[ Give it to Sampo to prompt the visceral reaction he does, time after time, sparking and quenching fires inside him that shift from heat to chill on whim. A lingering memory that's never been acknowledged—at least, not in full. Is a memory a memory if neither parties refuse to accept its existence?
He misses the wink, but the cadence and laugh are all he needs to complete the picture himself: the way Sampo's eyes crinkle at their corners, the gleam of bright emerald eyes shining with amusement, and the way his head tilts back just enough to send his hair flipping with the movement. And he should laugh, too—but he doesn't. Instead, his heart stutters, and a cool front spreads its way across his chest, far colder than the sharp bite of the scalpel that had once pierced it.
It's
a little something like
anger. More than just a little, eyes fluttering open into what can only be classified as a glare. Still seated on the side of his bed, a hand bunches where Sampo's cloak is clasped all to tug him forward, roughly, to meet him eye-to-eye. ]
… No pulling out. [ He could mimic Sampo's lilt, easily. But these aren't the words of a distant memory, a distant dream. These are their words now, in a reality where they're
teetering on the edge of something,
a cliff past a rickety bridge, tone icy and heavy, with scantly restrained irritation. ] Is that right?
no subject
He misses the wink, but the cadence and laugh are all he needs to complete the picture himself: the way Sampo's eyes crinkle at their corners, the gleam of bright emerald eyes shining with amusement, and the way his head tilts back just enough to send his hair flipping with the movement. And he should laugh, too—but he doesn't. Instead, his heart stutters, and a cool front spreads its way across his chest, far colder than the sharp bite of the scalpel that had once pierced it.
It's
a little something like
anger. More than just a little, eyes fluttering open into what can only be classified as a glare. Still seated on the side of his bed, a hand bunches where Sampo's cloak is clasped all to tug him forward, roughly, to meet him eye-to-eye. ]
… No pulling out. [ He could mimic Sampo's lilt, easily. But these aren't the words of a distant memory, a distant dream. These are their words now, in a reality where they're
teetering on the edge of something,
a cliff past a rickety bridge, tone icy and heavy, with scantly restrained irritation. ] Is that right?