[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. ]
[He's noticed from the beginning how quiet Kaspar's voice can go. He never commented on it. His work partner at home could barely be understood at times with how he mumbled, and he never minded. He'd never call it out. But here, it feels a little different - in the quiet night, with both of them here in this vulnerable embrace, and no one to witness or watch, its as if they're the last two people in the world and they're saying things that may never be heard by another person again.]
[He listens as Kaspar talks about the glow worms - he idly wonders if the glow worms, perhaps, have something to do with the nature of the man's skin - and his gaze becomes a little more distant. So no matter who you are, poor or ugly, none of it matters..]
[It really...shouldn't matter. And yet, in a world like his, where money is power, where people tell others to do horrific things such as murder, or torture, where people are born into circumstances they can't control, can a sentiment like that truly exist?]
[Kaspar falls into silence, and Steinbeck lets it hang for a moment. A shift of his arm, and he's moved it from the man's knees to surrounding his torso, lightly, to complete the embrace. His head still rests against the other's shoulder, holding him, like a drowning man momentarily finding hold onto an anchor. His blue eyes are bright and yet somewhere lost all the same.]
I still pray to God. [He murmurs, finally.] But I think I've given up a long time ago that He would hear me out.
[A small admission, but its piercing all the same. He's grown up with faith. That faith feels like an albatross around his shoulders, now.]
I think its nice, though. To want someone to look after you. Stars. Glow worms, too. [He sighs, heavy, fingers stretching, gripping again.] Someone's out there, listening.
[ Kaspar is silent, but present in every sense. He listens until the words also run dry for the man in his arms. His embrace tightens instinctively, protectively at the feel of gripping fingers at his side. Strength, the duality of a man raised at odds with his nature. Kaspar relaxes again.
The song had become warped as the ideas of those that sang it shifted. Less about the things that actually mattered and more the sins and the crimes of thought alone. Neighbors turning on neighbors in fear of that which they might never understand. Using the plight of the poor and disenfranchised, whose very existence was a symptom of the callousness of the rich. The church was richer than anyone now. No one starves, yet many still die. All sides had their ugliness steeped in history. Their beauty too.
Kaspar had no choice but to grow up in faith. And he never truly ceased believing, even before being reinforced by their circumstances. His belief is personal, internally well formed and lending his next words a deep and unshakeable confidence. Faith. Its roots run deep in him, a grounding yet rarely revealed presence buried beneath the soft yet stable earth of his soul.
These words are pillars, unlike most from Kaspar. ]
... Had your God or mine completely forsaken us, they would not have given our souls leave to be here.
[ He pauses, before an admission of his own. His voice has gone soft again, but there is no less confidence in it. ]
I prayed for change. I believe, this place an answer.
[God gave permission for his soul to relax here, in a place like this? His eyes narrow, pensive and dark - it doesn't quite feel like that. It feels like a joke. He was doing all that he could to make up for his mistakes, set things right, go after the very man who pushed and prodded him into becoming the worst kind of monster. To be here feels like thorns under his skin, more insidious than the vines that can literally grow there. His grapes are kind. His own restless agitation, eating away at him at the thought of things left unfinished, is not.]
[But its a good thought, he supposes. A kind, sincere thought. It could be worse.]
[It could be hell. A place that he deserves, at the end of the road, burning up his worthless soul into ash and flame, not unlike the wood that crackles and disintegrates in front of them now.]
[The last admission makes him abandon his own worrisome thoughts - enough about him. Here's a man who has found something here, perhaps, an anchor to latch onto to move forward. He'll rest his own thoughts on that, one of his thumbs moving in a small circle before resting.]
[I can't find any form of salvation, but maybe you-]
[ Kaspar can't see Steinbeck's expression at this angle, but he feels it again, in the silence after he speaks. Unintentionally pressing in those thorns, his hold tightens, as if he might hold the other man closely enough to rip them out with gentle force through his skin to Kaspar's. A fittingly bloody mess for two murderers.
With a sigh, his hold loosens again, relaxing into him. It's difficult not to be honest, with all he's been through since coming here. How much he's learned, about himself, the universe, and it's more than he'd ever hoped life would be for him. Change. Constant adventure, learning, and growing.
He has to consider it, filling the moments with one hand sliding to Steinbeck's hair to thread in it affectionately as he speaks. The uncertainty doesn't seem to faze him at all. ]
... Being here alone is, answer enough to all of my prayers. [ He means it, but draws breath like he is going to on only to pause again, before-- ] Having people to care about, was relegated to dreams.
[ And yet, he's never been so far away from crying. Eyes dry but suddenly more tired at their edges. ]
If I discover more of the answer, I suppose I'll only know it once I am there.
[Kaspar's embrace pulls him in. There's a part of Steinbeck that wants to fiercely push him away, so self-loathing that a gesture like that seems anathema to his being. He doesn't deserve this. He wouldn't deserve this. Choose someone better, someone less wrapped in their own flaws and problems to the point of cracking.]
[But even as the urge comes up like bile in his throat, the hand to his head stills him, makes his eyes widen. And like instinct, he leans into it, a dying plant desperate for light. Ah, that's what it is, isn't it? Here he is, the insidious weed, hearing the lament of the moon wanting to be sun and wanting to tell him that the light that shines is still worthy, still needed.]
[The corner of his mouth quirks, a momentary smile.]
I'm sure you won't be lacking when it comes to people to find to care about. [A beat - he raises his hand up, hesitant, before brushing up in those light curls of hair at the back of his neck.] Though the opposite is true, too. I think your cup will overflow with people who will care about you.
[It feels like a hidden admission, personal - how odd, he thinks, that he could even feel that way for a practical stranger. But the circumstances are special, and his soul hangs bare, and it feels like something he can't simply ignore and move on from so easily, even if he wanted to.]
[ There aren't any words needed. Steinbeck's movements say more than his mouth is willing or able to admit. Yet Kaspar sees no need in forcing things that already feel so naturally understood. A look in someone's eyes, a caress, or the way their shoulders lean, can say so much more. Communicating need or feeling with touch is as simple for Kaspar as the unconditional, undemanding affection he offers those he wishes to envelop within it. The language is Kaspar's second, with all the complexities and nuance he sometimes wishes he could translate into words. Speaking them would still feel hollow when trying to describe why the lean of Steinbeck's head into his hand makes his chest ache for him instinctively.
Kaspar's fingers mirror Steinbeck's, trailing down to the other man's neck only to card back up his nape, clean nails grazing up into his hair. Kaspar's eyelids flutter as the touch to his own neck raises goose bumps and wavers his glow to pulsing slowly. Loving and gentle, Kaspar's touch belies his strength, even in the firmer press of calloused fingers; a reminder that Steinbeck is revered, important. And not fragile or broken. At least to him.
The words too, Kaspar somehow hears over the indulgences of their embrace. They have him humming, a sound felt more than heard in his throat. Some might care about him in the end. Many won't. His own beat of warm silence and caring fingers, before he admits--- ]
... I have, found people to care about.
[ Another, subtler, squeeze has his fingers curling into Steinbeck slightly. So often, people think him an idiot, slow moving at his own pace, strange, or too laid back. The habit of keeping many thoughts to himself usually persists. Especially in the swiftness with which these came on. But the open vulnerability between them while Kaspar holds someone he now cares for is what ultimately eases the words.
These are the softest ones he's spoken all night, simple and undemanding: ]
[Hands say a lot about a person. He's noticed that over and over, through the years. The hands of the elite, the rich men, the powerful ones, were more often than not unblemished and perfect. Too perfect. It almost made him sick. Men who never worked hard a day in their life, dictating other's lives from behind a desk with a flick of a wrist.]
[The fact that Kaspar's hands, in comparison, are calloused, makes him feel warm. His own hands are rough from years of farm work, dotted with miniscule scars from fights and self-injury for the sake of his power. Kaspar's hands being similar reassures him - it feels like glancing at someone across a bar and meeting their eyes as they look at you.]
[You and I, we're alike, aren't we?]
[A healthy blush settles in his cheeks, moving up to his ears, more warm than the fire in front of them. And at the man's last statement, a smile crinkles over his distant, pensive face, attention resting on Kaspar's face like a bee on a flower.]
Come on. [His own hand slides to tickle behind Kaspar's ear. He needs to reemphasizewhat he said before. Perhaps tomorrow he would wake up at home, consider it a dream, but even with his own tendency for self-destruction and denial, he wouldn't let go of an opportunity like this. Something genuine, a fire to stoke the endless night. He wouldn't deny himself that. He wouldn't deny Kaspar that.] I'm already there, silly.
[ There was no erasing the years of combat from Kaspar's body either, aged as the worst scars are now. He still relishes the rarer spots of softness. Refugees like the tenderer parts of his soul, they eked out a gentle survival beside the rougher. Cuts, blood losss, the force of unforgiving strikes, Kaspar was pushed to his physical limits from a young age for his country, his parents, his brothers, for Orm himself and for the blessed Avus whose rings he'd kissed; a state sanctioned childhood smeared with structured, controlled violence, blood, and enough pain for his light to develop by force.
He learned as a child, how to let the scariest and most violent memories slip away like blood stained grains of sand between his fingers. Flashes of blurry color viewed through foggy glass as Kaspar turns his focus toward the future. Not that his body could ever truly forget the hardships; complicating his relationship with pain and touch. It only intertwined it forever with feeling wanted, needed, and loved for more than his ability to bring swift ends in dark depths.
So it is far more than Steinbeck's smile that keeps him in the present. Yet the way he looks at Kaspar, makes it even easier to naturally float above it all. His warm presence is a salve, a bandage-- only ruined, affectionately, by the tickle to his ear. It sparks a laugh from Kaspar, fuller like he just fell on a slide slicked with lube. The bright, warm amusement makes it easy to miss the slight shiver that precedes it.
Kaspar's eyes well again with relief at the confirmation. His hand moves to slide his along the back of Steinbeck's. Aiming to hold it there against him, sandwiched between flushed warmth while he seeks words that never come. It lingers, just like his eyes upon Steinbeck's, until he gives his thanks in the best way he can express it in the moment. He returns the smile. Without breaking eye contact, he turns his head slightly enough to press his lips blindly to the palm of Steinbeck's hand. ]
edited (proooobably a cw is warranted actually) 2023-01-23 14:12 (UTC)
[Oh, bodies that are used to pain and hardship - Steinbeck knows that intimately. Once upon a time, he told a young child (crying, pleading, asking "why is it me" when it came to a horrific ability that was ingrained to the core) a few very simple things.]
["The reason you suffer is because you were born as you".]
["Since you were born with this kind of ability, things can only end this way for you".]
["God exists, He just doesn't love you".]
[And of course, but of course, it was about him too. An ability that requires him to gouge out wounds and slash necks and arms and legs, to bury in grape seeds and let them take root in an atrocity of a body. Plants are lovely things, seeking life and warmth. In the end, this body is substrate for better things. Maybe one day, he should go down to the valley, slit his throat, and let himself be fertilizer for the barren land.]
[He's entertained the idea. Not seriously, but how nice it is, a twisted thought of letting a final act on earth be one that provides, instead of takes.]
[The laugh makes him twist up his mouth in a barely restrained grin of his own. He supposes this isn't on the same level as giving his body for greenery, but letting a smile grow in that soft face should be reward enough. The kiss to his palm makes a little stirring of heat move through his chest. He exhales, low, letting the sensation settle of gentle lips against hard skin. He aims a bashful smile at the man, before he shifts his body a little closer, leaning his head up to press a light kiss against the man's ear.]
Mm. [A murmur as he presses his nose against the man's cheek, chest heaving a little with a breathless chuckle.] It's like I'm holding a star.
[ Those words would've echoed for Kaspar at his darkest moments. Had he known war before he met it, he wouldn't have marched to eagerly into it. He went, because he was raised and primed for it his whole life and there was never a choice. He could see that clearly now, in useless hindsight.
His strength had been a blessing, then a curse. Under his own control, now it simply is. The ringing of the bells no longer dictates the rhythm of his demoted, mundane existence. With no new letters from his family, and no second loves. The solitary depths of his own imagination, vivid daydreams and curiosity kept him sane, alive, repressed. Moments like this, the kind to quicken his pulse and send sparks down his spine used to scare him. They were enticing, what his senses longed for most when alone. Selfishly.
He no longer feels the ghost of the deep and gutting pain at the sight of a lover's beaten face. Not even a thought of it sprang free at the feel of lips against his on this island. A reflied as death had been a price too steep for Kaspar to pay for unmarried kisses back home. Untouched for so long, his sensitive ears only flush darker with even just that light touch of lips.
Kaspar's breath catches, becoming an almost laugh. He keeps his hold, pressing the hand in his once again to lips made soft from his own daily efforts. One part of his body reclaimed; a small yet pillowy contrast to the palm, fingers, and wrist that Kaspar moves to brush feather light kisses along. Starved, calloused skin catches like benevolent nettles, needy and pulling.
Kaspar pauses, before turning his head towards Steinbeck's just so. He bumps their noses with the confidence of old lovers, if allowed. Light blue glow half shuttered by half lidded eyes, illuminating them both, Kaspar does not rush to words or movement.
Even when riding on raw feelings and impulse, when the subtle lick of lips is too close, he halts on the edge without peering over it. As if he fully trusts the cliff he stands upon. ]
Would you... like to be kissed by one?
edited (Someday I'll remember to change the title ...) 2023-01-23 18:10 (UTC)
[What is there to say about the past when it came to intertwining with others? Not much, Steinbeck thinks - to be solitary on his self-imposed journey, tied up in the whims and orders of a man above all, seemed to just be his only lot in life. Of course, there had been his constant stalwart, gloomy partner, but even as fond of the man as he was, Steinbeck wouldn't ask more of him. Life on a daily basis had already tired too much out of that man (or...whatever he was, deep-sea dweller and all), and Steinbeck wasn't selfish enough to prod for more. Whatever he got was quick physical fixes, and even then those were rare to begin with.]
[So something like this, with embraces before a flame, and lips pressing against the scarred rough skin of his hand, like signatures, feels like something altogether new. It's terrifying. It's exciting. He can't resist it. Steinbeck lets out a short, restrained little exhale at the ticklish sensation. Something drops, like a warm spark, into the bottom of his chest, sinking deeper.]
[He feels drunk. And yet there's not a drop of alcohol in his body, he knows that. Perhaps this man is his drink, a warm, bright swallow on a dark evening, and as Kaspar presses his nose against his, the hand around the man's body grips and pulls him closer. His fingers clasp around the nape of the other's neck, supporting him, keeping him steady.]
Ha. [His breath is hot against the man's lips, eyelashes fluttering like restless butterflies. His voice, usually chipper, cheerful, comes out in a low tone, a pleased purr of a whisper.] As if I'd say no.
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ninetydegrees
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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. ]
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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.
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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. ]
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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.
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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. ]
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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?
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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.
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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.
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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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2023-01-22 17:40 (UTC)[He listens as Kaspar talks about the glow worms - he idly wonders if the glow worms, perhaps, have something to do with the nature of the man's skin - and his gaze becomes a little more distant. So no matter who you are, poor or ugly, none of it matters..]
[It really...shouldn't matter. And yet, in a world like his, where money is power, where people tell others to do horrific things such as murder, or torture, where people are born into circumstances they can't control, can a sentiment like that truly exist?]
[Kaspar falls into silence, and Steinbeck lets it hang for a moment. A shift of his arm, and he's moved it from the man's knees to surrounding his torso, lightly, to complete the embrace. His head still rests against the other's shoulder, holding him, like a drowning man momentarily finding hold onto an anchor. His blue eyes are bright and yet somewhere lost all the same.]
I still pray to God. [He murmurs, finally.] But I think I've given up a long time ago that He would hear me out.
[A small admission, but its piercing all the same. He's grown up with faith. That faith feels like an albatross around his shoulders, now.]
I think its nice, though. To want someone to look after you. Stars. Glow worms, too. [He sighs, heavy, fingers stretching, gripping again.] Someone's out there, listening.
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2023-01-22 22:53 (UTC)The song had become warped as the ideas of those that sang it shifted. Less about the things that actually mattered and more the sins and the crimes of thought alone. Neighbors turning on neighbors in fear of that which they might never understand. Using the plight of the poor and disenfranchised, whose very existence was a symptom of the callousness of the rich. The church was richer than anyone now. No one starves, yet many still die. All sides had their ugliness steeped in history. Their beauty too.
Kaspar had no choice but to grow up in faith. And he never truly ceased believing, even before being reinforced by their circumstances. His belief is personal, internally well formed and lending his next words a deep and unshakeable confidence. Faith. Its roots run deep in him, a grounding yet rarely revealed presence buried beneath the soft yet stable earth of his soul.
These words are pillars, unlike most from Kaspar. ]
... Had your God or mine completely forsaken us, they would not have given our souls leave to be here.
[ He pauses, before an admission of his own. His voice has gone soft again, but there is no less confidence in it. ]
I prayed for change. I believe, this place an answer.
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2023-01-22 23:32 (UTC)[But its a good thought, he supposes. A kind, sincere thought. It could be worse.]
[It could be hell. A place that he deserves, at the end of the road, burning up his worthless soul into ash and flame, not unlike the wood that crackles and disintegrates in front of them now.]
[The last admission makes him abandon his own worrisome thoughts - enough about him. Here's a man who has found something here, perhaps, an anchor to latch onto to move forward. He'll rest his own thoughts on that, one of his thumbs moving in a small circle before resting.]
[I can't find any form of salvation, but maybe you-]
...What sort of answer are you looking for?
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2023-01-23 07:15 (UTC)With a sigh, his hold loosens again, relaxing into him. It's difficult not to be honest, with all he's been through since coming here. How much he's learned, about himself, the universe, and it's more than he'd ever hoped life would be for him. Change. Constant adventure, learning, and growing.
He has to consider it, filling the moments with one hand sliding to Steinbeck's hair to thread in it affectionately as he speaks. The uncertainty doesn't seem to faze him at all. ]
... Being here alone is, answer enough to all of my prayers. [ He means it, but draws breath like he is going to on only to pause again, before-- ] Having people to care about, was relegated to dreams.
[ And yet, he's never been so far away from crying. Eyes dry but suddenly more tired at their edges. ]
If I discover more of the answer, I suppose I'll only know it once I am there.
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2023-01-23 09:39 (UTC)[But even as the urge comes up like bile in his throat, the hand to his head stills him, makes his eyes widen. And like instinct, he leans into it, a dying plant desperate for light. Ah, that's what it is, isn't it? Here he is, the insidious weed, hearing the lament of the moon wanting to be sun and wanting to tell him that the light that shines is still worthy, still needed.]
[The corner of his mouth quirks, a momentary smile.]
I'm sure you won't be lacking when it comes to people to find to care about. [A beat - he raises his hand up, hesitant, before brushing up in those light curls of hair at the back of his neck.] Though the opposite is true, too. I think your cup will overflow with people who will care about you.
[It feels like a hidden admission, personal - how odd, he thinks, that he could even feel that way for a practical stranger. But the circumstances are special, and his soul hangs bare, and it feels like something he can't simply ignore and move on from so easily, even if he wanted to.]
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2023-01-23 11:16 (UTC)Kaspar's fingers mirror Steinbeck's, trailing down to the other man's neck only to card back up his nape, clean nails grazing up into his hair. Kaspar's eyelids flutter as the touch to his own neck raises goose bumps and wavers his glow to pulsing slowly. Loving and gentle, Kaspar's touch belies his strength, even in the firmer press of calloused fingers; a reminder that Steinbeck is revered, important. And not fragile or broken. At least to him.
The words too, Kaspar somehow hears over the indulgences of their embrace. They have him humming, a sound felt more than heard in his throat. Some might care about him in the end. Many won't. His own beat of warm silence and caring fingers, before he admits--- ]
... I have, found people to care about.
[ Another, subtler, squeeze has his fingers curling into Steinbeck slightly. So often, people think him an idiot, slow moving at his own pace, strange, or too laid back. The habit of keeping many thoughts to himself usually persists. Especially in the swiftness with which these came on. But the open vulnerability between them while Kaspar holds someone he now cares for is what ultimately eases the words.
These are the softest ones he's spoken all night, simple and undemanding: ]
Even if they are not always in my cup.
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2023-01-23 11:51 (UTC)[The fact that Kaspar's hands, in comparison, are calloused, makes him feel warm. His own hands are rough from years of farm work, dotted with miniscule scars from fights and self-injury for the sake of his power. Kaspar's hands being similar reassures him - it feels like glancing at someone across a bar and meeting their eyes as they look at you.]
[You and I, we're alike, aren't we?]
[A healthy blush settles in his cheeks, moving up to his ears, more warm than the fire in front of them. And at the man's last statement, a smile crinkles over his distant, pensive face, attention resting on Kaspar's face like a bee on a flower.]
Come on. [His own hand slides to tickle behind Kaspar's ear. He needs to reemphasizewhat he said before. Perhaps tomorrow he would wake up at home, consider it a dream, but even with his own tendency for self-destruction and denial, he wouldn't let go of an opportunity like this. Something genuine, a fire to stoke the endless night. He wouldn't deny himself that. He wouldn't deny Kaspar that.] I'm already there, silly.
cw: past violent militaristic childhood mentions in here (also dont mind this unfinished icon orz)
2023-01-23 13:40 (UTC)He learned as a child, how to let the scariest and most violent memories slip away like blood stained grains of sand between his fingers. Flashes of blurry color viewed through foggy glass as Kaspar turns his focus toward the future. Not that his body could ever truly forget the hardships; complicating his relationship with pain and touch. It only intertwined it forever with feeling wanted, needed, and loved for more than his ability to bring swift ends in dark depths.
So it is far more than Steinbeck's smile that keeps him in the present. Yet the way he looks at Kaspar, makes it even easier to naturally float above it all. His warm presence is a salve, a bandage-- only ruined, affectionately, by the tickle to his ear. It sparks a laugh from Kaspar, fuller like he just fell on a slide slicked with lube. The bright, warm amusement makes it easy to miss the slight shiver that precedes it.
Kaspar's eyes well again with relief at the confirmation. His hand moves to slide his along the back of Steinbeck's. Aiming to hold it there against him, sandwiched between flushed warmth while he seeks words that never come. It lingers, just like his eyes upon Steinbeck's, until he gives his thanks in the best way he can express it in the moment. He returns the smile. Without breaking eye contact, he turns his head slightly enough to press his lips blindly to the palm of Steinbeck's hand. ]
cw: self harm and suicide mention
2023-01-23 15:38 (UTC)["The reason you suffer is because you were born as you".]
["Since you were born with this kind of ability, things can only end this way for you".]
["God exists, He just doesn't love you".]
[And of course, but of course, it was about him too. An ability that requires him to gouge out wounds and slash necks and arms and legs, to bury in grape seeds and let them take root in an atrocity of a body. Plants are lovely things, seeking life and warmth. In the end, this body is substrate for better things. Maybe one day, he should go down to the valley, slit his throat, and let himself be fertilizer for the barren land.]
[He's entertained the idea. Not seriously, but how nice it is, a twisted thought of letting a final act on earth be one that provides, instead of takes.]
[The laugh makes him twist up his mouth in a barely restrained grin of his own. He supposes this isn't on the same level as giving his body for greenery, but letting a smile grow in that soft face should be reward enough. The kiss to his palm makes a little stirring of heat move through his chest. He exhales, low, letting the sensation settle of gentle lips against hard skin. He aims a bashful smile at the man, before he shifts his body a little closer, leaning his head up to press a light kiss against the man's ear.]
Mm. [A murmur as he presses his nose against the man's cheek, chest heaving a little with a breathless chuckle.] It's like I'm holding a star.
Cw: some vague past homophobia
2023-01-23 17:44 (UTC)His strength had been a blessing, then a curse. Under his own control, now it simply is. The ringing of the bells no longer dictates the rhythm of his demoted, mundane existence. With no new letters from his family, and no second loves. The solitary depths of his own imagination, vivid daydreams and curiosity kept him sane, alive, repressed. Moments like this, the kind to quicken his pulse and send sparks down his spine used to scare him. They were enticing, what his senses longed for most when alone. Selfishly.
He no longer feels the ghost of the deep and gutting pain at the sight of a lover's beaten face. Not even a thought of it sprang free at the feel of lips against his on this island. A reflied as death had been a price too steep for Kaspar to pay for unmarried kisses back home. Untouched for so long, his sensitive ears only flush darker with even just that light touch of lips.
Kaspar's breath catches, becoming an almost laugh. He keeps his hold, pressing the hand in his once again to lips made soft from his own daily efforts. One part of his body reclaimed; a small yet pillowy contrast to the palm, fingers, and wrist that Kaspar moves to brush feather light kisses along. Starved, calloused skin catches like benevolent nettles, needy and pulling.
Kaspar pauses, before turning his head towards Steinbeck's just so. He bumps their noses with the confidence of old lovers, if allowed. Light blue glow half shuttered by half lidded eyes, illuminating them both, Kaspar does not rush to words or movement.
Even when riding on raw feelings and impulse, when the subtle lick of lips is too close, he halts on the edge without peering over it. As if he fully trusts the cliff he stands upon. ]
Would you... like to be kissed by one?
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2023-01-23 18:29 (UTC)[So something like this, with embraces before a flame, and lips pressing against the scarred rough skin of his hand, like signatures, feels like something altogether new. It's terrifying. It's exciting. He can't resist it. Steinbeck lets out a short, restrained little exhale at the ticklish sensation. Something drops, like a warm spark, into the bottom of his chest, sinking deeper.]
[He feels drunk. And yet there's not a drop of alcohol in his body, he knows that. Perhaps this man is his drink, a warm, bright swallow on a dark evening, and as Kaspar presses his nose against his, the hand around the man's body grips and pulls him closer. His fingers clasp around the nape of the other's neck, supporting him, keeping him steady.]
Ha. [His breath is hot against the man's lips, eyelashes fluttering like restless butterflies. His voice, usually chipper, cheerful, comes out in a low tone, a pleased purr of a whisper.] As if I'd say no.
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byCw uhhhh nsfw now 🙈
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