He doesn’t notice the folding of wings, or even perhaps the barest hint of footsteps against cobbled stone -- no, what he notices is that those first few brave souls who dare come to the seeds that he scattered go flittering off, chirping out in alarm as they perch back in the safety of their trees, and he swings around to face the intruder with his face already twisted into a scowl at the intrusion. He used to be good at this sort of thing -- at pulling on the mask of the charming young rogue, of the hotshot fighter who didn’t give a single shit what others thought of him. Now, though… now, it feels like too much effort to even try to wear a smile when everything inside of him is breaking apart and reassembling itself into entirely new pieces that he isn’t ever quite sure fit where they’ve decided to place themselves. Even so, when the pegasus poses his question, or perhaps his statement, the painted stallion utters a short, incredulous laugh, something that rumbled deep in his chest and sounded more like a snarl than any sort of humor. When he looks from the stallion, to the birdseed, back to the stallion again, there is something sharp and pointed in his gaze despite the missing eye, and he wonders if the strange lightness he can feel beneath the shadows might be humor at the situation. “What the fuck does it look like i’m doing?” He answers anyways, because it’s truthfully a stupid question, and no amount of humor has ever made those particularly tolerable. He doesn’t leave, however. It’s not that he senses the way that Andras is full of rage, the same way he is full of broken glass emotions -- he is not nearly so emotionally astute, not nearly so observant when he can barely identify his own chaotic feelings. He doesn’t leave because he was there first, damn it, and Sam is still sleeping up in their shared room, and he doesn’t want to risk waking his lover up by returning and bringing the dawn with him. “You got anything useful to say, or you gonna fuck off to wherever you came from to annoy me?” |
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