Thank me? [ A laugh lilts in his throat, more certain than before, more upright. ] Oh, be careful. This place might get jealous.
[ A wink, a sundering gesture flashed too easily. She might get a taste of his mind's eye, a visual built over many months — puffed feathers, glossed and ornate. Eyes. Teeth. A creature that breathes with its maw poised around them, ready to snap and pitch them into the dim clutch below. Anything could live there if one was brave enough to venture in and discover it. Kizuna navigates it well; he's navigating it even now, that feather's edge. What does it say about him, that the brief splashes and tethers of her resonance are welcome in defiance of it. He can't help it, being what he is. He borrows the sensation of her wings, the soft, errant knowledge of her rhetorical question answered by his refracted empathy. No, they cannot go out. Only up. ]
The resort is always as cold or as warm as you'd like it to be. [ He smiles and it's knowing at its corners. ] Unnerving, right? But also really convenient...
[ Kizuna casts a glance aside as if he's also just now realizing that they are, in fact, ensconced in impenetrable concrete. ]
There's nothing saying you can't adopt such a dress code if you find it to be more comfortable. If I can — [ While she's puzzling the coat problem, he's thumbing through the racks, through dresses with sequins, fringe, settling on something blue and fluttery. Unflattering cut, but what can you do when the Peacock loves a good bit. He beckons her for the trenchcoat. At his core, one thing is always true: he's always on the lookout for a solution to a problem. ] I'll lend you my wingspan for a second.
[ (he also tragically loves a good bit)
A brief shuffle towards a nearby car sees him opening its back door, inviting her to stand between its angle and swap him garments. Shaking out the trenchcoat, he lifts his arms and holds it up like a curtain as the other angle to this makeshift dressing room. His eyes remain modestly behind the collar. For the sake of the bit. ]
no subject
[ A wink, a sundering gesture flashed too easily. She might get a taste of his mind's eye, a visual built over many months — puffed feathers, glossed and ornate. Eyes. Teeth. A creature that breathes with its maw poised around them, ready to snap and pitch them into the dim clutch below. Anything could live there if one was brave enough to venture in and discover it. Kizuna navigates it well; he's navigating it even now, that feather's edge. What does it say about him, that the brief splashes and tethers of her resonance are welcome in defiance of it. He can't help it, being what he is. He borrows the sensation of her wings, the soft, errant knowledge of her rhetorical question answered by his refracted empathy. No, they cannot go out. Only up. ]
The resort is always as cold or as warm as you'd like it to be. [ He smiles and it's knowing at its corners. ] Unnerving, right? But also really convenient...
[ Kizuna casts a glance aside as if he's also just now realizing that they are, in fact, ensconced in impenetrable concrete. ]
There's nothing saying you can't adopt such a dress code if you find it to be more comfortable. If I can — [ While she's puzzling the coat problem, he's thumbing through the racks, through dresses with sequins, fringe, settling on something blue and fluttery. Unflattering cut, but what can you do when the Peacock loves a good bit. He beckons her for the trenchcoat. At his core, one thing is always true: he's always on the lookout for a solution to a problem. ] I'll lend you my wingspan for a second.
[ (he also tragically loves a good bit)
A brief shuffle towards a nearby car sees him opening its back door, inviting her to stand between its angle and swap him garments. Shaking out the trenchcoat, he lifts his arms and holds it up like a curtain as the other angle to this makeshift dressing room. His eyes remain modestly behind the collar. For the sake of the bit. ]
Now, how's that?