[ He recognizes the expression on Stanford's face. It feels like standing at the edge of a precipice, some terribly long fall. There will be nothing good at the bottom.
He is so keenly aware of the thrill of falling.
Ozpin looks back at him, and knows he ought to be ashamed of whatever shows in his eyes: they are bright and unnatural again, pupils flared, the shape subtly inhuman. His voice has dropped low, barely audible under the music and the movement of the party. He has to shift forward, into the space between them, to be heard— and because he urgently needs to see Stanford step back, away from him, to let this moment be broken. He does not know what he might do if it isn't. ]
no subject
He is so keenly aware of the thrill of falling.
Ozpin looks back at him, and knows he ought to be ashamed of whatever shows in his eyes: they are bright and unnatural again, pupils flared, the shape subtly inhuman. His voice has dropped low, barely audible under the music and the movement of the party. He has to shift forward, into the space between them, to be heard— and because he urgently needs to see Stanford step back, away from him, to let this moment be broken. He does not know what he might do if it isn't. ]
You already know.