I know that's not what you meant, is what his grey eyes say as he drops the topic without another word.
He leads her through the demon-infused crowd that’s mingling beneath the harsh, strobing streaks of light. He weaves past some, circling behind others, while carefully avoiding a handful altogether. He scans their faces for anything that might be a hint of unpredatory interest, eyes flickering to the COMP to see if the voices register.
Nothing.
In the silence he thinks that this is why he had tried so hard to keep things as they were back home—platonic and uninvolved. The more attached you became to someone, the harder it was to accept the less desirable things life had in store. The more difficult it was to accept that one future you had seen coming a long time ago, wondering, perhaps for the first time, if maybe there was something you could do to change it.
He looks up at the multi-colored lights that threaten to blind him, all of it suddenly as surreal as the racing undercurrent of music that seems to pulse beneath the floor like a heartbeat. At the demons that aren’t quite Shadows, at the cages, and the humans that co-exist in the space between. And then it hits him, harder than in the moments after he first opened his eyes, that he’s alive, for whatever reason. It’s September again (didn't he hear someone say that it was the first? Or is it the second by now?), and October 4th is still more than a month away. It’s almost like he’s been sent back to live that one month over again, except the world's a little more screwed up this time around.
“...I’ll think about it," he says. "The dancing thing.”
no subject
He leads her through the demon-infused crowd that’s mingling beneath the harsh, strobing streaks of light. He weaves past some, circling behind others, while carefully avoiding a handful altogether. He scans their faces for anything that might be a hint of unpredatory interest, eyes flickering to the COMP to see if the voices register.
Nothing.
In the silence he thinks that this is why he had tried so hard to keep things as they were back home—platonic and uninvolved. The more attached you became to someone, the harder it was to accept the less desirable things life had in store. The more difficult it was to accept that one future you had seen coming a long time ago, wondering, perhaps for the first time, if maybe there was something you could do to change it.
He looks up at the multi-colored lights that threaten to blind him, all of it suddenly as surreal as the racing undercurrent of music that seems to pulse beneath the floor like a heartbeat. At the demons that aren’t quite Shadows, at the cages, and the humans that co-exist in the space between. And then it hits him, harder than in the moments after he first opened his eyes, that he’s alive, for whatever reason. It’s September again (didn't he hear someone say that it was the first? Or is it the second by now?), and October 4th is still more than a month away. It’s almost like he’s been sent back to live that one month over again, except the world's a little more screwed up this time around.
“...I’ll think about it," he says. "The dancing thing.”