[ Takeshi touches him. Such a small, simple thing, just a cradle for his chin, but Stephen's breath goes shallow. His heart thuds like he's in peril.
It's only fair. He's terrified.
Fifteen words is all he has to use in the end. Fifteen words to first ring tight, then abruptly twist loose every little knot Stephen's tied himself into over the last long, lonely week. I wont ever look away. God. Oh, God.
There's something tremulous in the tweak of his brow as it hits. As blood vessels dilate abruptly, cast a thrill shuddering outward from deep in his chest. He answers it with an unsteady breath, mouth opening around words he hasn't chosen yet.
Finally, when seconds have stretched too thin to bear his silence any more, he wills himself to nod. Tiny. Impossible to miss. ]
—Okay.
[ It's a nothing word, all he can find as he grapples with what he's just been given. But an answer. An answer.
[Okay seems anticlimactic for the moment, but after the grand dramatic speech of reasons why Takeshi shouldn't want this, there's beauty in the simplicity of it. In stripping back those layers, rendering Stephen down to a single word.
There's an urge to pull back, still. To give Stephen his own warnings, the blood on his hands, the ghosts at his back, end this before the knot pulls too tight. But he'd be fooling himself, again. The knot's already tied. It has been for a while.
But there is one absolute, core truth, that Stephen deserves to know, and Takeshi's grip slips from Stephen's chin to his neck, then drops entirely to catch one of Stephen's hands. Lifts it, careful, gentle, till he holds the pads of Stephen's fingertips to the neat horizontal scar on the back of his neck.]
There's a metal disc under this scar, in my vertebrae. It's a piece of tech called a cortical stack, and it stores my consciousness. In my world, everyone has them. [But no one else here. An absolute, core vulnerability, but Takeshi needs to put it in Stephen's hands. Stephen needs to know, making this choice.] As long as it stays intact, if, or when you die, you can be resleeved.
[The implication is obvious, but he waits for Stephen to see it.]
[ His awareness of the journey of Takeshi's hand takes on a strange intensity, like his agreement has attuned them somehow— like the words he couldn't find are simmering just under Stephen's skin, called to the surface by touch, heart hammering. Takeshi draws his hand up, places his fingertips over the little scar he must by now have seen a hundred times: always wondered, never asked. Left it, waiting for the answer to come to him should the time ever be right.
His thumb shifts, cards up into the hair at Takeshi's nape, strokes there. An unvoiced I'm here as his gaze flits over his face. Words sink in. The helpless leap of professional fascination is smothered by the fierce urge to keep it safe keep it safe keep him safe— and then it lands. Resleeved.
His breath catches in his throat. Eyes widen, bright with understanding. ]
[Here, Stephen surprises him. Takeshi's concern had been in the alien of it, that he came from a world where it was a known variable that any lover or partner could be wearing a body different from the one they were born with. Could be wearing a different body tomorrow. Stephen, like most of the others here, didn't have that experience, and Takeshi had expected some alarm over the concept, doubts raised over their intimacy, the validity of it.
Perhaps that was still to come. But the immediate was instead something rooted in concern for his deaths, and the dip of Takeshi's expression is tinged almost rueful in the face of that care.]
I was a soldier, Stephen. [Context Stephen already had, but now had to pair with the rest, the reality of a place where bodies were disposable, replaceable, the one true infinite resource to the human race.] More times than I can count.
[ Stephen's hold on the back of Takeshi's neck tightens, a squeeze. His gaze is briefly searching, watchful— and then something shifts, some displeased downward tug around the mouth, and he folds around Takeshi. Palm spreading upwards to cradle his head, other arm curling around his waist. Head turning, lips a lingering press to the skin of his cheek.
He knows how that goes. Different worlds, different contexts, but that same too-great number. That same thankless cycle.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
It's only fair. He's terrified.
Fifteen words is all he has to use in the end. Fifteen words to first ring tight, then abruptly twist loose every little knot Stephen's tied himself into over the last long, lonely week. I wont ever look away. God. Oh, God.
There's something tremulous in the tweak of his brow as it hits. As blood vessels dilate abruptly, cast a thrill shuddering outward from deep in his chest. He answers it with an unsteady breath, mouth opening around words he hasn't chosen yet.
Finally, when seconds have stretched too thin to bear his silence any more, he wills himself to nod. Tiny. Impossible to miss. ]
—Okay.
[ It's a nothing word, all he can find as he grapples with what he's just been given. But an answer. An answer.
Yes, please. ]
no subject
There's an urge to pull back, still. To give Stephen his own warnings, the blood on his hands, the ghosts at his back, end this before the knot pulls too tight. But he'd be fooling himself, again. The knot's already tied. It has been for a while.
But there is one absolute, core truth, that Stephen deserves to know, and Takeshi's grip slips from Stephen's chin to his neck, then drops entirely to catch one of Stephen's hands. Lifts it, careful, gentle, till he holds the pads of Stephen's fingertips to the neat horizontal scar on the back of his neck.]
There's a metal disc under this scar, in my vertebrae. It's a piece of tech called a cortical stack, and it stores my consciousness. In my world, everyone has them. [But no one else here. An absolute, core vulnerability, but Takeshi needs to put it in Stephen's hands. Stephen needs to know, making this choice.] As long as it stays intact, if, or when you die, you can be resleeved.
[The implication is obvious, but he waits for Stephen to see it.]
no subject
His thumb shifts, cards up into the hair at Takeshi's nape, strokes there. An unvoiced I'm here as his gaze flits over his face. Words sink in. The helpless leap of professional fascination is smothered by the fierce urge to keep it safe keep it safe keep him safe— and then it lands. Resleeved.
His breath catches in his throat. Eyes widen, bright with understanding. ]
... How many times?
no subject
Perhaps that was still to come. But the immediate was instead something rooted in concern for his deaths, and the dip of Takeshi's expression is tinged almost rueful in the face of that care.]
I was a soldier, Stephen. [Context Stephen already had, but now had to pair with the rest, the reality of a place where bodies were disposable, replaceable, the one true infinite resource to the human race.] More times than I can count.
no subject
He knows how that goes. Different worlds, different contexts, but that same too-great number. That same thankless cycle.
It's lonely. It's really fucking lonely.
He's not going anywhere. ]