[ Having gathered himself into a space above the crowd, precariously perched on the edge of a window ledge to avoid having to bump and jostle in a crowd - he avoids touching his bare skin to too many others, when he can still feel the lingering press of bodies against him from earlier ( where he was jonas, and jonas was him -- ). It's better like this, able to watch without being drawn along with the flow of forms.
Over their heads, he can see the familiar, wide brim of D's hat. The dark fall of his hair, so sleek and unbound that it twists inside of his chest -- it drives him mad, in ways, that he seeks the coolness of D's expression and the soft tangle of his hair as if to find the ghost of his own son. There's no comfort to be found in regarding the dhampir in such a way, no peace will it bring him and no kindness is it to D. It is only cruel to look to him for the specter of his son, but Set cannot stop himself. The injury is so fresh, the loss so close to complete that he sees nothing else for it.
This time, when he blinks, he feels the tug of his being towards D. The soft yank of some sort of string that draws his mind closer to the other, further from his own body. The other begins to leave the crowd, drawing away and into the distance and with him, Set is drawn in his wake. He leaps from his perch upon the ledge, descending into the crowd -- and somewhere, between his leap and the moment he lands, the world shifts. Like he's been plucked from midair and tugged into the distance.
He snaps to, feeling the weight of clothing upon him first and foremost, an unfamiliar crush of layers of attire against his skin. When he lifts his head and looks back, he feels he will be beyond the crowd already -- looking back into the crush of it, spotting the brilliant scarlet of (his) own hair among them. If he lifts his gloved hands to his hair, innately he knows when he tugs at the ends, they will be black. ]
Oh, fxck.
[ He cusses, with D's mouth. It feels like SACRILEGE. ]
no subject
Over their heads, he can see the familiar, wide brim of D's hat. The dark fall of his hair, so sleek and unbound that it twists inside of his chest -- it drives him mad, in ways, that he seeks the coolness of D's expression and the soft tangle of his hair as if to find the ghost of his own son. There's no comfort to be found in regarding the dhampir in such a way, no peace will it bring him and no kindness is it to D. It is only cruel to look to him for the specter of his son, but Set cannot stop himself. The injury is so fresh, the loss so close to complete that he sees nothing else for it.
This time, when he blinks, he feels the tug of his being towards D. The soft yank of some sort of string that draws his mind closer to the other, further from his own body. The other begins to leave the crowd, drawing away and into the distance and with him, Set is drawn in his wake. He leaps from his perch upon the ledge, descending into the crowd -- and somewhere, between his leap and the moment he lands, the world shifts. Like he's been plucked from midair and tugged into the distance.
He snaps to, feeling the weight of clothing upon him first and foremost, an unfamiliar crush of layers of attire against his skin. When he lifts his head and looks back, he feels he will be beyond the crowd already -- looking back into the crush of it, spotting the brilliant scarlet of (his) own hair among them. If he lifts his gloved hands to his hair, innately he knows when he tugs at the ends, they will be black. ]
Oh, fxck.
[ He cusses, with D's mouth. It feels like SACRILEGE. ]