closed.

[exequy]

WHO: Ilias, Isaac, Kostos, Leander
WHAT: Four mages stuck in a library (a bottle episode)
WHEN: Early Solace
WHERE: Outside Starkhaven
NOTES: Probably some violence at some point

Comments

[sarcophage]

[Not how that was meant to finish. It was supposed to be a new secret, a small defiance—of their own rules, this time—

Along with a glance to where he knows the door to be, his hand falls away to hover in familiar placation. Back to the eyes, then, appropriately sobered. (Not even the pale hint of a flush across his own cheeks.)]

Shhh, [don't draw their attention with this,] too far, I know. Just never mind. It never happened.

[libratus]

You know.

[ It's poor word choice. It's more than that. Leander had neatly stamped out the cigarette first; his hands are always so steady, and Ilias's are

pulling back further, pushing himself from the bench, its short leg rocking abruptly against stone. ]

I could have-- [ Twice now, leaning to breathe the same air like it wouldn't taste of blood. ] I should not have come to you. Not like this.

[ Hurting, careless. He curses under his breath. Eyes the door. ]

[sarcophage]

[He knows by the rejection, and it's pointless to argue it—he knows that, too. Sighs, eyes closing, hands and shoulders dropping into resignation, a transition still more difficult to make with Ilias than anyone else. (Don't resent that. Cherish it.)

When they open, Leander is still there, but the contact is fleeting: he severs it with a smooth turn of his head. Level chin, eyes down. Injured but culpable. There's nothing he can say to recover, not without compromising his pride, so he says nothing.]

[libratus]

[ For sake of both of their pride, Ilias is grateful for that -- the absence of an opportunity to do or say anything else he'll regret, in this suddenly too-cramped corner of this mildewing, Maker-forsaken library.

He shakes his head and turns, making for the door. If he can just get some damned space to breathe and think for a minute maybe he can stop ruining absolutely everything he touches.

Wishful thinking, as it happens. ]

[sarcophage]

[Wishful thinking, all of it.

Leander lifts the half-cigarillo from the bench, scoots closer to the window, and pinches lightly at the ash until it becomes an ember. Wipes at the water on the sill with his free hand and flicks it to the floor, and again, and leans down long enough to sigh smoke through the crack.

Frustration pinches at him, too: the same old cinders. So much effort wasted on being sociable. Let them all cram themselves in the hallway, then, while he's the one left with the space to simmer in his thoughts. What Ilias fled wasn't meant to become anything more than a kiss—another facet of the familiarity they've already shared—

It's real, then.

Was.

Is.

Some sort of commotion at the door; he sits there, listening, indifferent.]