leander turns, and free fingers flex — halfway to a fist, only to uncurl once more. if someone pulls a blade, you look for an intention.
the splay of a palm: go on. it's a hell of a silence, from someone so chronically loquacious, but this little performance wears at his nerves. how many hours has it been rehearsed? stone as a statue on that bed, animated only by the presence of an observer. it isn't wholly unfamiliar.
who is isaac, when he's alone? not much, he thinks; maybe nothing at all.
no subject
leander turns, and free fingers flex — halfway to a fist, only to uncurl once more. if someone pulls a blade, you look for an intention.
the splay of a palm: go on. it's a hell of a silence, from someone so chronically loquacious, but this little performance wears at his nerves. how many hours has it been rehearsed? stone as a statue on that bed, animated only by the presence of an observer. it isn't wholly unfamiliar.
who is isaac, when he's alone? not much, he thinks; maybe nothing at all.
but something with more blood than this. ]