[ There are scars inside of Jonas. Not real scars, not physical scars - not the raised groove of fibrous tissue that has knit itself over an old injury, not a thing that Jonas can point at and say see? this is what happened to me, but metaphorical scars. Invisible scars. Spiritual marks, where it seems as though something set hooks in the fabric of Jonas's existence and stole pieces of him with it when they went.
He hardly has time to focus on any of them, with his attention being dragged in multiple directions -- to the cheering crowd at the forefront of the stage, crying out for music, for a performance that Set has no ability to carry. He can feel how Jonas's body is familiar with the motions, limber hands and arms and fingertips calloused from stroking strings, but he -- he, Set -- does not know how to use this body to do such things. He doesn't know music. What he does know, is that he can spot himself in the crowd by the vibrant red of his own hair, and he knows intimately that it is Jonas who is there.
The parade and final dregs of the musical competition are a hellscape, now. For them. ]
Hey!
[ His voice cracks. Youthful. He draws in a sharp breath and yells again, this time into the microphone. ]
Unhand him! The redhead you have your filthy hands on, yes! You know who I'm speaking to. Unhand him and step the hell away!
[ Set would like to hurl the stringed instrument at them, for good measure, but it may be something vital to Jonas's existence now. Some item that grounds him, and so it is clutched firmly in one hand as Set drives Jonas's broad-shouldered body from the stage and into the crowd, like a linebacker that's just spotted his target. He manhandles his way through the confusion, voices sparking shocked and incredulous: okay, so is he forfeiting? what's going on?, muttering rises around him as he reaches his own body.
It looks so pathetic, like this. ]
Jonas.
[ He calls to the young man, using his own voice. The inflections are Set's, unmistakably sharp and commanding as a god's ought to be - just, caught up in Jonas's accent. ]
yea there it is.....
He hardly has time to focus on any of them, with his attention being dragged in multiple directions -- to the cheering crowd at the forefront of the stage, crying out for music, for a performance that Set has no ability to carry. He can feel how Jonas's body is familiar with the motions, limber hands and arms and fingertips calloused from stroking strings, but he -- he, Set -- does not know how to use this body to do such things. He doesn't know music. What he does know, is that he can spot himself in the crowd by the vibrant red of his own hair, and he knows intimately that it is Jonas who is there.
The parade and final dregs of the musical competition are a hellscape, now. For them. ]
Hey!
[ His voice cracks. Youthful. He draws in a sharp breath and yells again, this time into the microphone. ]
Unhand him! The redhead you have your filthy hands on, yes! You know who I'm speaking to. Unhand him and step the hell away!
[ Set would like to hurl the stringed instrument at them, for good measure, but it may be something vital to Jonas's existence now. Some item that grounds him, and so it is clutched firmly in one hand as Set drives Jonas's broad-shouldered body from the stage and into the crowd, like a linebacker that's just spotted his target. He manhandles his way through the confusion, voices sparking shocked and incredulous: okay, so is he forfeiting? what's going on?, muttering rises around him as he reaches his own body.
It looks so pathetic, like this.]Jonas.
[ He calls to the young man, using his own voice. The inflections are Set's, unmistakably sharp and commanding as a god's ought to be - just, caught up in Jonas's accent. ]
Come with me. We're leaving this crowd.