bolderfell | Prismatica Inbox

See you then.

[When Therion knocks later, he's wearing a light, new-smelling hoodie over his distinctive hair and carrying a shopping bag from Caihong.]

Edited (Speed and convenience > authenticity, sorry about your sushi) 2020-09-11 02:54 (UTC)

[why u fuck him over on his sushi tho??]

Therion.

[He knows it's him before he even opens the door — thank you, astonishing sense of smell — and it's because he knows it's Therion that he's not really thinking about appearances as he lets the door swing wide to admit him. For a different visitor, maybe, he would've been more careful, but as it is —

As it is, Kurama looks like he's been put through a wringer. His clothes are far more haphazard than usual, just a pair of trackpants and a big soft shirt, and his hair has been shucked up into a high messy ponytail that mostly leaves the ends dangling about to the base of his neck, pulled up out of the way more for convenience than for appearances. There are the beginnings of dark circles under his eyes, and his pallor is drawn.

It's hard to say which part of the experience is affecting him most, but given what happened to his mother, having no avenue whatsoever to un-rock Kuwabara is probably dredging up some old and painful memories.]

...Come in, sit down. Make yourself comfortable.

[Therion nods, but instead of immediately moving to do that--which always involves assuring himself of exits and hiding spots long before sitting--he first offers Kurama the bag.]

Got that stuff you like.

[Inarizushi. He had to get it from Caihong and not go all the way to Amegahara so he could be here sooner, of course. As he draws down his hood, it's clear from the smell of cats that aren't him that he went straight there, then straight here, from his job. Still, Mondo Mart inarizushi is still inarizushi, and he brought a box of tea and a couple beers besides.

(There's even a book in there. Probably stolen--it's dropped in on top as an afterthought, smells like someone else's hand. It's titled My Moonblessed and, according to the blurb, chronicles the Lunatian Academy days of a young woman with long ebony black hair (that’s how she got her name) with purple streaks and red tips that reaches her mid-back and icy blue eyes like limpid tears.)

He does his due diligence, then, but cursorily. Just a glance and he takes his seat, tail curling neatly around his crossed legs.]

C'mere.

...You remembered what I like.

[It's not an expression of surprise, or of disbelief. The words escape him in a way that sounds almost breathless, the way people should when they recognize a kindness but don't altogether support that they deserve the consideration.

He takes the bag, however, and steals a moment just to smell the homey aroma of its contents. There are so many little understated tells to savor — that Therion remembered what he liked even if he probably still can't pronounce it; that he went straight from work without pause in order to retrieve it for him; that there are enough drinks for the both of them to spend a while together, as if to implicitly confirm that Therion has no intention of leaving right now.

There's a more deliberate one, too — that Therion says come here, inviting him close when he knows how Therion covets the feeling of distance.]

That was nice of you.

[He says, with words that mean nothing, while his legs do all the talking and take him over to stand in front of Therion, like he's daring him to pull him down for more.]

[Hff.]

Yeah, I'm thoughtful like that.

[He waits, and when he recognizes that Kurama doesn't intend to sit down right away, he huffs quietly again before reaching for his wrist to draw him down beside him.]

I want to fix your hair up differently. You're going to give yourself a headache with it pulled up like that.

[The can I? remains implicit.]

Edited 2020-09-11 15:48 (UTC)

[It's small and stupid, but it makes him feel a little better anyway — one thing he doesn't have to expend energy and focus controlling. One time he'll follow instead of setting his own course. Let Therion guide him to sit; he's tired of doing the guiding for right now.

So he sits, and makes sure to crowd entirely too close into Therion's personal space, just to see if he can get away with it.]

Everything else is giving me a headache as it is. What's one thing more?

[But he turns his head anyway, offering the messy ponytail up to Therion's clever fingers without protest.]

[Maybe he can get away with more than that, for far from commenting on the closeness, Therion unfolds one leg and scoots in. All the better to nimbly work the elastic out of Kurama's hair and shake it out loose and down, right?]

Well, what's one thing less.

[Therion takes a moment to play with the hair tie around his fingers, to get the measure of its stretch and its strength. Modern convenience, man. Then he nods to himself, loops the band around his forefinger and thumb, and sweeps as much of Kurama's hair as he can back towards him. He runs his fingers through at the top to make sure his scalp can properly relax from all that pulling, and then works more loosely on his way down, breaking up the dent made by the hair tie.

Then he separates Kurama's hair into four sections and starts to braid.]

Make my own rope like this, sometimes.

[...Oh. He's —

Oh.]

It's not quite long enough for a daring escape, I'm afraid.

[He snorts softly.]

If it was, you'd definitely catch it in something. Even you.

[As he nears the end, he briefly transfers the hair tie to his teeth to keep it from getting caught in the individual strands, and then ties it off neatly. Bats the end of it, just once.]

Not too tight, is it?

It's not wise to underestimate me.

[But he turns his head lightly from side to side, testing the weight of the braid and where it sits against the back of his head. It's different than having it long, of course; the tension is there in the strands, but more naturally than the way he'd had it bunched up before. It's secure, and keeps even his uneven strands smoothed into place, which is no small feat in itself. It's lovely, really.

All except for one very minor thing, of course.]

Pity you did it so quickly. But I wouldn't expect anything less of you.

[Therion looks at him a moment, a thought on the verge of forming.

He doesn't like to be vulnerable for any length of time. Doesn't mean everyone feels the same. His hand finds its way again to the end of the braid like it's becoming habit, rubbing the dangling strands between thumb and the pads of his fingers.]

Easy fix to that, you know.

[Shrug.]

Just ask me to do it again.

[They're both so thoughtful, aren't they. So careful. So deliberate. So measured and ordered and observant. There's nothing wrong with that, of course, it's not as though he expects anything different, it's just —

He just — ]

Do it again.

[But before Therion can reach for even one strand, Kurama shifts forward out of his grasp, and his reasons quickly become apparent as he lowers himself down and simply rests his head in Therion's lap, closing his eyes against the world.

Something something embarrassing, something something girls at a sleepover. What does any of it matter, really? Kuwabara is a solidified mass of crystal, and there are no gods within easy reach to fight and win him back.]

[Well.

Therion takes his time, this time, in undoing the rope he's made of Kurama's hair. He frees it all from his sectioning and runs his fingers all the way through, from the crown of his head down through the thick of it at the back of his neck and out to the ends, letting it slip like silk between his knuckles. For a while he does just that, combing the fingers of both hands through again and again until there's no sign whatsoever that anything ever bound Kurama's hair, unkind modern elastic or otherwise.

Makes more sense to call this moonlacing than the other stuff, because lace is delicate work. Precious work. Work like his fingers sinking through and straightening long, red hair, shifting the spill of it in his lap like sunset on the brooks of the Riverlands.]

Wish you could see the places you remind me of.

[He gathers Kurama's hair again, but doesn't partition it yet for braiding. It's an excuse as transparent as well-water to draw his fingers along Kurama's temple, brush the hair back from his face.]

Nothing so damn breath-stopping anywhere else.

Don't start a story without following through to the end.

[He keeps his eyes closed, because he knows that from this vantage point, Therion can't help but see his face, and that one subtle action is all it really takes to convey his message. Animals close their eyes when they feel comfortable in their surroundings, when they feel safe in letting their guard down.

Therion checked for exits when he came inside — and Kurama doesn't fault him a single bit for it, mind — and that's why he knows he'll understand it for what it is.]

Paint a picture for me. I'll manage the rest.

[He's been offered a treasure of unimaginable price. That's what he understands. Therion lets himself fall into a rhythm, combing Kurama's hair back and beginning to split it into four before finding some reason to brush it all out again and start anew.]

...The Cliftlands. The Riverlands.

[He starts to make a little braid instead with the lock of hair that usually stays in front of Kurama's ear, flatter, three-stranded.]

They're southern regions. Share a border. The water that carved out the bluffs runs down into the Riverlands, turns into brooks and big, curved lakes. ...It's so green down there. The water brings the whole land to life, and still, it stays so clear itself. Wherever you are, you can hear it running, see it shine and burble in the sun.

[He smooths Kurama's bangs off his forehead, away from his closed eyes.]

The Cliftlands are all red stone, but when you look, you can see all the different shades. When the light catches the canyons just right...

[He holds the thin braid against the rest of Kurama's hair, judging whether or not it might serve to hold back the loose mass remaining. Then he lets it go, undoes the plait, starts over with the original four-strand pattern.]

The land, the air, all of it. It's like the whole world's on fire.

Ah...is that what it is. Green and red.

[He's breathing more slowly now, but his tone is still calm and alert, however meditative he might be otherwise. He's not letting himself drowse, not through this; oh, no, he's making sure he's roused enough to focus keenly on each slender sensation.]

Or is it something else, besides the colors?

[He says, more as an aside than an answer:] Maybe you would like the Riverlands.

[Since he's so fond of FISHING.]

It's... 'breathtaking' doesn't get it across. No matter how many times I cross those lands, I always... Sometimes I think I could never steal another thing, just look at them forever, and feel like that was treasure enough.

Don't be difficult.

[That's what he says by way of reply, because it's easy and it's light, and it spares him the opportunity to just sort of lie still and let the implications of Therion's words wash over him. The places he reminds him of, he'd said, and now I could just look at them forever, and it would be treasure enough.

If only he could capture this moment in solidified form, crystallize it in Kuwabara's place, preserve it in some way that he could pocket and carry with him. Somehow, he can't help but feel as though these words are his own equivalent of Therion's foxflower dagger, and what a shame it is that words are so much more transient than a weapon.]

I would let you, I think. If you wanted to look for that long.

[His voice is growing softer and softer.]

I should've stopped him. I should've known he would try to be a hero. But I didn't see it, and now...this.

[Therion ties off the end of the braid again, lets one hand rest beneath it, loosely cupped at the back of Kurama's skull, and leans over him a little so he can stroke his other hand between Kurama's shoulder blades.]

...I've only heard of people coming back from it. It doesn't last.

[He and Reimi and that girl selling to-foo at the market all made it. They all had worried people to pull them out of it, to soften the stone once more. Kurama's friend, whoever he is, has Kurama. So it won't be forever that Kurama's stuck with a hard, glittering statue of his heroic, worrisome friend.

Therion says it seriously, offers the knowledge he has as fact, not comfort. 'He'll get through it' is a hope. 'Everyone else has' is truth, more solid, less colored by what he wants for Kurama.]

Once he's back, you'll get to lecture him all you want for causing so much trouble.

Small favors.

[That's an awfully cynical answer considering he appreciates the reassurance more than he could possibly let on. It's just not so easy to let go of the stress and frustration he's got pent up, without finding an avenue for it somewhere.

Behind his closed eyes, the tension shifts to irritation with himself; that nagging youko voice in the back of his mind sneering gone soft and housepet and see what caring does to you. He knows better than to put stock in any of it, for all that it discolors the soft hues of the mood for a few fleeting moments.

He's allowed — this, whatever this is; fitting words to it would only mar it somehow. But he's allowed it. He doesn't have to justify it. It's neither selfish hedonism nor crumbling weakness.

However contrary it is to his nature, to his need to control and manipulate and decide, he doesn't have to do anything but sit still and breathe right now.]

You do, you know. What you said earlier — you do make it easier. On me.

Edited 2020-09-12 18:09 (UTC)

[Therion's hand pauses, briefly, and then comes back up to rub at the base of Kurama's neck.]

...It's what I'm going for.

[No getting Kurama's bangs into the braid, of course, so they're there across his forehead for Therion to toy with idly, now.]

Think you're the only one who's ever said something like that and didn't mean it at my expense. ...So I don't mind.

[He's quiet a little while, focused on the petting — because what else could he call it, really, except petting. His limbs feel heavy, weighted with tiredness and worry that has yet to unknot from his body. Funny how he felt much the same with the shimaneki sprouting in his veins, when the cause behind this malaise is something entirely benign.]

Can I ask you something, and have you give me a true answer? I'll pay for it in kind, or gift you something you want. All I ask is that it be the truth, not just something I might want to hear.

[...]

Sure. I can do that.

[Dangerous, dangerous. But Therion never was the best at lying, anyway. Not like this.]

Fire away.

[There's a beat of hesitation, just a fraction of it, and it makes him laugh softly.]

Nothing compromising. I promise.

[There was once a demon world plant, he muses vaguely, that made kitsune tell the truth. Foxes had cautioned their kits about it. Beware the scarlet berries of the knife-leaved plant, if you don't want to lose your tails — or worse. He'd sought it out when he'd grown powerful enough, hunted it to extinction. He'd thought he was so clever.]

I only wanted to know if anyone else makes you think of those places. Your Cliftlands, your Riverlands. Or are they just mine.

[Ah. Therion glances up to gather his thoughts, to sift out the truth of them.]

...One of the people with me, he's from the Riverlands. Born and bred there. I hear them in him every time he talks. Which is a lot.

[That warm, meandering ease, the waters' life-giving generosity, are so much part of Alfyn Greengrass, Therion can't easily unbraid the two.

But when he thinks of Bolderfall, of the red canyon passes at dawn, of a sky so high and distant between the towering walls of rock, each breath fills one's lungs with a desire to reach, to climb, to dare the scree and loose edges for freedom...]

The Cliftlands are all yours, though.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject