[Just like three years ago, when frustration and mixed-messages had boiled between them to overflowing, left them both scalded, burned down to the bones of themselves. And Cain's words, the tightening of his grip that leaves him pinned - for a moment - in place, they subtly shame him into temporary silence. The sharpness that had come into his expression, his face that - currently - shows too much bone, it softens out slowly, and when the younger man's hand slides to cup the back of his neck he takes an unsteady breath, tries to solidify himself around that grounding touch.
He's behaving poorly, and he knows it. Knows that what Cain says is true-- he shouldn't toss about insults that could just as easily apply to himself. Doesn't want to sink back into old habits, wants to be better than the selfish, bitter person he had been back then. The person he probably still is.
Cain starts to turn and Julian's lips part around a response, but there's Asra, already answering, a denial right there on the tip of his tongue, that empty platitude--
--and it's all empty, he realises with startling abruptness. Sees the lie of it, right there in Asra's face. Sees it with a clarity with which he rarely sees anything, least of all the magician who has only ever been unknowable, infinitely distant, to him. Who he ought to believe cares nothing for him but there it is, this unshakable knowledge, like a seed unfurling at the centre of his chest. That every word passing Asra's lips, in this moment, is a lie.
His one visible eye narrows, for just a moment, and then he's shaking his head with a sigh. Sends russet curls tumbling into his angular face.]
Asra. Look, I'm...I'm sorry. I don't want to fight. Here of all places, where nothing is familiar and everything is strange we should...make an effort. Shouldn't we? You won't be intruding. And you know me, my dear, when do I ever rest? Come up with us, will you? Just for a bit.
[And he extends one leather-clad hand, a little tentatively, for the magician to take.]
no subject
He's behaving poorly, and he knows it. Knows that what Cain says is true-- he shouldn't toss about insults that could just as easily apply to himself. Doesn't want to sink back into old habits, wants to be better than the selfish, bitter person he had been back then. The person he probably still is.
Cain starts to turn and Julian's lips part around a response, but there's Asra, already answering, a denial right there on the tip of his tongue, that empty platitude--
--and it's all empty, he realises with startling abruptness. Sees the lie of it, right there in Asra's face. Sees it with a clarity with which he rarely sees anything, least of all the magician who has only ever been unknowable, infinitely distant, to him. Who he ought to believe cares nothing for him but there it is, this unshakable knowledge, like a seed unfurling at the centre of his chest. That every word passing Asra's lips, in this moment, is a lie.
His one visible eye narrows, for just a moment, and then he's shaking his head with a sigh. Sends russet curls tumbling into his angular face.]
Asra. Look, I'm...I'm sorry. I don't want to fight. Here of all places, where nothing is familiar and everything is strange we should...make an effort. Shouldn't we? You won't be intruding. And you know me, my dear, when do I ever rest? Come up with us, will you? Just for a bit.
[And he extends one leather-clad hand, a little tentatively, for the magician to take.]