[Picking at his own sleeve cuff is a habit more telling than the stern, downright flinty angle of his brows; it's what he does when he's bordering on sheepish, usually because Zevlor's told him off without excuse or defense, simply swallowing his just desserts.
He doesn't enjoy doing it, but at least it distracts from the churn of frustration in his skull, his chest. Unrelated to the broader concept of being vexed, only an attempt at taming childish volatility. At being present with those feelings, minus letting them control him.
It's harder now than it used to be, somehow. Like before, in the rafters, on occasion he feels convinced he's made of embers and spilled spirit.]
It feels like it should be pulled apart. [He mutters for a moment, picking again at his sleeve. Like there's an injustice in not being understood— even if it was just a stupid, pointless argument.]
no subject
He doesn't enjoy doing it, but at least it distracts from the churn of frustration in his skull, his chest. Unrelated to the broader concept of being vexed, only an attempt at taming childish volatility. At being present with those feelings, minus letting them control him.
It's harder now than it used to be, somehow. Like before, in the rafters, on occasion he feels convinced he's made of embers and spilled spirit.]
It feels like it should be pulled apart. [He mutters for a moment, picking again at his sleeve. Like there's an injustice in not being understood— even if it was just a stupid, pointless argument.]
Maybe....kicking him.
[Is very, very quiet.]