It's a little lurch of concern and instinct; Ozpin stumbles, off-kilter with the secondhand sensation of going under. He is too freshly alive again to properly separate between them, and so everything bleeds together. It isn't distressing, exactly— this he knows like breathing, like the growing pains of any new life— but it means he isn't altogether elegant as he sloshes upright among the breaking waves. Ozpin doesn't pitch over, but he does blink owlishly (and unhelpfully) at the water where Oscar just went down.
Are you alright, Oscar?
The words are rote, light. Beneath them is an unspoken swell of relief, warm as sunshine: it has been so long since he saw the boy himself.
Even with the salt in his eyes, the sharp rocks under his bare feet, it feels like a rebirth and a victory.
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It's a little lurch of concern and instinct; Ozpin stumbles, off-kilter with the secondhand sensation of going under. He is too freshly alive again to properly separate between them, and so everything bleeds together. It isn't distressing, exactly— this he knows like breathing, like the growing pains of any new life— but it means he isn't altogether elegant as he sloshes upright among the breaking waves. Ozpin doesn't pitch over, but he does blink owlishly (and unhelpfully) at the water where Oscar just went down.
Are you alright, Oscar?
The words are rote, light. Beneath them is an unspoken swell of relief, warm as sunshine: it has been so long since he saw the boy himself.
Even with the salt in his eyes, the sharp rocks under his bare feet, it feels like a rebirth and a victory.