[ A place for the weary to rest their head, Lavi is not. Ordinarily, anyway, and the thoughtless contact is received with a quiet tilt of his brow, a questioning cant of his chin. He wouldn't think himself a very comfortable thing to lie on, but--
It's fine.
Just as it had been strange to have Yu touch his face and initiate proximity when it's ordinarily Lavi's task to do as much, it's fine. There's nothing strange about it if he doesn't make it so; only thinking has the power to shape that sort of perception.
So he doesn't let the musing linger, instead turning his mind to the side-effect of the action. It's distracting, looking down on the inky hair spread out like a satin curtain around pale skin, the slowly softening face contained in the black velvet.
Idly, Lavi pulls a hand out from behind his head to capture one of those dark locks (always reaching for it, always grateful for the easy nature of this touch), humming lightly to himself. At the softly uttered words, he lets his gaze leave the silk strands to track Yu's line of sight, lands on that hammer.
(Nostalgic for something he can't remember, a sense of belonging, of purpose and owning when he looks at it. There's a history there that even he can't see, but he thirsts for it without reprieve nonetheless.) ]
Picked it up a long time ago. Think it was a gift.
[ That's a lie; it was a weapon given by the hands of the militia he watched die and burn without flinch. He's never used it, but he's never had the heart to get rid of it either. Like a secret waiting to be told, the war hammer whispers in his ear unintelligibly at night, promises something great in its potential if he will only wait.
His turn to shrug now, though his action doesn't result in bumping ribs, jerk. He's forgotten the hair in his fingers, now mindlessly clutching it like a child seeking comfort, tethering himself to the thing that makes this world real. ]
..Anyway, that was a long time ago. [ Three years. ] I just think it looks cool now. Definitely cooler than a sword.
no subject
It's fine.
Just as it had been strange to have Yu touch his face and initiate proximity when it's ordinarily Lavi's task to do as much, it's fine. There's nothing strange about it if he doesn't make it so; only thinking has the power to shape that sort of perception.
So he doesn't let the musing linger, instead turning his mind to the side-effect of the action. It's distracting, looking down on the inky hair spread out like a satin curtain around pale skin, the slowly softening face contained in the black velvet.
Idly, Lavi pulls a hand out from behind his head to capture one of those dark locks (always reaching for it, always grateful for the easy nature of this touch), humming lightly to himself. At the softly uttered words, he lets his gaze leave the silk strands to track Yu's line of sight, lands on that hammer.
(Nostalgic for something he can't remember, a sense of belonging, of purpose and owning when he looks at it. There's a history there that even he can't see, but he thirsts for it without reprieve nonetheless.) ]
Picked it up a long time ago. Think it was a gift.
[ That's a lie; it was a weapon given by the hands of the militia he watched die and burn without flinch. He's never used it, but he's never had the heart to get rid of it either. Like a secret waiting to be told, the war hammer whispers in his ear unintelligibly at night, promises something great in its potential if he will only wait.
His turn to shrug now, though his action doesn't result in bumping ribs, jerk. He's forgotten the hair in his fingers, now mindlessly clutching it like a child seeking comfort, tethering himself to the thing that makes this world real. ]
..Anyway, that was a long time ago. [ Three years. ] I just think it looks cool now. Definitely cooler than a sword.