[ Paul should know better. He does know better, encoded in the faint webs of scars that lace his hands, in the less tangible incision that's been stitched shut in his heart. Daniel offers him help, unconditionally, and Paul splits into halves.
It's a balm. Daniel toes the line of respect when he offers his help, if Paul ever needs it, but the help is still offered. It takes integrity of character to do that for anyone, let alone a rival's student - but Daniel doesn't seem to see Paul like that. He sees something else, and it might be the part of him that wants to lean into the comfort of that extended lifeline.
It's a sting. There is nothing on Paul's shoulder, but he feels the warm weight of a hand anchoring him to the earth, and his stomach flips in slippery dizziness as he finds another passing shadow to focus on. It's not a flinch. He is very careful that it is not a flinch, all of him pinned down under stilled control.
He should offer help back, or something else of value. Assert himself as someone who does not need any of Daniel's help, however earnestly offered. He has Johnny, and he can count on him; there will never be a time when he doesn't. He believes that. He knows that he does. ]
All right.
[ He's barely louder than the background chorus of creaking ships and shifting waters. It's nearly like saying yes. It's not saying no. It's a compromise he strikes in the moment that already doesn't feel like enough of anything, but is a shell, like the ones of the scuttling borrower crabs, he can make a shelter in for now.
(But what is it that he takes shelter from?)
Paul pivots outward, towards the sunken ships, and sets off with his tongue still sticking to the roof of his mouth. ]
no subject
It's a balm. Daniel toes the line of respect when he offers his help, if Paul ever needs it, but the help is still offered. It takes integrity of character to do that for anyone, let alone a rival's student - but Daniel doesn't seem to see Paul like that. He sees something else, and it might be the part of him that wants to lean into the comfort of that extended lifeline.
It's a sting. There is nothing on Paul's shoulder, but he feels the warm weight of a hand anchoring him to the earth, and his stomach flips in slippery dizziness as he finds another passing shadow to focus on. It's not a flinch. He is very careful that it is not a flinch, all of him pinned down under stilled control.
He should offer help back, or something else of value. Assert himself as someone who does not need any of Daniel's help, however earnestly offered. He has Johnny, and he can count on him; there will never be a time when he doesn't. He believes that. He knows that he does. ]
All right.
[ He's barely louder than the background chorus of creaking ships and shifting waters. It's nearly like saying yes. It's not saying no. It's a compromise he strikes in the moment that already doesn't feel like enough of anything, but is a shell, like the ones of the scuttling borrower crabs, he can make a shelter in for now.
(But what is it that he takes shelter from?)
Paul pivots outward, towards the sunken ships, and sets off with his tongue still sticking to the roof of his mouth. ]