[...So the drink turned into a little memorial, in the end. Not the intended result in the least, really, and there's a brief but very odd feeling in hearing that answer--maybe in the way Caelus phrases it, that little pause there, like there's something genuine in the vague regret of it. Luocha will not examine this further, even if in a way it does feel like a microcosm that's a bit too representative...of how things have panned out, at this point. Caelus's earnest inclinations always had been a point of fascination to observe, rare as the quality is to come by. But that same honest tendency is even more of a double-edged blade now, in the way it colors his words and actions here. The way ulterior motives can no longer be readily assumed, which means that what remains...is sentiment. That Luocha cannot afford to get entangled in, not even one-sidedly.
By comparison, the undertone of animosity that finally starts emerging as Caelus continues is almost reassuring to pick up. Even if it does not bode well--even if none of this bodes well at all, really--the Stellaron's muted hum so close behind his head, the casual bent that persists in Caelus's words despite the goading. The hands that won't stop touching--
Thumbs press against the back of his neck, playing on the tension there, a little painful and not the right kind of pain. The knee-jerk response that wants to form, independent of thought, sits somewhere between wincing and pushing back into the harsh but relieving pressure; Luocha manages to resist exhibiting either, tightly as he still holds to his self-control, sitting up a little straighter in the seat and nothing more. ...But then Caelus is leaning in, the warmth of his body over Luocha's shoulder a sharp contrast to the coolness of the cell this close, the Stellaron's predatory purr all the clearer. Hot breath in his ear, an inevitable prickle of sensation. Luocha reflexively leans away slightly, from Caelus's deceptively sweet mouth and the coarser words spoken from it. A breath leaves him a little more sharply than it should have, half a scoff, half something else. Cracks, at last, in the placid facade.]
I did tell you that the choice was yours. [Just as it had been Luocha's choice in turn, to indulge him in the end. Really, the blame distributes about equally here--if any of this were about blame to begin with. Which it isn't. That much is clear...but the question is now what remains, if not blame. There is the beginning of a suspicion forming, under the press of those too-clever fingers on his neck...though giving it water would mean a lot of things. Does he really plan to...?] Am I also to be flattered that you liked it, horrible idea that it was?
[Sometimes he wishes he could mute his own guesswork.]
...Just what are you planning to do in here, then, if you'll seek neither answers nor a way to vent any frustrations? You haven't many options here, you realize.
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By comparison, the undertone of animosity that finally starts emerging as Caelus continues is almost reassuring to pick up. Even if it does not bode well--even if none of this bodes well at all, really--the Stellaron's muted hum so close behind his head, the casual bent that persists in Caelus's words despite the goading. The hands that won't stop touching--
Thumbs press against the back of his neck, playing on the tension there, a little painful and not the right kind of pain. The knee-jerk response that wants to form, independent of thought, sits somewhere between wincing and pushing back into the harsh but relieving pressure; Luocha manages to resist exhibiting either, tightly as he still holds to his self-control, sitting up a little straighter in the seat and nothing more. ...But then Caelus is leaning in, the warmth of his body over Luocha's shoulder a sharp contrast to the coolness of the cell this close, the Stellaron's predatory purr all the clearer. Hot breath in his ear, an inevitable prickle of sensation. Luocha reflexively leans away slightly, from Caelus's deceptively sweet mouth and the coarser words spoken from it. A breath leaves him a little more sharply than it should have, half a scoff, half something else. Cracks, at last, in the placid facade.]
I did tell you that the choice was yours. [Just as it had been Luocha's choice in turn, to indulge him in the end. Really, the blame distributes about equally here--if any of this were about blame to begin with. Which it isn't. That much is clear...but the question is now what remains, if not blame. There is the beginning of a suspicion forming, under the press of those too-clever fingers on his neck...though giving it water would mean a lot of things. Does he really plan to...?] Am I also to be flattered that you liked it, horrible idea that it was?
[Sometimes he wishes he could mute his own guesswork.]
...Just what are you planning to do in here, then, if you'll seek neither answers nor a way to vent any frustrations? You haven't many options here, you realize.