The flicker of surprise at the shift in contact comes and goes, barely muddying any first impression. Bastien is, apparently, as entitled to the clasp of hands as he had been to the hook of arms. Ellis' hand is still cold; he had been provided with buttery-soft leather gloves because the attendants at the stores Gwenaëlle selected had been thorough, but said gloves had been left on a table, perhaps still in their tissue-paper packaging. Bastien's hands are warm, and Ellis sees no reason to break his grip as they stand together, looking at the opulence of the room and all things collected inside it.
And so Bastien is entitled to the pulse-beat of emotion rising to meet him from Ellis' palm, as long as he cares to observe it.
It is not unlike dipping fingers into an ocean-fed lake. The impression of stillness at that first touch, placid and calm. Quiet. Bastien's touch sends out ripples. Stirs silt up to meet the clasp of his hand.
Here, the closest to the surface, easily marked: yes, Ellis is impressed. And he is uncomfortable still, though the discomfort quiets in this space where the grandeur is more humble, born of communal wealth rather than the flex of individually amassed power. Curiosity, rising like a small wave to eddy along, gathering strength as Ellis' eyes observe the shelves, colored by eagerness held in check.
Deeper currents flex and billow beneath. Old, strong, unswerving. The kind of current that drags and drowns, unaffected by the rippling along the surface.
I'm only tired, he had told Wysteria. It is not untrue. It is here at hand, if Bastien delves far enough, a deep, miserable exhaustion churning low within him. This undertow which has measured out mortality and observed how it stretches out endlessly, how the possibility of abrupt endings have been closed off to him once, twice in so many months. Old pains weaving through deep-set currents spinning off in their well-worn tracts, run alongside these core parts of him, things carried always: weariness and stubbornness and worry all wound together, ribboning and unspooling but easily followed, even as they weave around some warmer feeling, truncated and contained, and loop back to meet—
"Will you move?" is posed as a question but so sharply that it cannot be mistaken for anything other than a demand from the lanky man behind them. Ellis' grip tightens on Bastien's hand, draws him a few steps to one-side without hesitation or rejoinder. So held, Bastien is privy to the mist-spray of disapproval, how quickly it dissipates as Ellis asks, "Where do you want to begin?"
There are many shelves. Ellis, for all his undeniable investment beneath the staid expression on his face, has no grasp of the layout, or what they might find. Bastien might choose at random. Ellis will be easily contented by whatever they come across.
writes too many words
And so Bastien is entitled to the pulse-beat of emotion rising to meet him from Ellis' palm, as long as he cares to observe it.
It is not unlike dipping fingers into an ocean-fed lake. The impression of stillness at that first touch, placid and calm. Quiet. Bastien's touch sends out ripples. Stirs silt up to meet the clasp of his hand.
Here, the closest to the surface, easily marked: yes, Ellis is impressed. And he is uncomfortable still, though the discomfort quiets in this space where the grandeur is more humble, born of communal wealth rather than the flex of individually amassed power. Curiosity, rising like a small wave to eddy along, gathering strength as Ellis' eyes observe the shelves, colored by eagerness held in check.
Deeper currents flex and billow beneath. Old, strong, unswerving. The kind of current that drags and drowns, unaffected by the rippling along the surface.
I'm only tired, he had told Wysteria. It is not untrue. It is here at hand, if Bastien delves far enough, a deep, miserable exhaustion churning low within him. This undertow which has measured out mortality and observed how it stretches out endlessly, how the possibility of abrupt endings have been closed off to him once, twice in so many months. Old pains weaving through deep-set currents spinning off in their well-worn tracts, run alongside these core parts of him, things carried always: weariness and stubbornness and worry all wound together, ribboning and unspooling but easily followed, even as they weave around some warmer feeling, truncated and contained, and loop back to meet—
"Will you move?" is posed as a question but so sharply that it cannot be mistaken for anything other than a demand from the lanky man behind them. Ellis' grip tightens on Bastien's hand, draws him a few steps to one-side without hesitation or rejoinder. So held, Bastien is privy to the mist-spray of disapproval, how quickly it dissipates as Ellis asks, "Where do you want to begin?"
There are many shelves. Ellis, for all his undeniable investment beneath the staid expression on his face, has no grasp of the layout, or what they might find. Bastien might choose at random. Ellis will be easily contented by whatever they come across.