Yes. [ lighter answers instantly, voice flattened and dry, the husk of the warm desert native in his throat. ] The fact that you aren't is almost worse.
[ but he's not worried, remember.
it's simply because he's got an observant streak, a thing cultivated in him as a means of survival when there were opponents out there bigger, meaner, stronger, and far more connected than him out there. that's what he'll say, anyway. lighter has learned to look, even when it scares him. he's learned to sense enough to fray his nerves at the ends from overuse, all char and grit, burning the wick at both ends — enough to count the seconds between harumasa's breaths puffing weakly against his skin, to note any lulls, stutters that seem out of place. too quickly and too openly, he's making that cadence familiar. a decision insomuch as a touch of fear makes decisions.
losing is the hard part about familiarity. the part that made lighter decide that he was never going to lose again, so long as he's also still breathing.
not that such conviction always rides on grandiose declarations; rather, it's in the way his skin heats beneath the absent rub of harumasa's thumb. like a bone-deep obedience to something gentle, more pronounced for its long absence. lighter fights a sigh, half because it'll jostle his precious cargo, half because he shouldn't need to take that deep of a breath to center himself better.
he's really done it, he thinks. the tips of his ears are hot too.
locked in as he is, he manages to watch his step with the stray skittering underfoot now that all parties are in the bedroom again. he really is quite stable on his feet, hip checks aside. it jumps up onto the bed ahead of them, tail giving a curious curl. ]
Better be careful down there, [ lighter warns, levity haloing his tone of voice. ] if either of us takes a topple, there goes your meal ticket.
[ brusque, his "threat" well-meaning. leaning down at the bedside, lighter lowers harumasa into a seat against the mattress, the arm beneath his knees sliding loose first. his other, the one around his back, is much slower to retract, suddenly unsure of losing contact.
it's only fair. that's what the dull pang of the wound beneath the bandage on his forehead tells him.
lighter mirrors the earlier concern, the curled flats of his knuckles brushing beneath harumasa's bangs at his temple, sourcing that cold sweat, how severe it is. ]
no subject
[ but he's not worried, remember.
it's simply because he's got an observant streak, a thing cultivated in him as a means of survival when there were opponents out there bigger, meaner, stronger, and far more connected than him out there. that's what he'll say, anyway. lighter has learned to look, even when it scares him. he's learned to sense enough to fray his nerves at the ends from overuse, all char and grit, burning the wick at both ends — enough to count the seconds between harumasa's breaths puffing weakly against his skin, to note any lulls, stutters that seem out of place. too quickly and too openly, he's making that cadence familiar. a decision insomuch as a touch of fear makes decisions.
losing is the hard part about familiarity. the part that made lighter decide that he was never going to lose again, so long as he's also still breathing.
not that such conviction always rides on grandiose declarations; rather, it's in the way his skin heats beneath the absent rub of harumasa's thumb. like a bone-deep obedience to something gentle, more pronounced for its long absence. lighter fights a sigh, half because it'll jostle his precious cargo, half because he shouldn't need to take that deep of a breath to center himself better.
he's really done it, he thinks. the tips of his ears are hot too.
locked in as he is, he manages to watch his step with the stray skittering underfoot now that all parties are in the bedroom again. he really is quite stable on his feet, hip checks aside. it jumps up onto the bed ahead of them, tail giving a curious curl. ]
Better be careful down there, [ lighter warns, levity haloing his tone of voice. ] if either of us takes a topple, there goes your meal ticket.
[ brusque, his "threat" well-meaning. leaning down at the bedside, lighter lowers harumasa into a seat against the mattress, the arm beneath his knees sliding loose first. his other, the one around his back, is much slower to retract, suddenly unsure of losing contact.
it's only fair. that's what the dull pang of the wound beneath the bandage on his forehead tells him.
lighter mirrors the earlier concern, the curled flats of his knuckles brushing beneath harumasa's bangs at his temple, sourcing that cold sweat, how severe it is. ]