stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires
Rory was no stranger to affection, nor to desire: yet the combination of both was what kept him where he was, and kept his mouth from forming words he might otherwise have said. It was what kept his hands in his lap, instead of on Remi's knee, thigh, casually, until he knew if the man was steady or not—
But that was not what was happening. Nor what would be happening, his fingers playing with the rein as Bakshi, bored, browsed the hard ground for blades of grass or roots behind him.
He felt like a deer in the headlights under that gaze, trapped in a moment of indecision, and one he could never break out of: he could just sit there, helpless, wanting something that was firmly forbidden and better off that way—
Like waiting for the end times, somehow.
Meeting anybody's eyes had always been a strange thing for him, but rarely had he felt so compelled to not look away, as if there was something he was trying to say—
It was all far too dangerous, so in a sense, it was a relief (but like clouds shadowing the sun; cold and forlorn) when Remi glanced away. Rory felt a shuddering breath leave him, as if he could finally breathe again, yet it felt colder, and he felt uncertain, somehow—not of Remi, but of what had just happened. He lowered his gaze, afraid of being trapped by his smile and his eyes again. They were too easy to get lost in.
At the question, Rory shrugged, chancing another look at Remi as he mentioned his mother. So, a role reversal, of sort; he was silent for a couple of seconds, before sighing. "My best friend had a great father," he began hesitantly, feeling his way along the words. "When I was young, I thought all fathers were like that, but.. as I grew older, everyone said me and my father would not have gotten along at all. He was very, ah, down-to-earth, no-nonsense, with little patience even for my mother's ideas and quirks." Rory's mouth curved into a sad smile. "I took after her a lot, so they all say had he lived, I would've been a very unhappy and bruised child."
Slowly, as if the motion might scare the other man away, Rory tilted his head to the side. "What was your mother like?"
But that was not what was happening. Nor what would be happening, his fingers playing with the rein as Bakshi, bored, browsed the hard ground for blades of grass or roots behind him.
He felt like a deer in the headlights under that gaze, trapped in a moment of indecision, and one he could never break out of: he could just sit there, helpless, wanting something that was firmly forbidden and better off that way—
Like waiting for the end times, somehow.
Meeting anybody's eyes had always been a strange thing for him, but rarely had he felt so compelled to not look away, as if there was something he was trying to say—
It was all far too dangerous, so in a sense, it was a relief (but like clouds shadowing the sun; cold and forlorn) when Remi glanced away. Rory felt a shuddering breath leave him, as if he could finally breathe again, yet it felt colder, and he felt uncertain, somehow—not of Remi, but of what had just happened. He lowered his gaze, afraid of being trapped by his smile and his eyes again. They were too easy to get lost in.
At the question, Rory shrugged, chancing another look at Remi as he mentioned his mother. So, a role reversal, of sort; he was silent for a couple of seconds, before sighing. "My best friend had a great father," he began hesitantly, feeling his way along the words. "When I was young, I thought all fathers were like that, but.. as I grew older, everyone said me and my father would not have gotten along at all. He was very, ah, down-to-earth, no-nonsense, with little patience even for my mother's ideas and quirks." Rory's mouth curved into a sad smile. "I took after her a lot, so they all say had he lived, I would've been a very unhappy and bruised child."
Slowly, as if the motion might scare the other man away, Rory tilted his head to the side. "What was your mother like?"
