[Takeshi, sat comfortably on his preferred loveseat, one ankle propped on the other knee, working in his journal, raises an eyebrow.]
Funny question to hear from a man whose heart I ripped out only a day ago.
[The journal is flipped closed, slid onto the coffee table, attention fully on Stephen. He looks good. Refreshed. Like he's had an all-expenses paid spa trip rather than a painful death and resurrection. Were Takeshi a different man, he might even believe that it had worked the way Stephen had outlined. But he isn't, and he knows, all this did was give Stephen a nice black period at the end of a sentence, set a hinge to swing a door shut. Nothing behind it was gone. And the unfortunate thing about doors was that they could always be opened again.
He doesn't say any of this. He also doesn't tell Stephen whether he is or isn't alright. He's both. The killer, who barely blinks at one more death - not even a real death - on his hands. And the brother, who saw the life drain out of the eyes of yet another person he cared about and split open again, ghosts spilling out into his sleep and his wakefulness, the smell of blood and smoke and ash.
But it's barely been a day, and he's a better chameleon than anyone here knows. When he stands, takes the few steps over to Stephen, it's a lazy prowl, confident and calm.]
Where I'm from, first time fresh off resurrection is something else. [Stephen hasn't been resleeved, fitted into a body that hasn't stopped making hormones the entire time it's been slabbed, but Takeshi's certain there are still some similarities.] All the sensory overload of the virgin experience, all the veteran benefits of knowing what you're doing, what you want.
[Close, now. Close enough to kiss. To look at Stephen's eyes and feel the instinctual, animal clench of relief and elation at the light in them, the need to clutch him close and feel the warmth and life in his skin. The seduction in Takeshi's movements and words and the slight tilt of his head may be evasion, omission, but none of it is dishonest.]
no subject
Funny question to hear from a man whose heart I ripped out only a day ago.
[The journal is flipped closed, slid onto the coffee table, attention fully on Stephen. He looks good. Refreshed. Like he's had an all-expenses paid spa trip rather than a painful death and resurrection. Were Takeshi a different man, he might even believe that it had worked the way Stephen had outlined. But he isn't, and he knows, all this did was give Stephen a nice black period at the end of a sentence, set a hinge to swing a door shut. Nothing behind it was gone. And the unfortunate thing about doors was that they could always be opened again.
He doesn't say any of this. He also doesn't tell Stephen whether he is or isn't alright. He's both. The killer, who barely blinks at one more death - not even a real death - on his hands. And the brother, who saw the life drain out of the eyes of yet another person he cared about and split open again, ghosts spilling out into his sleep and his wakefulness, the smell of blood and smoke and ash.
But it's barely been a day, and he's a better chameleon than anyone here knows. When he stands, takes the few steps over to Stephen, it's a lazy prowl, confident and calm.]
Where I'm from, first time fresh off resurrection is something else. [Stephen hasn't been resleeved, fitted into a body that hasn't stopped making hormones the entire time it's been slabbed, but Takeshi's certain there are still some similarities.] All the sensory overload of the virgin experience, all the veteran benefits of knowing what you're doing, what you want.
[Close, now. Close enough to kiss. To look at Stephen's eyes and feel the instinctual, animal clench of relief and elation at the light in them, the need to clutch him close and feel the warmth and life in his skin. The seduction in Takeshi's movements and words and the slight tilt of his head may be evasion, omission, but none of it is dishonest.]
The stamina of both.