[This is not the place for this, though Barnabas barely cares what others might think of him. Even if they were to see this vulnerability, it mattered little in the end for he was not a man who cared to prove himself to any besides God Himself. He was not Titan, performative in his masculinity and command, using it as a mask to shield the fragility of his truth. No, none could strike Barnabas where it mattered, where it counted, for God had granted him the very means to shore up any mortal weaknesses, and he was well beyond the needs of ego.
Sure, this bond could be seen as that, yet Sleipnir was by all means immortal, loyal, and an indelible part of Barnabas. He could not be taken from him, not in any meaningful way, or...so Barnabas had once thought, till this world proved otherwise. Now, that yearning and loss wars with his conditioned apatheia. A blind spot of self-awareness surfacing that he ordinarily would not suffer if not for the oddity of his circumstance, of this loss and denial he's suffered for a year...
Sleipnir's hand on his own and the other pressing upon his chest is a balm he cannot well describe, but his eyes manage it well enough on their own. The idea of racing chocobos utterly forgotten, Barnabas allows himself this moment of soul-weary respite under the touch of his creation. Of his should-be constant companion.]
Of no fault of your own, a year has marked your absence.
[His gaze traces over the fine and beautiful features that make up Sleipnir's youthful face, like a lover reunited after an insufferable distance. Though his expression might look reserved to those unfamiliar with his measured stoicism, to Sleipnir, Barnabas may as well be downright emotional.
There is almost a hesitance in breaking their eye contact as Barnabas finally regards what is around them, the chocobos, the bots, the other potential riders... Conflict hardens his expression as duty presses to the fore of his mind, despite how his heart yearns to simply bask in this moment of blissful reunion.]
no subject
Sure, this bond could be seen as that, yet Sleipnir was by all means immortal, loyal, and an indelible part of Barnabas. He could not be taken from him, not in any meaningful way, or...so Barnabas had once thought, till this world proved otherwise. Now, that yearning and loss wars with his conditioned apatheia. A blind spot of self-awareness surfacing that he ordinarily would not suffer if not for the oddity of his circumstance, of this loss and denial he's suffered for a year...
Sleipnir's hand on his own and the other pressing upon his chest is a balm he cannot well describe, but his eyes manage it well enough on their own. The idea of racing chocobos utterly forgotten, Barnabas allows himself this moment of soul-weary respite under the touch of his creation. Of his should-be constant companion.]
Of no fault of your own, a year has marked your absence.
[His gaze traces over the fine and beautiful features that make up Sleipnir's youthful face, like a lover reunited after an insufferable distance. Though his expression might look reserved to those unfamiliar with his measured stoicism, to Sleipnir, Barnabas may as well be downright emotional.
There is almost a hesitance in breaking their eye contact as Barnabas finally regards what is around them, the chocobos, the bots, the other potential riders... Conflict hardens his expression as duty presses to the fore of his mind, despite how his heart yearns to simply bask in this moment of blissful reunion.]