fuguestates | Portrait of a Man on Fire (Painter/Subject)

His eyes travel up and down Joshua's body but he says nothing, simple giving a single sharp nod as if approving of something unspoken.

"Because," he says, tugging the necktie from around himself with a casual flourish, tucking it into the pocket of his coat before removing the coat entirely, "I want to go for a swim." The inclusion of Joshua is not explicit, but clearly expected. Welcome, even.

He turns and heads the short distance down to the sands, tossing pieces of his clothing off behind him with careless ease, allowing the winds to capture them in wild patterns, strewn all across the rocks and dunes. He's completely naked and brazen by the time his toes touch the waterline and he looks back at the painter with just a glimmer of curiosity, wondering what he'd do.

He watches, more than a little unbecomingly slack-jawed, as the man - his host, a subject, the person he was ostensibly here to paint - strips off in front of him without a care or thought for propriety, as unselfconscious and single-minded as a child, clearly having no thought for anything beyond his immediate goal and desire of swimming in the ocean. It's a complete shock, and Joshua averts his gaze, turning his head away as though that could save him from the knowledge of what he was witnessing.

But his quick eye, trained and honed through long and constant practice, if perhaps not quite expert yet, continues to supply his mind with all the details, even if he'd only caught glimpses consciously - a sense of color, of a constant adjustment of shape and form, the individual pieces that would layer together until they formed a distinct and harmonious whole, an artist's vision capturing the spirit of the individual.

There's a feeling, he thinks, for that sort of striving, for the sense of reaching, of thwarted attainment, of wanting to immerse yourself in a particular work until you'd managed to capture some small facet of a glorious whole.

It feels a lot like greed, or hunger.

Almost before he realizes what he's doing, he starts to shrug off his overcoat.

He catches just a glimpse of what the other man is doing in response and it makes him quirk a brief smile before he slides into the shimmering waves. The shock of the cold water hits him instantly, making him gasp involuntarily as he dives deeper towards the open sea, constantly aware of a pair of golden eyes tracking his every move.

He's used to this. No, not the staring. The starting rumble of another's...hunger.

He closes his eyes, takes a breath. Lets the water drown it all out.

Only a short while after, he's back on the beach, breathing deeply, his dark hair sticking to his forehead as he shrugs his shirt and pants back on, leaving the rest of his usual accessories abandoned. He's vaguely aware that the other man is still orbiting him but Alecto refuses any more intimate interactions. For now.

"We'll head back in," he says with the ease of someone used to being wordlessly obeyed and followed, and he leads the way back up the path without looking back. "I'll see you in the drawing room, Mr. Archer."

And true to his word, he glides back into the house, walking a full circle around the kitchen table just to grab an apple to bite into and a carafe of wine before heading straight into the heart of the house, throwing open the doors of the drawing room, causing all of its curtains to billow around him in a dance of white fabric.

The drawing room itself must have served once as a living room or game room as it was large and hollow with slanted walls and floor-to-ceiling portes-fenêtres. The armchairs and the chesterfield in the center were upholstered in dusty brocades, threadbare at the arms: rose patterns on tan, acorns and oak leaves on mossy green. Everywhere were lace and fine, carved wood, dark with age. On the mantle of the fireplace (inoperable, in fact) glittered a pair of lead-glass candelabra and a few pieces of tarnished silver plate. Though not untidy, exactly, it verged on being so. Books were stacked on every available surface; the tables were cluttered with papers, ashtrays, used drinking glasses; fine shoes and leather trunks made passage difficult in the narrow hall leading into the room itself. Some of Alecto's own clothes were scattered on the rug and a rich confusion of accessories (ties, scarves and the such) hung from the door of the ancient wardrobe; a side table was littered with empty plates, leaky pens, dead marigolds in a water glass, and on a nearby footstool was laid a half-played game of solitaire.

The walls are bare of portraits, however.

Otherwise, everywhere you looked was some fresh oddity: an old stereopticon (the palmy avenues of a ghostly Nice, receding in the sepia distance); arrowheads in a dusty glass case; a staghorn fern; a bird’s skeleton. But chief among them was Alecto himself, the largest mystery of them all, wordlessly collapsing into a surprisingly graceful jumble of limbs on an abandoned chaise off to the side.

Edited 2022-09-26 20:18 (UTC)

The brisk temperature and the steady tumult of the waves provide their usual calming influence, the clean, uncomplicated physical exertion imposing clarity. Glimpses pass before his eyes - long lean lines, graceful curves of movement, even the shadows at each joint and fold of skin, dusky hair both hidden and emphasized by the water - and he can feel his fingers twitch, longing for a graphite stick or a piece of charcoal, a clean sheet of paper, his thoughts teetering precariously, desperate for physical form, seeking a concrete outlet for the overspill of his mind's eye.

He barely realizes he's following, his movements mechanical and thoughtless - the dragging on of sandy clothes over salt-damp skin, a sense of inevitability to his steps back up the path towards the house. He's already sketching, making, creating, a thousand small invisible motions combined into an unknown whole, little glimpses all providing depth to what he is laying out on an invisible canvas.

The drawing room itself is not so much a surprise as an underlying facet to Joshua's understanding of his subject. Too early yet, to know what this structure would provide to his output, if he would be able to capture some sense of the true weight and substance of what he had been engaged to capture, but he wanted...

Joshua Archer stands, still a little damp and chill, his clothes clinging to him, and tries to find words, when his fingers are the part of him that are clamoring for an appropriate outlet.

"I... Is this how you want to be painted?" He gestures, awkwardly, to the room, the open doors, the curtains half drawn to let in what there was of the mid-morning light, revealing the dust motes and benign neglect of eclectic scattered belongings.

He doesn't answer immediately, taking a slow bite of his half-finished apple, feels the way the crisp skin cuts into his gums, makes his teeth itch.

"Want? No. I actually hate being painted," he replies because it's true, though he knows it's more blunt and certainly more rude than was probably expected of him. "It's a miserable business. All painting is selfish. All it does is take."

Alecto rests a hand on his knee, leans back against the cushions that were stiff and flat from age and repeated use. Despite his harsh words, his tone of voice is even, calm, and he looks at the other man with the glitter of antipathy. "But it's necessary," he says a bit cryptically, his shoulders slumping just a bit.

"I trust you have some sort of process? A set up? Tools? Tell me what you require or whatever you need to do your work and I'll have it arranged. We can spend this time today discussing those details." He glances at a small chair set right beside him. "Sit."

He can't help feeling small, confused, off-center, watching the way Alecto is observing him, careless and casual, with the utterly self-composed manner that Joshua was familiar with from the very wealthy and established.

Old money often came with high expectations."

"I..." He takes a deep breath, and obediently sits in the small chair, as directed, his fingers interlaced to keep them still, his shoulders tensed. "I have a confession to make, actually." He blurts out, and then continues immediately, "I've never done a full portrait commission before. I know how but I... the person who arranged things - she sat for me, just a sketch one afternoon in the park. I don't... I don't know why she thought I could do this, why she went to all this trouble."

Saying the words is freeing, the coil of tension unwinding in his entire body, and he says, a little softer. "I want to, though. I... there's something about you that I really want to...capture. To reproduce. But I understand if this...arrangement doesn't work for you. I assumed you already knew."

He closes his eyes slowly. He knows exactly who she is, can practically hear her elated giggle like bright bells in his ear, coaxing, persuading, meddling.

"My sister, Phillipa," he says. "She must have been the girl you met. She has quite a voice on her doesn't she? Everything she says always feels..." He tongues the backs of his teeth, thinking on his words, "...very compelling, doesn't it?" Alecto can't help but smile to himself. That girl was constant trouble. But, she did so love him. He can't fault her for trying to help his unique situation.

He finishes his apple, sets the core delicately on the tiny side table behind the chaise, out of sight, before turning the full glare of his attention back on the painter. "But, I trust her. She must have seen something in you she thought was worthwhile enough to send you my way." A pause. "You're certainly kind on the eyes if anything."

But then, his good humor suddenly sours, his facial expression going rigid and cold. Capture. Indeed. It's what all these painters have ever wanted from him. To possess him somehow, to own a part of him like that, trap him eternal in acrylic and canvas. Alecto sits back, wills himself to stay in the present instead of the mud of his past. It's harder than he makes it look. "I'm flattered," he says, flatly, pushing back a stray strand of his inky dark hair behind his ear.

Edited 2022-09-29 01:44 (UTC)

He can't help eagerly lapping up these little hints, these crumbs, the hints of underlying substance and personality. The sudden, unexpected curve of a smile that briefly passes over Alecto's face has the effect of a rainstorm on a desert landscape, and Joshua's heart can't help but skip a beat, almost not hearing his actual words at all

All too soon, the smile fades away entirely, and the expression that Joshua had suspected was both mask and habit returns. He's sure he's said something wrong. But in the end, he's mostly distracted, trying to think through the task that had been set before him, that - against all odds or logic - was not being taken away from him after all, despite being utterly unqualified.

"It's really not flattery. Simply put, I don't have any confidence in my ability to do you justice right now," he admits, apologetic but straightforward. "If...if it's alright with you, perhaps we could start with a few more detailed studies first? Pencil and charcoal and ink. I'm...not sure how long you're used to these things taking, but I'll have a better idea of what I can take on once I've gotten more familiarity and time to plan."

"Good. I'd prefer it if you don't rush," he agrees vigorously, but with an expression that indicated that he thought it rather tasteless of the man to even consider the alternative, despite the fact that he knows that the longer he goes without a new portrait, the hastier his body will begin to show signs of age, deterioration, illness, pain. Mortality. But this was his secret, this inexplicable magic ("Is it a miracle or a family curse? Boh, chissà," his eldest sister had exclaimed once, the very last time anyone ever saw her alive), and it had a steep price.

One that wouldn't be prudent to bring up now.

He waves his hand dismissively, though it's unclear if it's directly at Josh or at his own errant and uncomfortable thoughts. "In the meantime...you're my guest here for as long as is needed to complete your work, Mr. Archer, so do make yourself comfortable. Make use of the estate and my staff as you see fit. I only ask that you refrain from entering the North Wing upstairs."

Alecto ends there, provides no further explanation.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I've a few things to take care of today so I don't believe I can do a sitting for you just yet." He stands to stretch rather elegantly before placing a hand lightly against Josh's shoulder, notes how his shirt is still slightly damp from the seawater clinging to his skin. "But, why don't you join me for supper? I'd like to take a closer look at some of your previous work and continue our chat."

Edited 2022-09-29 04:14 (UTC)

He blinks caught off guard, watching the flickering of expressions over Alecto's face. He didn't know enough (yet) to interpret, but he was used to registering those minute movements, considering how they would contribute to the overall whole. He's not accustomed to the leisure of time - his stock in trade was quick sketches, the equivalent of a simple trinket picked up off the side of the road, hurriedly completed before the customer could become bored with the process - and it's a significant adjustment for him to have this kind of security at his disposal.

"I...would be honored," he says, a little breathless, but mostly awkward, not used to this close regard, this sense of being utterly and entirely out of his depth. His brain immediately goes to his own sketchbook, the messy drafts and doodles contained within, his few small works as evidence of skill. "I'll...take my leave then?" He continues, tentatively, half unsure whether he should bow or turn away, or even allow his host and subject to precede him.

Much later that night, Alecto is sprawled in a wooden chair at the large dining table, the fireplace ablaze behind him, casting an orange halo around his entire body. Before him was a surprisingly humble meal: a loaf of salted zucchini focaccia, a pot of ribollita, and bottarga with antipasti on the side.

He's speaking to one of the servants, transferring the cigarette he was enjoying to his left hand and gesturing gracefully with his right, as if emphasizing some important point in his tale. "...tasteless, that's what it was, Tommaso. I give her credit for a little more savoir faire than that, if you don't mind me saying so..."

He looks up the moment his young painter round the corner.

He halts when the conversation does, taken aback, still a little uncomfortable under Alecto's regard. He's dressed neatly and had clearly taken some care with it, but each article is well-worn, carefully mended, painstakingly maintained. Whatever skill he had in art has clearly not borne out in any kind of commercial or financial success. He has his folio clasped in front of him, standing at an awkward attention as he tries to figure out where he is meant to sit.

"Good evening," he greets, with a slight dip of his head, before finally spotting the other place laid out at the table, opposite his host. Despite his obvious nerves, his movements are gracefully economical, and he settles down in his chair easily, looking down at the modest spread in front of them with curiosity, delight, and not a little relief, as though he'd worried about being presented with something unfamiliar.

All these little details don't pass Alecto by. He studies Josh quietly, watching as his servant pours the man a drink and prepares for him a bowl and plate. "There's no need to be so formal," Alecto says, though his own body language remains somewhat cold and distant, despite his words. "You'll realize we keep things here very relaxed. Finery, etiquette and the such, they're exhausting. Save that for the city."

The truth is, Alecto wasn't always wealthy. His family were commoners at the very start, centuries ago. The only reason he has so much social - as well as literal - currency in hand is due merely to time. There are many perks to being immortal, indeed.

They eat and the conversation starts off stilted and odd, but eventually warms up. At some point, Josh says something a bit tongue-in-cheek and Alecto, much to his own surprise, bursts out laughing. He can't remember the last time someone amused him so. Even the maids tidying up the kitchen behind them jolt and freeze, shocked at hearing the sound of their young master enjoying himself.

Alecto's words don't have quite the effect that he was likely intending, backed as they were by his deliberately distant tone. But Joshua had no choice, in any case - whatever Alecto's expectations, he had no experience with such things, had no experience with guesting at a rich patron's home, whether or not formal etiquette was expected - and his tentative commentary on the food - which, though simple, was all delicious - the house, his lodgings, and the island itself, eventually wend their way into something a little more like an actual conversation. At first he can't help but dart glances between Alecto and the folio he'd placed next to him, holding a few samples of his work that he was at least a little bit proud of, but the food and surroundings and the easy, unaffected manner that peeks out in between Alecto's chilly tone - particularly in brief addresses to his servants - work a little magic on him, and he starts to relax, little by little.

The laughter is a delightful surprise, and Josh barely stops himself from staring, his heart beating a little fast. Alecto's entire face was transformed with unexpected warmth by it, and something in Joshua aches, wanting to hear it again, elicit that response again, though he's not entirely sure what it was he had said that had amused him so much.

As the dishes are cleared away, he shifts a little in his chair, and reaches for his folio again. "Did you...still want to look at my previous work, Alecto?" He asks, tentative again, shyness creeping back in at the return of a transaction to their temporary relationship. "It's nothing impressive, but I did bring a few things..."

"Mm, scusi, you're right. I did want to take a closer look at that." He wipes his hands on the cloth napkin beside him with a careless grace. The servants bustle about, clearing the table silently for them as Alecto reaches for the folio, fingertips dancing along the edges as he starts to flip through its well worn pages, the candlelight nearby gently illuminating every new reveal.

"...Lovely," he murmurs to himself as he studies a variety of sketches, aborted ideas, random studies. All over there are smears of charcoal given life under a studious, dedicated, and passionate hand; carefully applied pigment adding depth and perspective and light. Sprawled everywhere else are fragments of strangers: faces half finished, as if caught mid turn, just a brief impression of a gaze, of a singular and temporary moment cemented forever in a few strokes of ink; lifted hands rendered with startling detail in warm, red chalk, reaching for something unseen.

Alecto finds himself thoroughly charmed by this small collection as he nears the end of it. It leaves him almost a little breathless, as if he had witnessed something private and soulfully personal.

He can tell his painter is a humble man of humble means. It was easy enough to surmise from just his clothes today and mannerisms but even more so now that examples of his work have been revealed. For an artist, is there anything more intimate? Unconventional materials turned to paint on several pages give multiple reference studies a unique texture or hue not normally seen in the works of the classically trained (and adequately paid), for example. It's clear that Joshua has had to make do with what was available, has been forced by circumstance and a lack of steady support and patronage to become imaginative, resourceful, and creative.

Alecto finds that he's...surprisingly charmed by this and he turns his attention fully back onto the man sitting before him, holding his own hands as if willing them to behave and not give away his nerves.

"Why did you decide to become a painter, Mr. Archer?"

Edited 2022-10-03 18:58 (UTC)

Showing his work to someone else always felt deeply personal and intense and this was no different, no easier. If anything, it somehow felt even more challenging. There was something in the way Alecto was examining his work closely, his dark eyes sweeping each page with an unexpected and yet unsurprising sense of expertise, examining details and technique with an experienced eye, that gave Joshua the impression that he was deeply acquainted with artistic techniques. He forces himself to look to the side, to the table, to the rest of the room - anything to avoid the magnetic draw of his host's very expressive and mobile face reacting to Joshua's handiwork; he's not sure what he would do, if he saw disappointment there.

So the question catches him entirely off-guard, thrown by the sudden return to formality, after being invited to use a first name.

"I... I don't know that I decided, exactly," he replies, sounding more than a little bit baffled. "I just. I can't imagine not making things. Even when I was younger, I was always being scolded for letting my mind wander." And now, away from home and independent, forced to support himself, he was far more likely to skip a meal or five than to fail to replenish his meager supply, seeking out cast-offs and discards and eking a few more images' life out of those remains. He had never dreamed of supporting himself on his art - a few coins here and there to supplement the odd jobs he was able to pick up, the satisfying stretch of creating something to order and sharing it with the subject and seeing their reactions - but he still devoted himself to it, in every moment he had to spare.

"Even now I'm..." he bites his lip, looks down at the table's surface. "I don't know if I can call myself a painter. This is the first real commission I've ever been approached with. But nothing else seems to fit."

He nods, apparently impressed by this answer, these small anecdotes. "Spoken like a true creative," he says, though it's hard to tell whether that was a critique or a compliment. "The craft of artwork is always some inexplicable magic, some act of possession. An artist never chooses, hm? It's always the other way around. Beauty bewitches them to act, to create."

Alecto speaks with his hands - a sharp, dismissive flutter here, or a languid undulation there - and they betray his feelings far more than his facial expression or voice ever could. There's something bitter in the way he ends his thoughts just now, in the way his fingers seem to clench at the open air, but surprisingly, he turns a tight little smile towards Josh, as if resigned to something he can't explain (or won't).

"Tomorrow morning, I'll sit for you and we can begin."

His brow furrows slightly, hearing something else in Alecto's tone, teasing at the edges of his brain, an artist's eye for detail conflicting with his limited social consciousness, but he nods in agreement. What else could he do?

"Wear - " He takes a breath, a little surprised at his daring. "Wear something you're comfortable in, if you could. I... I won't be able to start painting right away. There's no reason to dress up, just yet."

He gathers up the pages, tucks them back into the worn folio and tucks it against his chest. "I'll take my leave then, Alecto," he says his voice a little breathy, ducking his head in an awkward but sincere bow, and backs out of the dining room. His sleep is fitful but deep, his dreams a cacophony of color, dawn-tinted waves breaking on rocky shores, and he wakes early to a tray of breakfast outside his door - an unimaginable luxury - even before he'd intended to leave for the walk that he hoped would become part of his daily routine. So he is content and as composed as he ever was when he retraces his steps back to the drawing room again, clutching a blank sketchbook and a few other supplies to his chest, his fingers already itching to get started.

He is, surprisingly, already there, his presence overwhelming as always, a singular point of gravity in the middle of the room.

"Good morning," he says when he hears the sound of Joshua walking in. Alecto is sprawled already on an armchair, his legs thrown over the plush arm, directly in front of a wooden easel that had been set up the night before. He has a closed book in his hands, his finger holding his place between the pages. He is dressed comfortably (as had been requested): a simple off-white linen shirt with an open collar, the fabric loose around his neck and clavicle, paired with tightly fitted, tan-colored fall front trousers.

"I had these prepared. Hopefully, they're to your liking." He gestures to the several stretched canvases, papers, and an abundance of paints, inks, and chalks put off to the side of the stool behind the easel.

Well. He had said something comfortable...

"Thank you," he says, looking over all the supplies, but not picking any of them up just yet. Instead he takes a few steps back and forth along the edges of the room, careful not to disturb anything placed there, and observes the lighting, the way the furniture is arranged, before he selects a chair and pulls it closer to where Alecto is already sprawled over the arm chair, with only his sketchbook and a few pieces of charcoal.

"I really appreciate your generosity. I'll make sure to familiarize myself with all the materials on my own time," he says, by way of reassurance, flipping the book open to the first page. "I don't want to take up too much of your day while we're still in planning stages." He knew how to use all of these things, of course - but his career had always been defined by scarcity and improvisation. It would take at least a few practice sessions to be sure of his colors and techniques again, at least if he was intended to produce something worthy of his subject.

He doesn't give Alecto any direction, simply bends his head over his sketchbook and starts - filling in undefined splotches of gray and black on white paper, slowly picking out contour and shadow and curve, the hint of arrested movement. There's a moment, the trick of the light falling on the page, before the seemingly random sweeps of charcoal on the page resolve into Alecto's crossed calves, cut off at the ankle and the knee, capturing the lean curve of muscle beneath his tight-fit trousers, the slightest wrinkle of the cloth lending additional texture.

Without a word, Joshua flips to a new page, and begins again.

They spend every afternoon for the next two weeks in this way: Alecto arranged gracefully across some form of chair, stool, or ottoman, and Joshua with his head down, buried in his work, his fingertips stained red, black, and chalky white.

Alecto observes his painter as much as Joshua studies him, commits to memory the arch of his high cheekbones, the curl of his golden hair, the way his brow would furrow gingerly when he was particularly focused. He looked particularly charming like that, Alecto thought, so lost in the details of his work that it was impossible for him to hide his clear love of the craft.

They start to talk, of course. Alecto couldn't stand the intense silence for very long and would often comment on anything that came to mind. Recently, he brought up something he had read in a local penny dreadful, a series he had been particularly taken by and had discovered, on pure accident, that Joshua was also an avid reader. A sort of warmth began to finally spread in the space between them and after nearly a full month, Alecto realized how much happier he had been having his painter in his home, at his dinner table, and by his side during their frequent morning walks by the sea cliffs.

But curiously, after all this time, a single portrait had not yet been completed. And the dark rot of his previous commissions, stacked and covered in hiding in the North Wing, is making Alecto worry.

A day ago, he cuts himself on a rosebush in the garden. It stuns him, the red line against his palm. Even more so when it doesn't immediately close and starts to ache.

Time is starting to tick again for Alecto Crabtree.

By now he'd filled three whole books, cover to cover, with studies, sketches, and details of Alecto. It's an unimaginable luxury, being able to devote himself so absolutely to a single, all-consuming subject. He had learned how to infer a mood in the minutest shift of that now-familiar face, the deceptive insouciance of his arm draped along the back of the couch. Sometimes it seemed he could draw Alecto with his eyes closed, could discern the sound of his step, the musical ring of that hard-to-earn laughter, even the pace of his breathing, could feel the unique weight of his presence even in Joshua's dreams. There was seemingly no angle, no lighting, no cloud-filtered slant of sunlight that he wouldn't be able to recognize him in. He could mix - had mixed - the exact right shade of his lips, the pale flush of his cheeks, the delicate threads of lighter color woven through his dark hair - had lined up his paints and palettes and brushes in anticipation.

And yet, he hadn't yet managed to bring himself to properly put paint to brush to canvas, the painstakingly mixed pigments drying in splotches, the brushes finer than he'd ever used before, but already becoming worn with the grooves of his fingers against the wood, alone in the guest room, recalling the motions and methods of his art, over and over every single night.

He brings a single sheet of paper today, his charcoal, his pencils, and his paints, newly mixed hues dolloped over the layered remains of the old. Alecto is there already, of course, arranged as he always was, and Joshua starts with a detail of that graceful hand, palm up, his fingers automatically selecting the colors he needs. It's not until he's finished that he registers the thinnest slice of crimson across the fleshy part of the palm, the muscles tensed against unexpected discomfort, despite the languid position Alecto has assumed.

"What happened to your hand?" he asks, coming out of his trance almost with a gasp of reaction, setting his tools doen messily and smudging the edges of the outline.

"Hm? Oh, this?" He speaks as if he had forgotten entirely about the thing, though in reality, he has been deeply worried. He lifts his hand, gazes upon it, the way the sunlight from the open window streams in and make the healing cut appear a bright red. Alecto hasn't seen this color on his body in a long, long time.

His bottom lip trembles slightly as he takes in a breath. He turns his face slightly away so that Joshua can see nothing more than just the fine slice of his jawline. "It's nothing. I was tending to the garden yesterday and got caught on a thorn." Pause. "I hardly even noticed."

Almost before he quite realizes what he's doing, he sets his things down and reaches out for Alecto's hand, peripherally conscious of the black smudges of charcoal and pencil, his fingers absolutely reverent and gentle as he cups Alecto's hand in his two, peering at the cut. "You..." he strokes his thumbs very carefully over the unbroken skin, not getting anywhere close to the cut, but feeling the tension in the muscles that he'd registered only subconsciously, reflected in his art.

It didn't look that painful, but - "Are you sure? You're...so tense..."

He can't meet Alecto's eyes with his face turned away like that, but he peers at him anyway, searching, noting the way his lip trembles, the sharp intake of breath.

He starts at the feeling of skin against skin. His face remains somewhat stiff and alert, eyes widening in surprise. But, he doesn't pull away, nor does he say anything cruel or unpleasant.

Alecto turns his face back, glancing down at their joined hands, resists the odd (very odd indeed) inclination to thread their fingers together. "I'm sure, Joshua," he says in such a soft and tender tone it might actually have come off as more shocking than if he had yelled or snapped. "It's just that it's been...a while since I've...hurt myself in such a way. I suppose I thought myself invincible for quite some time."

Edited 2022-10-06 00:23 (UTC)

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