[A wave of warmth washes over him as the samurai pulls him closer, gently rubs at his back, the weight of his head against his as a poem is whispered against him. Of course it's a poem of all things, but Scaramouche can't find it in himself to care, shutting his eyes and simply listening to the depths of Kazuha's feelings.
It doesn't solve everything, push away the feeling that constricts his chest in hurt and uncertainty, but it is sweet. If the samurai cared for him wasn't in question, from all that's been displayed, said, he knows it to be true. Still the thoughts linger.
The immortal allows himself a moment to take a breath.]
Who?
[He shouldn't ask, simply move on and focus on how the other Inazuman holds him. How he whispers soft and sweet words on how much he cares. But Scaramouche can't help but want to know, to have a direction for any ire that should build towards whatever worthless human thought themselves worthy of the samurai's time. Towards whatever possible competition he has. Though he finds feels more dread than anger.
Even as Kazuha works at soothing his fears, swallowing his vulnerabilities, and dissuading his thoughts that he may not be enough.
To hear of how fleeting this all was, spoken and given space in reality hurts far more than it should. To think such moments were often things he found amusement in watching. This was all terribly foolish of him to want.
He doesn't wish to think on how short their time may be for long.]
Do your poems normally woo their targets? Rather sweet words if they're all true.
no subject
It doesn't solve everything, push away the feeling that constricts his chest in hurt and uncertainty, but it is sweet. If the samurai cared for him wasn't in question, from all that's been displayed, said, he knows it to be true. Still the thoughts linger.
The immortal allows himself a moment to take a breath.]
Who?
[He shouldn't ask, simply move on and focus on how the other Inazuman holds him. How he whispers soft and sweet words on how much he cares. But Scaramouche can't help but want to know, to have a direction for any ire that should build towards whatever worthless human thought themselves worthy of the samurai's time. Towards whatever possible competition he has. Though he finds feels more dread than anger.
Even as Kazuha works at soothing his fears, swallowing his vulnerabilities, and dissuading his thoughts that he may not be enough.
To hear of how fleeting this all was, spoken and given space in reality hurts far more than it should. To think such moments were often things he found amusement in watching. This was all terribly foolish of him to want.
He doesn't wish to think on how short their time may be for long.]
Do your poems normally woo their targets? Rather sweet words if they're all true.