He didn't even remember seeing Jigano go for Amalia: it was likely something that had happened while he was out in a haze of pain, when he had swum towards the stars (for he remembered those; how could he not?) and laid in their placid glow. But Long Night held no stars. Long Night was an endless darkness, as foreign and alien as it was heavy, oppressive.
So he merely shook his head dismissively, his fingers making a motion like don't worry about it. Whatever thing had slid so effortlessly, so insidiously, into their minds had cared little for their strength of will. No matter how fiercely he had known he was among friends, the blackness had still blotted out his thoughts and drowned them in a torrent of suspicion and rage.
Wishing things had gone differently wouldn't change the fact that they hadn't. They could just work with what they had, and move on from that.
At least, that was how Rory saw it.
”Yes,” Jigano agreed, and Rory wondered what he thought of; what he related to. Who he was, and where he came from. What he liked and what he wanted and what he needed.
Rory knew him only as a fox, knew only his actions, the sincerity of his gaze, the steadfast presence even in the face of danger.
It had been enough, but now that things had changed, he found himself wanting more.
But he had never known how to ask, and in the silence following his words Jigano leaned forward. The breath got stuck in his throat, a silent thing, the rhythm disturbed; his gaze went rapidly from Jigano's eyes to his lips to his fingers, extending towards his face. As they touched his skin he shivered. Released the breath. It felt like a trail of fire left across his cheek, a memory that was equal parts hot and cold. ”Yes,” Jigano said again, and Rory wondered, in a distant way, what they were talking about.
What they were agreeing to.
His gaze left what little he could see of Jigano's wrist, went back to his face instead. Fox eyes, fox ears; Rory's fingers fell to his thigh again.
"Where did you come from?" he found himself asking, voice soft.
So he merely shook his head dismissively, his fingers making a motion like don't worry about it. Whatever thing had slid so effortlessly, so insidiously, into their minds had cared little for their strength of will. No matter how fiercely he had known he was among friends, the blackness had still blotted out his thoughts and drowned them in a torrent of suspicion and rage.
Wishing things had gone differently wouldn't change the fact that they hadn't. They could just work with what they had, and move on from that.
At least, that was how Rory saw it.
”Yes,” Jigano agreed, and Rory wondered what he thought of; what he related to. Who he was, and where he came from. What he liked and what he wanted and what he needed.
Rory knew him only as a fox, knew only his actions, the sincerity of his gaze, the steadfast presence even in the face of danger.
It had been enough, but now that things had changed, he found himself wanting more.
But he had never known how to ask, and in the silence following his words Jigano leaned forward. The breath got stuck in his throat, a silent thing, the rhythm disturbed; his gaze went rapidly from Jigano's eyes to his lips to his fingers, extending towards his face. As they touched his skin he shivered. Released the breath. It felt like a trail of fire left across his cheek, a memory that was equal parts hot and cold. ”Yes,” Jigano said again, and Rory wondered, in a distant way, what they were talking about.
What they were agreeing to.
His gaze left what little he could see of Jigano's wrist, went back to his face instead. Fox eyes, fox ears; Rory's fingers fell to his thigh again.
"Where did you come from?" he found himself asking, voice soft.
