[ There is a lot going on here. The dino's new, for one, and John could say something about how this house collects dinosaurs— present company all included, ha ha— but he can't get anything out around the way Augustine looks at him, around the cracked-open flush of misery on his face.
His Saint moves too fast, and it's hard to track if that's drunkenness or someone bending the rules around him. Hard to track anything except the push and prod of Augustine's fingers at the back of his head, catching through his hair. John makes a sound of complaint low in his throat, but Augustine doesn't yield— and so he goes, for once, obediently still.
His hands flex around the slim lines of the shrike in his arms. He closes his eyes.
He still feels it, when Augustine wipes his blood to nothing. God's breath catches in a stunned and ugly hitch. This ritual isn't one he knows; he has lost the both of them to it, and sits still as stone to mourn the distance. ]
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His Saint moves too fast, and it's hard to track if that's drunkenness or someone bending the rules around him. Hard to track anything except the push and prod of Augustine's fingers at the back of his head, catching through his hair. John makes a sound of complaint low in his throat, but Augustine doesn't yield— and so he goes, for once, obediently still.
His hands flex around the slim lines of the shrike in his arms. He closes his eyes.
He still feels it, when Augustine wipes his blood to nothing. God's breath catches in a stunned and ugly hitch. This ritual isn't one he knows; he has lost the both of them to it, and sits still as stone to mourn the distance. ]