( There are many ways people wear armour. From the firm leather and glinting golden pauldrons to the dual swords that bat away opponents with ease, Steak is covered in it.
He never considered his words to be a kind of armour. Never considered that he needs to hide things from others, because things are never that complicated. You reach point B from point A by going in a straight line, rather than speaking circles around someone like Red Wine so often does.
And yet, with that finality, that flood of doomed terror running cold and damp through him, he does. He wraps the obvious around him as tightly as any other piece of armour, uses every part of that reputation he's well aware of — where he's a dense, unfeeling idiot — and pretends that part of his duty didn't bother him.
Of course it did. His life wasn't close to over, and he was supposed to be stronger. Better. He wasn't supposed to regret the notion of not having another day with Red Wine and Gingerbread, or their Master Attendant, but to accept the lot and wait in the chaos until he returned to his human form, and start all over again.
A new life, a new Master Attendant. That's how it goes for beings like them.
He was never supposed to be afraid of that. )
That's our lot in life. ( The words come out hollow to his own ears, intended to convince himself more than Red Wine and falling entirely short of that fact. He digs his fingers into the leather of his coat but it offers no reprieve from any of it. Not from the strange ache in his stomach which makes it impossible to look at Red Wine, nor the painful recollection that they both go back to being dead once they leave this place. ) We fight and we watch others die.
( It doesn't seem as wonderful a duty when he puts it like that. )
no subject
( There are many ways people wear armour. From the firm leather and glinting golden pauldrons to the dual swords that bat away opponents with ease, Steak is covered in it.
He never considered his words to be a kind of armour. Never considered that he needs to hide things from others, because things are never that complicated. You reach point B from point A by going in a straight line, rather than speaking circles around someone like Red Wine so often does.
And yet, with that finality, that flood of doomed terror running cold and damp through him, he does. He wraps the obvious around him as tightly as any other piece of armour, uses every part of that reputation he's well aware of — where he's a dense, unfeeling idiot — and pretends that part of his duty didn't bother him.
Of course it did. His life wasn't close to over, and he was supposed to be stronger. Better. He wasn't supposed to regret the notion of not having another day with Red Wine and Gingerbread, or their Master Attendant, but to accept the lot and wait in the chaos until he returned to his human form, and start all over again.
A new life, a new Master Attendant. That's how it goes for beings like them.
He was never supposed to be afraid of that. )
That's our lot in life. ( The words come out hollow to his own ears, intended to convince himself more than Red Wine and falling entirely short of that fact. He digs his fingers into the leather of his coat but it offers no reprieve from any of it. Not from the strange ache in his stomach which makes it impossible to look at Red Wine, nor the painful recollection that they both go back to being dead once they leave this place. ) We fight and we watch others die.
( It doesn't seem as wonderful a duty when he puts it like that. )