to feel that we exist, even though in pain
♠︎ ♕ ♠︎
She plays the game well - he wonders if she can play it better than he does, layering words and tone to build layers of meaning, compliment, dare, double entendre. Likely she can; how else would she have climbed so high? But August is competitive too, golden boy he is, everything coming easy to him -
Well. Almost everything.
“I’ll do my best,” he says grandly, and only smiles at her snort. Her unearthly glow (he ought to know what her magic is, but his focus has been sliding, lately) shields it a little, but closer up he can see how worn thin she is. Hunger and travel have made her lean, or maybe it’s grief; he knows what too much love can make you, when you lose it. It is a weapon like any feeling too strong, and one that can be turned too easily on yourself.
When her eyes go to the tattoo on his shoulder he says nothing, though his smile curls broader as her gaze narrows. August does not give his secrets away for free; let her wonder, let her ask.
He inclines his head a fraction at her next comment, though he doesn’t drop his eyes - too busy watching that spill of gold that hisses as it hits the dirt. He wonders if it burns against the skin, if it could catch in the dark ferns and burn the island down, if she wanted. August wonders what it is she wants here at all, if it is the Relic or if, like him, she isn’t yet sure. “I’ll bet. In that case, I’m happy to compliment any other feature you care to pick. Hardly fair for one to get all the glory.”
They are near enough one another now that the stretch of a muzzle could see them touching, but August keeps to himself. He’s mindful of that shower of sparks, content to be near enough to test the warmth of her, measure the blue of her eyes, note the band around her throat. At her question he glances back at the birds in question, still eerily watchful - he almost wants to shoo them off, see how they respond to a threat. But the risk isn’t worth it, not when he still knows so little.
“I’d be curious to hear what they say,” he answers idly, and turns his grin back on Bexley. “But my name is August. And what should I call you?” The question is cool, polite, mild enough it might be honest ignorance - but his silver eyes suggest otherwise. I know, it says, but I’ll pretend anything you want.
@Bexley | <3
