[Making a fist is one of the very first things a human learns to do with their body; hands are formed for it, brains wired to clench on reflex. When Leander snatches at Alexandrie's hand—unthinking, a primitive urge—it's only the weakness forced upon him by this whole affair that keeps his grip from squeezing a bruise. Weakness, too, is partly to blame: as his mind slips loose with exhaustion, so does the personable young man he tries to be, so artfully curated, lose shape.
The splash of alcohol, he took that well. The last tying-off of his neck, borne without complaint. But not this.]
Don't— [His voice cracks at sudden volume, retreats to a hiss after the stab of fractured ribs.] Don't touch it, it's not yours.
[The fierce honesty of the moment is short-lived. Focus drains. Indicating no one,]
It belongs to him.
[After a stretch of visible struggle, his brow grows suddenly smooth and his eyelids relax to half-mast; they remain just so, open and unseeing, as the rest of him sags. (At last, his fingers may be pried apart.)]
no subject
The splash of alcohol, he took that well. The last tying-off of his neck, borne without complaint. But not this.]
Don't— [His voice cracks at sudden volume, retreats to a hiss after the stab of fractured ribs.] Don't touch it, it's not yours.
[The fierce honesty of the moment is short-lived. Focus drains. Indicating no one,]
It belongs to him.
[After a stretch of visible struggle, his brow grows suddenly smooth and his eyelids relax to half-mast; they remain just so, open and unseeing, as the rest of him sags. (At last, his fingers may be pried apart.)]