gather jewels from graveyards | closed

[wythersake]

WHO: Isaac + Lexie, Leander
WHAT: Threads 4 the month
WHEN: Now-ish
WHERE: Kirkwall
NOTES: just hmu on plurk if you want a starter

Comments

[sarcophage]

"I can't remember." It's only halfway a joke. If he had something in mind for this meeting, any specific reason to connect with a stranger based on just a few words exchanged, it wasn't this. (His objection to the crystals, though, that part's true.) "Mustn't have been important."

Leander probably, almost certainly, definitely doesn't need to lean quite so close to Isaac to return the cigarette. They both have arms capable of extending, proven only moments ago. And yet.

A curious frown bunches between his eyebrows—not a bad one. The ghost of a smile still lingers below. "Is that you or the garden? That planty scent."

Planty, herbal, some other adult-sounding word. Oh well. His bare chin's already dug that hole, might as well hop into it.

[wythersake]

Planty. That startles a laugh, a cough about smoke. Isaac plucks the cigarette from between his lips; doesn’t lean away to tap it toward grass.

"Dreadful, isn’t it." Overdone, maybe; particularly this close. The air’s cold, breath’s warmer. "But it’s this or the Infirmary."

Soap can’t always ease the stain of blood and bowels. Or worse (more frequent), cats.

[sarcophage]

The Infirmary, is it—that's interesting. Intriguing, even. It's also a line of thought that forks dramatically away from this pleasant path they've come to wander, and while he does enjoy a good blood and bowel story as much as the next charming weirdo, now is perhaps not the time. But since he laughed—

"I don't mind it." Now is, perhaps, the time to slip his finger under a hem, somewhere not too familiar (the front of a shoulder, or a center button line) and trail it along to sample the texture of Isaac's outermost layer. "Moths, though—they must find you very intimidating."

Sampling over, and nary a moth-hole was discovered. His reward: a few light victory pats and the cheekiest look.

[wythersake]

"As they ought." His voice lilts clownish, self-aware: "Daresay I could pin a flighty thing."

It's not cheap stitching (his shoulder, the sleeve); it clearly isn't new. Dark to hide stains, thick to hide a shiver — to allow his attention to track that line of contact with more languid affect. But if that's the game they're playing,

Isaac leans back. Blithely, disentangled:

"Of course, it's never moths by daylight."

[sarcophage]

In the arcane language of eyebrows: You could, eh? Leander turns in his seat, hooks his elbow over the back of the bench and laces his fingers together between the two of them. Thusly prepared, he lifts his chin just so, doesn't quite look down his (slightly crooked) nose.

"What, then? If not a moth. Tell me."

Go on. Tell him what he is.