06-17-2018, 05:18 AM
Wisdom learned long ago from the master, one of the first lessons ever taught: nothing is perfect. Perfection may become the goal, the glistening endpoint one aspires to, but it may never be attained. Or, put another way: the striving becomes the attainment. Seiji does not expect the winged man above to know these patterns. He expects nothing concrete — only the free expression of himself. There is a time, a time immeasurable, where the two of them communicate in the way most native to Seiji's body. He forgets his stolen voice; it was never the truest thing about him, anyway. Their shadows dance: a waltz of distance, a waltz of silence, two dreamers reaching out to brush against each other. At last, Seiji stills. Sweat darkens the impossibly dark skin of his flanks. His sides heave, giddy with exertion, and he throws his head back to gaze at Waker. His veins flood with something, something dark and brilliant. Something he had nearly forgotten. But he stills, now. He should not push himself too hard. He's out of practice, truly, his body accustomed to walking but no longer to the other things which once made his name among the people of his homeland. He takes some time to catch his breath. Now he remembers he cannot speak. Now — because he wants to. He wants to tell Waker his name. He wants to say, Where did you learn to dance? though he has a strange feeling Waker has never danced before. Not like this. Not — to transcend meaning. Seiji's tail flicks, and in a single smooth movement he rears. Gestures up with one forelimb, like a wave. Come down here? Though he doesn't know what he intends. Only — connection. Burning in him now is a ghost of the feeling he had with…... Well. A feeling familiar to him. (another memory like a distant flame, fading) |
@Waker