When you phrase it like that… Well then. Good for you. I’m glad that you have the confidence to be able to do that.
[For whatever reason, being put in a category of strength with Barnabas both makes Clive feel a sense of pride and also of confusion. Barnabas has kicked his ass both times they have fought. It makes sense that he can beat Sleipnir, but still. He doesn’t feel like he deserves to be in a battle bracket with Barnabas. Not yet.]
There’s nothing wrong with it. I’m just not used to the compliment. So thank you for the lovely compliment, Sleipnir.
[Clive takes a sip of his wine, not really expecting to settle into a long description of Barnabas, but oh was he wrong. Wine forgotten, Clive finds himself leaning into Sleipnir’s description, his story. And that’s what this is, isn’t it? A condensation of Barnabas Tharmr. Not in a way that diminishes the man, but in a way that makes him so much more.
Clive closes his eyes, imagining the man as Sleipnir describes him. From the ground up, from his foundation. He can see those unbent back, head held high and proud. What trips him up, at first, is how Sleipnir describes his hands. Beautiful, that can hold something as tenderly as they can bring pain. He tries to see those hands, picture them, and he cannot. Clive frowns and opens his eyes to watch Sleipnir again.
But he isn’t done. Clive’s heart ricochets in his chest. Those lips that have teased him, brushed warm air, threats, and disappointment across his skin. But what makes him want to grab Sleipnir, ask him to stop is the pain. The painful whispers, screaming, cradled and hidden pain. And he sees it in Sleipnir. In the sorrow in his eyes, the softness of his voice. Before him is a man who loves so deeply and completely, to the point where he wears the pain of the man he loves with him.
He wants to look away, hide the questions, curiosity, and conflict in his eyes. Wants to hide that tiny part of him, buried deep down in layer after layer of ash, rubble, and brimstone that longs for something like this, for someone to look at him like this. But he can’t. Not with that sadness still lurking in Sleipnir’s eyes, with that love in them.
Sleipnir’s voice breaks the spell and Clive tears his eyes away, but doesn’t turn. He should look, make eye contact with Sleipnir as he stumbles through his frustration. Until he hears Sleipnir say that he is pained and upset, not over Clive, but for him. His eyes snap back, locking onto the other man’s, searching. For what, he isn’t sure.
’rather you should have been cared for better already.’
Clive grabs his glass and slams the rest of the wine. He tilts his body away but doesn’t turn all the way to face the bar. Waiving the bartender over he orders something harder and takes what was probably the 2nd too many shots of rum of the night. He puts his hand over the glass when the bartender lifts the bottle to offer another pour.]
I… don’t know what to say to that. Why do you even care? What have I done that warrants any of that?
no subject
[For whatever reason, being put in a category of strength with Barnabas both makes Clive feel a sense of pride and also of confusion. Barnabas has kicked his ass both times they have fought. It makes sense that he can beat Sleipnir, but still. He doesn’t feel like he deserves to be in a battle bracket with Barnabas. Not yet.]
There’s nothing wrong with it. I’m just not used to the compliment. So thank you for the lovely compliment, Sleipnir.
[Clive takes a sip of his wine, not really expecting to settle into a long description of Barnabas, but oh was he wrong. Wine forgotten, Clive finds himself leaning into Sleipnir’s description, his story. And that’s what this is, isn’t it? A condensation of Barnabas Tharmr. Not in a way that diminishes the man, but in a way that makes him so much more.
Clive closes his eyes, imagining the man as Sleipnir describes him. From the ground up, from his foundation. He can see those unbent back, head held high and proud. What trips him up, at first, is how Sleipnir describes his hands. Beautiful, that can hold something as tenderly as they can bring pain. He tries to see those hands, picture them, and he cannot. Clive frowns and opens his eyes to watch Sleipnir again.
But he isn’t done. Clive’s heart ricochets in his chest. Those lips that have teased him, brushed warm air, threats, and disappointment across his skin. But what makes him want to grab Sleipnir, ask him to stop is the pain. The painful whispers, screaming, cradled and hidden pain. And he sees it in Sleipnir. In the sorrow in his eyes, the softness of his voice. Before him is a man who loves so deeply and completely, to the point where he wears the pain of the man he loves with him.
He wants to look away, hide the questions, curiosity, and conflict in his eyes. Wants to hide that tiny part of him, buried deep down in layer after layer of ash, rubble, and brimstone that longs for something like this, for someone to look at him like this. But he can’t. Not with that sadness still lurking in Sleipnir’s eyes, with that love in them.
Sleipnir’s voice breaks the spell and Clive tears his eyes away, but doesn’t turn. He should look, make eye contact with Sleipnir as he stumbles through his frustration. Until he hears Sleipnir say that he is pained and upset, not over Clive, but for him. His eyes snap back, locking onto the other man’s, searching. For what, he isn’t sure.
’rather you should have been cared for better already.’
Clive grabs his glass and slams the rest of the wine. He tilts his body away but doesn’t turn all the way to face the bar. Waiving the bartender over he orders something harder and takes what was probably the 2nd too many shots of rum of the night. He puts his hand over the glass when the bartender lifts the bottle to offer another pour.]
I… don’t know what to say to that. Why do you even care? What have I done that warrants any of that?