[ None would be faulted for calling Emil a sentimental fool; for what reason should he trust a stranger who stole into his home, who attacked without warning, who for whatever reason needs to drink another living being's blood to satisfy some animal need, who possesses a power that Emil has come to identify as paracausal and could go back on his word once his appetite is sated?
On the edge of his property, an Exo and his beloved are dealing with whatever situation has driven them to request to stay here, whether they're still there or have gone somewhere else, he doesn't know. It's only the very suggestion that they might come to harm when he might have still bartered for their safety that motivates Emil, that and a reluctance to unleash hiw power even on someone who could meet him on level ground.
But that quiet yes appears to be enough. In a show of trust to the debatably deserving, Emil gracelessly staggers into sitting, less by his own power than it is by another's, clumsy for the lopsided view of the world with his head so wrenched to the side.
The stranger observes his manners in a way that makes a terrified part of his brain bark mental laughter in response, incredulously; Emil feels breath on his sore neck and squeezes shut his eyes, the flinching blink painting a wet stripe across the bridge of his nose, down sideways along his cheekbone and into the hollow of his ear, first hot and then rapidly cold. Even if he blindly hopes in the reassurance that this man isn't here to kill him, Emil whimpers at the pinch of teeth.
In the moments that follow, the color drains out of everything, washed cool by the light of the moon slanting into the hole where his balcony had been. His skin pricks up into goosebumps but not solely because of the chill wind, physically reminded of the time when his body started to cover over in hard purple crystal. None of that stiffness, that cold, painful paralysis comes, but he feels depleted, the sapphire inside his breastbone growing duller by the moment.
It's this unmoored feeling, like he's in danger of spiraling out into nothing that makes him reach up so abruptly into the dark silk of Itachi's hair, gathering his fist without attempting to push or pull. If he even has the opportunity to look back, Emil may or may not recognize the problem in surrendering without a fight, he might wonder why, if all he needed was manna, he couldn't just ask for Synchrony.
For now it doesn't seem as important as keeping himself from shaking apart. ]
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On the edge of his property, an Exo and his beloved are dealing with whatever situation has driven them to request to stay here, whether they're still there or have gone somewhere else, he doesn't know. It's only the very suggestion that they might come to harm when he might have still bartered for their safety that motivates Emil, that and a reluctance to unleash hiw power even on someone who could meet him on level ground.
But that quiet yes appears to be enough. In a show of trust to the debatably deserving, Emil gracelessly staggers into sitting, less by his own power than it is by another's, clumsy for the lopsided view of the world with his head so wrenched to the side.
The stranger observes his manners in a way that makes a terrified part of his brain bark mental laughter in response, incredulously; Emil feels breath on his sore neck and squeezes shut his eyes, the flinching blink painting a wet stripe across the bridge of his nose, down sideways along his cheekbone and into the hollow of his ear, first hot and then rapidly cold. Even if he blindly hopes in the reassurance that this man isn't here to kill him, Emil whimpers at the pinch of teeth.
In the moments that follow, the color drains out of everything, washed cool by the light of the moon slanting into the hole where his balcony had been. His skin pricks up into goosebumps but not solely because of the chill wind, physically reminded of the time when his body started to cover over in hard purple crystal. None of that stiffness, that cold, painful paralysis comes, but he feels depleted, the sapphire inside his breastbone growing duller by the moment.
It's this unmoored feeling, like he's in danger of spiraling out into nothing that makes him reach up so abruptly into the dark silk of Itachi's hair, gathering his fist without attempting to push or pull. If he even has the opportunity to look back, Emil may or may not recognize the problem in surrendering without a fight, he might wonder why, if all he needed was manna, he couldn't just ask for Synchrony.
For now it doesn't seem as important as keeping himself from shaking apart. ]