[ The skins, he means. But he is the natural type of cook to lead with his own tastes over the following of strict recipes, meaning edible finds from the forest or otherwise often make their way into his cooking.
Kaspar eats another rind before moving to set their container on Steinbeck's lap. Moving on to the second, he opens this one with some care. These look more like small meat pies, but there are only two. At least, these have more inside them than worms. Their edges are browned, still warm inside and out. Clearly, these are the culprits behind his slight tardiness.
He offers Steinbeck one with a napkin. It might be obvious by the way he says it that the words are just as new. ]
[Even if they are worms, which he hasn't realized, but...then again, he probably wouldn't care all too much. The earth provides all the food people needs, even if its creepy and crawly. (Not that he would go for worms over anything else, but...he would understand the inclination.)]
[He takes the container, curiously peering over at the new offering, before his eyes brighten, catching the glow from both Kaspar and the flames before them.]
Yeah, I have! I mean, probably not like, an official recipe or anything. [He says, grinning.] Ma and Pa would make pies sometimes like this if we caught something good. What game are they made of?
[ Kaspar hums thoughtfully, realizing his potential mistake here. Game pie was what he was recreating but he hadn't actually hunted anything at all. He's figured out that's what game refers to. Hunting, a gamey taste, but no first hand knowledge.
He's not sure beef and worms count for this, but he hadn't gotten to experimenting with anything else yet. The crust and consistency had been work enough so far. Airily, he answers with a question-- ]
... What does it taste like?
[ Kaspar takes a bite of his own, careful with the flaky crust. ]
[Ah, no answer. Well...he personally hadn't seen any game here. He does guess (correctly) that this may be just game pie in name only, but it doesn't matter. He'll take in a big bite, chewing thoughtfully - again, it seems similar to the rinds from before, but its not bad at all.]
Mm. You mean, this game pie? Or the ones we make at home? As far as the ones at home, we usually throw in vegetables in there with a nice sauce full of spices. Ma always liked it more plain, though, but I guess as far as taste its a bit more gritty than regular old meat you find at the market, along with whatever spices you wanted to throw in.
[ Kaspar listens like that's what he meant. It's an interesting enough answer that he might as well have meant it. His own pies have some seasoning, though he still needed to work out adding more vegetables. At least, that's what he gathers from this taste test so far.
They might be similar to the rinds with worms as filler, but they do also have some beef in them from the grocery store. Some spices too, herbs from the forest, made it in the mix. Nothing like the sauce he describes. ]
[He chews more - its obvious he likes it, making sure to snack on some of those rinds from before between bites.]
On cold nights, maybe. But I think a pie well done is always nice, no matter if its sweet or savory or anything in between. I'm not picky. Though one of my sisters would fight me to the death for an apple pie. I tend to just leave her the last slice of them when we share because she's so cute.
[ Kaspar breathes a warm little laugh at his anecdote, finding that he enjoys the glimpses into another life. It isn't the first time he thinks of his younger brothers and what Kaspar missed of their youth in school and then the tunnels. He isn't the type to linger on memories or his lack of regrets. Unburdened, Kaspar lets the taste of his next bite wash over him as he listens.
There is a comfortable friendliness encouraged by the warmth of a shared meal and the crackling of fire broken only by he shift of wood as it slowly turns to ash. He looks over at Steinbeck just before leaning enough to gently bump shoulders. ]
[Remembering his siblings always makes Steinbeck feel warm - there's something about family that sinks into his chest, lightens up what he thought was long gone dark. No matter what, the people he loves matter to him, above all else.]
[Sometimes it still feels like he has a soul.]
[He smiles, almost a little bashful, at the shoulder bump - he bumps the other back, cheekily.]
Aw, come on, you're doing way too much for me! But look, could I say no to that? I couldn't. I really need to make it up to you. Ain't right to sit there and not let the cook have a good time, too.
[ Kaspar's own siblings bring a wealth of mixed feelings. Love, surely, but also the bittersweet that comes from the ceasing of returned letters. Knowing of nieces and nephews he'll likely never be allowed to meet because of his choices.
Why linger on what can't be helped? His brothers will live their lives the way they wish, with or without his presence. None of this stops the warmth from reaching his smile. It means something, to hear someone speak of their family like Steinbeck does.
He shakes his head, airily reassuring him. ]
Learning new recipes is a good time, I believe.
[ After another bite. ]
... Would you like to help?
edited (Look. It's early I'm sorry ggggydfdhhd) 2023-01-20 15:22 (UTC)
[He finishes his own pie off in no time, wiping his mouth off with the back of his arm, seemingly uncaring if he has flakes left or not. He's not exactly prim or proper, and doesn't care to be. His manners only extend s far as his words, relatively polite even if he has to bite his tongue to do it.]
You missed a spot. [He reaches over, as if its natural, to swipe at a flake on the other's chin with a thumb.] There we go. You really made a wonderful meal.
[ Kaspar blinks, but otherwise quietly accepts the gesture just as naturally. What hits him more solidly and puts a little color high on his already glowing cheeks is the gratitude. It might be hard to tell in the dark with the tinge of the fire.
For things he cares about offering the world, words like those still resounds in his chest, deeper than he lets on. Others have shown their thanks here, and this feels like such a little thing that he doesn't get overly caught up in it. ]
And you made a wonderful campfire.
[ Kaspar says as he slides the basket away to join the untouched kettle at his side opposite Steinbeck. He hadn't thought the kettle through but it is just as well. Water and teabags sit untouched with no way to really set it over the fire properly.
He leans on him slightly to take the rind container if it is empty. If not, he's stealing one for himself. ]
[Because what is life, if not to rest back, close your eyes, and enjoy the simply things like this? A brilliant night, a crackling fire, a meal shared with one another.]
[He doesn't even protest as the man leans in, glancing at the kettle before tilting the rind container towards him, with a few still left. Take all you want, my man.]
Hey. So. What was that singing in front of a campfire, hm?
[ Kaspar does take one rind, popping it into his mouth before retreating again. His gaze drifts to the stars as the rind crunches between his teeth. The smell of the fire is something too, combining with the taste in his mouth like barbecue or smoked meats. It has him inhaling subtly, then sighing through his nose softly.
He covers his mouth when that question lowers his gaze back to Steinbeck. Kaspar swallows, arm falling to support his weight when he leans back. Ah, now he really is flushing a little, but there is no shame. Caught in the trap of his own drunken making.
[He likes to think he has a good memory. Even in the drunken fun of games, he keeps ahold onto details like this, capturing them to be used at a later date.]
[He exhales a little, and even though the fire is blazing before him, his eyes are caught onto Kaspar's face, like a firefly onto a lantern in the darkness.]
I'm not picky, but...I do like a good ballad every now and then. I like songs that tell stories. Sometimes that's the best way to do it.
[ Kaspar nods, gaze wandering away to the flames. He draws inward, quiet and still, for long enough in the summer air that the impatient might give up on ever hearing Kaspar's voice. Tension plays at his throat, the subtle tightening and relaxing of the muscles along his neck. His flush remains.
With a deep inhale, the sound begins in his chest. It builds to a soft hum before he braves a glance to Steinbeck. For all his laid back posture and confidence, his flush reaches his ears. He has to look up to the stars again to sing in earnest. When the words come, there is no hesitation. Kaspar's untrained voice lilts across their rise and fall. It hardly matters that they aren't in the common language they share on the island, not with the depth of emotion he manages naturally. The atmosphere of the song reminds him of home, of the hope and love he'd once had. Somewhat lost, more than he'd realized before leaving home. Found again, here of all the otherworldly places he'd never imagined.
He goes on, effortlessly wielding the melodic vowels and more complicated consonant clusters of his native language like he was born to it. A complex language, lyrical and nuanced, Groscian developed on its own. Reformed and fractured into dialects only to unify again, all without outside influences. Distinct though it is from Earth languages, stretches of lyrics may sound vaguely Indo-European. Crystalized, meant for song and beauty and not the regime's idea of simplification.
The end of Kaspar's song trails off, welling eyes on the fire and ears hot, but the silence that follows it is serene. He'll speak again, once the echo of his music is done washing over him. ]
[The song feels like opening the windows to a new day. Even in a place like this, seemingly quiet and peaceful aside from the occasional strange effect or Goddess punishment or drinking game, it reminds him of a time long gone that he thinks was truly peaceful. A time where he didn't have to worry about what else he needed to sacrifice to put food on the table. A time where he didn't sit and wonder how many sins a man's soul could carry until he was broken into something else. A time where he could laugh and play with his siblings and be unaware of a future of blood and pain.]
[As much as he thinks he controls himself well, his face a perfect little mask for most of the world, he finds himself tearing up. He reaches up to dab at his eyes, trying to hide his face a little, but like Kaspar's blush, its hard to do so.]
.....That was... [He has to find words, voice cracking a little.] More beautiful than anything I could have imagined.
[ Kaspar remains quiet, letting the memory of the song reverberate through him in his repose. He'd never sung that out loud for anyone. The few songs he'd learned sounded lovely on the surface, meanings reimagined by current doctrine. What was true and what wasn't, what he'd believed was right or wrong. The compliment has him inhaling again, like the first breath of a new day, of consciousness after a dream.
He doesn't need to see the tears or see the motion to hide them. Not when he hears it in the crack of Steinbeck's voice. It is impulse, rawer emotions that has one strong arm seeking his shoulder to pull him gently in for comfort. Words are difficult. He has no idea what to say as a salve to a wound he feels he's opened somehow. Kaspar keeps his gaze on the fire, for he's sure he'll cry if he looks at him.
Physical affection is what he has most naturally. With no ulterior motives beyond holding him close and blinking back his own tears. Though Kaspar will not wilt or cry if Steinbeck rebuffs the entire effort; a solid warmth at his side either way. ]
[He's been through nonstop ordeals, has dealt with murder and violence and watching his partner twist the bones of grown men as if they were pretzels. He had to look his boss in the eye and play polite while carrying out orders that would make an average person sick to their stomach, and this, this, is what makes him break down into tears?]
[Nostalgia is a potent poison in its own right, and yet he indulges, and he can't help it. If he weren't as touched by everything from before with food and food conversation he may have pulled away. Now, though, he feels like his body is a weight, and he lets it fall against the other man in that embrace. Solid, and warm, truly. His own hand, after a moment, reaches out to pat the other's knee gently, eyes looking up to catch the other's face with a light huff of a sigh.]
Hey. Don't cry. I don't know what you've been through. But still...you're too nice to have to deal with it.
[ Kaspar looks down, catching those eyes with his own. He's strong enough to take his weight easily, with soft edges and cloth over muscle. At least, strong enough to carry dying men from the very tunnels that ate the last of his teenage years. And any true innocence he'd had left. His eyes still emanate light blue through the fracturing of unshed tears. He breathes a laugh, barely there. But the angle splits the illumination of his form. One half warm and wavering with the light of the fire, the other side a cool, dim glow like distant stars.
That side only flickers when he gives that laugh. And it continues when he speaks again, voice thick but unashamed. ]
[It really does make this feel like a dream, seeing the glow from Kaspar's eyes. Its like something fantastical one of his little sisters would make up on a whim, a dream destined to disappear with opening up eyes to reality.]
[He continues to lean against the man, and he laughs a breathless laugh, fingers squeezing the man's knee. Well, the emotion of it should say enough, but...]
[ Ah, the squeeze to his knee distracts him momentarily. He doesn't look away from Steinbeck. But he inhales subtly, selfishly soaking in the affection without a thought to moving it away. It takes him a beat too long to find the words. That wasn't what he'd meant, but he'd been so used to this happening for so long that he almost reacts like he normally would. ]
It... [ Usually, he'd go along with however he was misunderstood. But for once he swallows the rest of his translation and clarifies instead. ] ... I meant, you understood. Without even knowing.
[ His free hand shifts as he says it, slowly and easily stopped on its path for an approximation of where he thinks Steinbeck's heart should be. Though a moment later, it's already beginning its retreat. His voice is still heavy as it drifts without judgment-- ]
[He takes the clarification and dwells on it for a moment, gaze flickering away to the fire aa a spark alights over the pile of wood and disappears as quick as it came.]
That's the power of music, I think. No matter where you come from, what language its in...sometimes there's things that you always can understand.
[Something universal, perhaps, sitting within the voice of a single individual. He only manages to catch the movement of Kaspar's hand, and he doesn't stop it, only something bittersweet crossing his eyes as they narrow with a light smile.]
[Ah, you, you're reaching for something that's probably not there.]
[Regardles of his own thoughts, he lets out a hum, head tilting to knock against Kaspar's shoulder.]
Sure. If you want to explain it, I don't mind at all.
[ Kaspar leans his cheek against Steinbeck's head, hold on him becoming a loose loop as the hand at his heart drops. He curls toward him ever so slightly, as if anyone might overhear some kind of secret. Like he's sharing something important and meaningful. Somehow, he still manages to seem so damn calm. ]
It, used to be about, the glow worms that gather and flourish overhead in the older, larger caverns.
Stars still remind me of what I used to believe was their vastness. Individuals take turns so the colony never fully stops flickering throughout the whole day.
It's nothing like this world, opened up by the sun.
[ why does he sound so happy about that? It dries his tears and has him sighing softly. He goes on, if Steinbeck has patience once again. ]
... But the song says that, even though they have no eyes, they hear everything that happens beneath them. So no matter who you are, poor or ugly, none of it matters. They'd keep all your prayers and secrets just the same. And if you're lucky, you may get a sign in their flickering. You feel it in your soul.
They added to it, later...
[ He stops it short. But it's otherwise hard to tell that the next part leaves a sour taste in his mouth. Comfort in the present wholly wins out over the complicated feelings about home.
He goes peacefully silent, all worded out for the moment. It's a comfortable, warm quiet on his end. His gaze drifts to the fire again. Ever changing, the flames and the controlled destruction playing out before them keeps catching his attention. It's a newer smell somehow, this close to the flames and feeling suddenly closer to him. Would he ever get used to the feeling? He hopes not, for it's as exhilerating as it is terrifying, every time. Like leaping into the dark, relying on equipment and your own reflexes to keep yourself alive. Your skill as a sharpshooter to know how much slack you and every man with you needed to safely descend.
On the island, there's no danger to either of them for openly embracing like this. Yet it still feels selfish. Even if he'd forgiven himself for the things he cannot change. ]
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ninetydegrees
no subject
2023-01-19 18:15 (UTC)[ The skins, he means. But he is the natural type of cook to lead with his own tastes over the following of strict recipes, meaning edible finds from the forest or otherwise often make their way into his cooking.
Kaspar eats another rind before moving to set their container on Steinbeck's lap. Moving on to the second, he opens this one with some care. These look more like small meat pies, but there are only two. At least, these have more inside them than worms. Their edges are browned, still warm inside and out. Clearly, these are the culprits behind his slight tardiness.
He offers Steinbeck one with a napkin. It might be obvious by the way he says it that the words are just as new. ]
Have you, had game pie? This recipe, is new.
no subject
2023-01-20 02:53 (UTC)[Even if they are worms, which he hasn't realized, but...then again, he probably wouldn't care all too much. The earth provides all the food people needs, even if its creepy and crawly. (Not that he would go for worms over anything else, but...he would understand the inclination.)]
[He takes the container, curiously peering over at the new offering, before his eyes brighten, catching the glow from both Kaspar and the flames before them.]
Yeah, I have! I mean, probably not like, an official recipe or anything. [He says, grinning.] Ma and Pa would make pies sometimes like this if we caught something good. What game are they made of?
no subject
2023-01-20 03:32 (UTC)He's not sure beef and worms count for this, but he hadn't gotten to experimenting with anything else yet. The crust and consistency had been work enough so far. Airily, he answers with a question-- ]
... What does it taste like?
[ Kaspar takes a bite of his own, careful with the flaky crust. ]
no subject
2023-01-20 03:37 (UTC)Mm. You mean, this game pie? Or the ones we make at home? As far as the ones at home, we usually throw in vegetables in there with a nice sauce full of spices. Ma always liked it more plain, though, but I guess as far as taste its a bit more gritty than regular old meat you find at the market, along with whatever spices you wanted to throw in.
no subject
2023-01-20 04:30 (UTC)They might be similar to the rinds with worms as filler, but they do also have some beef in them from the grocery store. Some spices too, herbs from the forest, made it in the mix. Nothing like the sauce he describes. ]
... do you like them spicier?
no subject
2023-01-20 05:26 (UTC)[He chews more - its obvious he likes it, making sure to snack on some of those rinds from before between bites.]
On cold nights, maybe. But I think a pie well done is always nice, no matter if its sweet or savory or anything in between. I'm not picky. Though one of my sisters would fight me to the death for an apple pie. I tend to just leave her the last slice of them when we share because she's so cute.
no subject
2023-01-20 10:59 (UTC)There is a comfortable friendliness encouraged by the warmth of a shared meal and the crackling of fire broken only by he shift of wood as it slowly turns to ash. He looks over at Steinbeck just before leaning enough to gently bump shoulders. ]
Should I, bake you an apple pie?
no subject
2023-01-20 14:45 (UTC)[Sometimes it still feels like he has a soul.]
[He smiles, almost a little bashful, at the shoulder bump - he bumps the other back, cheekily.]
Aw, come on, you're doing way too much for me! But look, could I say no to that? I couldn't. I really need to make it up to you. Ain't right to sit there and not let the cook have a good time, too.
no subject
2023-01-20 15:21 (UTC)Why linger on what can't be helped? His brothers will live their lives the way they wish, with or without his presence. None of this stops the warmth from reaching his smile. It means something, to hear someone speak of their family like Steinbeck does.
He shakes his head, airily reassuring him. ]
Learning new recipes is a good time, I believe.
[ After another bite. ]
... Would you like to help?
no subject
2023-01-20 15:41 (UTC)As if I'd miss out on that. I'll even throw in a few pie tips, free of charge.
[And a hearty little laugh, blue eyes wide and excitable.]
You'll be the best apple pie cook by the time I'm done with you.
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2023-01-20 15:56 (UTC)His own little laugh mirrors Steinbeck's excitement in his own subdued way. With bright eyes and glow flickering happily-- ]
... I'd like that.
[ And back to eating again, licking at the flakes left on his lips from behind his hand. ]
no subject
2023-01-20 16:13 (UTC)You missed a spot. [He reaches over, as if its natural, to swipe at a flake on the other's chin with a thumb.] There we go. You really made a wonderful meal.
no subject
2023-01-20 16:38 (UTC)For things he cares about offering the world, words like those still resounds in his chest, deeper than he lets on. Others have shown their thanks here, and this feels like such a little thing that he doesn't get overly caught up in it. ]
And you made a wonderful campfire.
[ Kaspar says as he slides the basket away to join the untouched kettle at his side opposite Steinbeck. He hadn't thought the kettle through but it is just as well. Water and teabags sit untouched with no way to really set it over the fire properly.
He leans on him slightly to take the rind container if it is empty. If not, he's stealing one for himself. ]
no subject
2023-01-20 19:13 (UTC)[Because what is life, if not to rest back, close your eyes, and enjoy the simply things like this? A brilliant night, a crackling fire, a meal shared with one another.]
[He doesn't even protest as the man leans in, glancing at the kettle before tilting the rind container towards him, with a few still left. Take all you want, my man.]
Hey. So. What was that singing in front of a campfire, hm?
no subject
2023-01-20 19:33 (UTC)He covers his mouth when that question lowers his gaze back to Steinbeck. Kaspar swallows, arm falling to support his weight when he leans back. Ah, now he really is flushing a little, but there is no shame. Caught in the trap of his own drunken making.
But... it is just the two of them. ]
... what kind of songs do you like?
no subject
2023-01-21 00:20 (UTC)[He exhales a little, and even though the fire is blazing before him, his eyes are caught onto Kaspar's face, like a firefly onto a lantern in the darkness.]
I'm not picky, but...I do like a good ballad every now and then. I like songs that tell stories. Sometimes that's the best way to do it.
no subject
2023-01-21 07:59 (UTC)With a deep inhale, the sound begins in his chest. It builds to a soft hum before he braves a glance to Steinbeck. For all his laid back posture and confidence, his flush reaches his ears. He has to look up to the stars again to sing in earnest. When the words come, there is no hesitation. Kaspar's untrained voice lilts across their rise and fall. It hardly matters that they aren't in the common language they share on the island, not with the depth of emotion he manages naturally. The atmosphere of the song reminds him of home, of the hope and love he'd once had. Somewhat lost, more than he'd realized before leaving home. Found again, here of all the otherworldly places he'd never imagined.
He goes on, effortlessly wielding the melodic vowels and more complicated consonant clusters of his native language like he was born to it. A complex language, lyrical and nuanced, Groscian developed on its own. Reformed and fractured into dialects only to unify again, all without outside influences. Distinct though it is from Earth languages, stretches of lyrics may sound vaguely Indo-European. Crystalized, meant for song and beauty and not the regime's idea of simplification.
The end of Kaspar's song trails off, welling eyes on the fire and ears hot, but the silence that follows it is serene. He'll speak again, once the echo of his music is done washing over him. ]
no subject
2023-01-22 06:09 (UTC)[The song feels like opening the windows to a new day. Even in a place like this, seemingly quiet and peaceful aside from the occasional strange effect or Goddess punishment or drinking game, it reminds him of a time long gone that he thinks was truly peaceful. A time where he didn't have to worry about what else he needed to sacrifice to put food on the table. A time where he didn't sit and wonder how many sins a man's soul could carry until he was broken into something else. A time where he could laugh and play with his siblings and be unaware of a future of blood and pain.]
[As much as he thinks he controls himself well, his face a perfect little mask for most of the world, he finds himself tearing up. He reaches up to dab at his eyes, trying to hide his face a little, but like Kaspar's blush, its hard to do so.]
.....That was... [He has to find words, voice cracking a little.] More beautiful than anything I could have imagined.
no subject
2023-01-22 06:35 (UTC)He doesn't need to see the tears or see the motion to hide them. Not when he hears it in the crack of Steinbeck's voice. It is impulse, rawer emotions that has one strong arm seeking his shoulder to pull him gently in for comfort. Words are difficult. He has no idea what to say as a salve to a wound he feels he's opened somehow. Kaspar keeps his gaze on the fire, for he's sure he'll cry if he looks at him.
Physical affection is what he has most naturally. With no ulterior motives beyond holding him close and blinking back his own tears. Though Kaspar will not wilt or cry if Steinbeck rebuffs the entire effort; a solid warmth at his side either way. ]
no subject
2023-01-22 06:57 (UTC)[He's been through nonstop ordeals, has dealt with murder and violence and watching his partner twist the bones of grown men as if they were pretzels. He had to look his boss in the eye and play polite while carrying out orders that would make an average person sick to their stomach, and this, this, is what makes him break down into tears?]
[Nostalgia is a potent poison in its own right, and yet he indulges, and he can't help it. If he weren't as touched by everything from before with food and food conversation he may have pulled away. Now, though, he feels like his body is a weight, and he lets it fall against the other man in that embrace. Solid, and warm, truly. His own hand, after a moment, reaches out to pat the other's knee gently, eyes looking up to catch the other's face with a light huff of a sigh.]
Hey. Don't cry. I don't know what you've been through. But still...you're too nice to have to deal with it.
no subject
2023-01-22 07:12 (UTC)That side only flickers when he gives that laugh. And it continues when he speaks again, voice thick but unashamed. ]
... I didn't even tell you the translation.
[ Of the song. ]
no subject
2023-01-22 07:26 (UTC)[He continues to lean against the man, and he laughs a breathless laugh, fingers squeezing the man's knee. Well, the emotion of it should say enough, but...]
Then tell me. What does it mean?
no subject
2023-01-22 07:43 (UTC)It... [ Usually, he'd go along with however he was misunderstood. But for once he swallows the rest of his translation and clarifies instead. ] ... I meant, you understood. Without even knowing.
[ His free hand shifts as he says it, slowly and easily stopped on its path for an approximation of where he thinks Steinbeck's heart should be. Though a moment later, it's already beginning its retreat. His voice is still heavy as it drifts without judgment-- ]
I'll still tell you, if you'd like to know.
no subject
2023-01-22 14:00 (UTC)[He takes the clarification and dwells on it for a moment, gaze flickering away to the fire aa a spark alights over the pile of wood and disappears as quick as it came.]
That's the power of music, I think. No matter where you come from, what language its in...sometimes there's things that you always can understand.
[Something universal, perhaps, sitting within the voice of a single individual. He only manages to catch the movement of Kaspar's hand, and he doesn't stop it, only something bittersweet crossing his eyes as they narrow with a light smile.]
[Ah, you, you're reaching for something that's probably not there.]
[Regardles of his own thoughts, he lets out a hum, head tilting to knock against Kaspar's shoulder.]
Sure. If you want to explain it, I don't mind at all.
no subject
2023-01-22 15:27 (UTC)It, used to be about, the glow worms that gather and flourish overhead in the older, larger caverns.
Stars still remind me of what I used to believe was their vastness. Individuals take turns so the colony never fully stops flickering throughout the whole day.
It's nothing like this world, opened up by the sun.
[ why does he sound so happy about that? It dries his tears and has him sighing softly. He goes on, if Steinbeck has patience once again. ]
... But the song says that, even though they have no eyes, they hear everything that happens beneath them. So no matter who you are, poor or ugly, none of it matters. They'd keep all your prayers and secrets just the same. And if you're lucky, you may get a sign in their flickering. You feel it in your soul.
They added to it, later...
[ He stops it short. But it's otherwise hard to tell that the next part leaves a sour taste in his mouth. Comfort in the present wholly wins out over the complicated feelings about home.
He goes peacefully silent, all worded out for the moment. It's a comfortable, warm quiet on his end. His gaze drifts to the fire again. Ever changing, the flames and the controlled destruction playing out before them keeps catching his attention. It's a newer smell somehow, this close to the flames and feeling suddenly closer to him. Would he ever get used to the feeling? He hopes not, for it's as exhilerating as it is terrifying, every time. Like leaping into the dark, relying on equipment and your own reflexes to keep yourself alive. Your skill as a sharpshooter to know how much slack you and every man with you needed to safely descend.
On the island, there's no danger to either of them for openly embracing like this. Yet it still feels selfish. Even if he'd forgiven himself for the things he cannot change. ]
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bycw: past violent militaristic childhood mentions in here (also dont mind this unfinished icon orz)
bycw: self harm and suicide mention
byCw: some vague past homophobia
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byCw uhhhh nsfw now 🙈
bycampfire truly got some heat to it
byCw glowing bjs
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