[He'd never needed to ask Zevlor if this— their arrangement, parentship, employment— whatever anyone would call it, would last. It was shown to him over time, in fragments of memories involving pyjamas and bedtime stories and raised covers and the feeling of a comb run through his messy curls. Things he can't fully remember save for the impact that they had: a feeling like....
Mm.
He doesn't know.
It's heavy now as it was then. Like punctuation, or an eclipse, it presses in and bends this moment into something more profound than it would otherwise be. His legs are tucked under him, soaking in dust that's nearly half an inch thick in places, and his hands hook over his knees, and he can almost feel the buzzing electricity in the empty space between them.
Like coming home, he thinks.]
What if I don't ever get bored? [He chances, rubbing one hand over the other wrist in thought.] What if I stay here forever and drink sherry and perform every night for strangers that you hate?
no subject
Mm.
He doesn't know.
It's heavy now as it was then. Like punctuation, or an eclipse, it presses in and bends this moment into something more profound than it would otherwise be. His legs are tucked under him, soaking in dust that's nearly half an inch thick in places, and his hands hook over his knees, and he can almost feel the buzzing electricity in the empty space between them.
Like coming home, he thinks.]
What if I don't ever get bored? [He chances, rubbing one hand over the other wrist in thought.] What if I stay here forever and drink sherry and perform every night for strangers that you hate?
[Would you stay then?]