoea, meeting whatever gaze he finds there with one of unstable but tangible resolve, it comes almost out of nowhere.
"I hope it's okay that I've been... here for a while." He says, giving the room a sweeping gesture with both wings, to suggest that be here he means the library, and by for a while he does not mean the several hours one would typically spend perusing the shelves. In fact it has been much, much longer.
"Sorry," he adds.
Which is why it is no surprise that, with nothing but the birds and the weather and the lull of the library to break each long, tense stretch of silence, Andras is the one that trips--maybe not this moment, but soon enough that he feels he has lost whatever game they're playing. Ipomoea is speaking, level and calm, and then suddenly he isn't, sifting through books on the shelf like Andras might, like someone else would shuffle their feet, or twiddle their thumbs.
Or, float their glasses off of the bridge of their nose and clean them for the twentieth time in a day, rubbing a nonexistent spot off the lens before holding the pair up to the light, as if to examine--as the pegasus does.
"I don't know, maybe they're prominent enough to be... at least a little interesting." He gives a thoughtful pause, not as long as the others and not quite so stiff. "Well, probably not." he decides, finally. This pause is long, and possibly more tense, as Andras places his glasses back on his face and takes several short breaths to steel himself.
When he looks back to Ipomoea, meeting whatever gaze he finds there with one of unstable but tangible resolve, it comes almost out of nowhere.
"I hope it's okay that I've been... here for a while." He says, giving the room a sweeping gesture with both wings, to suggest that be here he means the library, and by for a while he does not mean the several hours one would typically spend perusing the shelves. In fact it has been much, much longer.
"Sorry," he adds.
@ipomoea
they made you into a weapon
and told you to find peace.
