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Golden were the predator's eyes.
And though his prey did watch in turn, he was not the one backed; defiance held together with bark and the old growth of sturdy trunk.
He had wondered (errant little things, thoughts) how that stubbled jaw would feel beneath his fingers. For he was familiar - perhaps all too so - with worn leather and cold steel; with cooling blood and spilt flesh. But Yasuo's blood remained safely within his veins, and his skin remained knitted across his face.
Rough, he decided, but not unpleasantly so.
Still, those eyes watched him. Though he did not shrink from his gaze; would not back down from the challenge; something inside him fluttered too in response. Squirmed, as though his gaze could reach into him and touch that thing yet unnamed.
As though he could be seen and known, soft in the head as Yasuo had proven himself to be.
And that sweet hand of his, scarred with the memories of blades and perfection, fell lower still, following his neck to rest at the hollow of his neck. Loosely, it lay there, though the promise remained. And those predator eyes dared him too - to challenge him; give him a reason to choke the life from him and leave him for dead amidst the purple-leafed trees and the shade of whispering ghosts.
Instead, he laughed; the fond, deep chuckle that brought colour to his cheeks and something akin to frustration deep within him. Yes, frustration indeed! That he would dare look at him, as though he could with eyes alone cut away shadow and steel and ghosts and memories and find him, raw and bleeding.
"Tch." He clicked his tongue and looked away as his hand fell lower still.
Aflame did those predator eyes burn, when his gaze turned back; hand over his beating chest as still that promise coiled. For though he was a blade, so too was his hand and so too was his self and so too was the blade beside him. And beneath his hand lay the infuriating, maddening heart through which this infuriating, maddening man's blood flowed.
And oh, how simple it would be, to carve it out. Would he laugh the way he does, then? Would he eyes stay maddeningly; infuriatingly kind, as though he was taking Talon apart instead?
Would he curse him; call him a Noxian dog and haunt him for ever?
Gods, those eyes could take him apart.
And so, his palm left the infuriating, maddening, beat of his heart to instead cover his eyes; save him from the scrutiny of being seen.
Perhaps it was the boldness; the bravery of no longer being seen; that spurred him on. For it was but a breath between then and now .
Now , as the beating of Yasuo's heart echoed in his skull; ear pressed against bare chest and something that was akin to frustration once more colouring his cheeks. For the man was a mystery and though Talon knew many and had seen through many more, he somehow could not know Yasuo.
Not as the gentle knowing and the kind hands taking him apart; bloody and bleeding and raw and exposed; eluded him.
But here . Here beneath his ear lay the heart of a man who could be killed. Who would die if Talon's blade, angled just so, sliced through skin and sinew and viscera. And who would know, if the shades would not mourn him? If Talon, too, would not mourn the foolish swordsman who once stopped to aid a Noxian stranger?
And instead, there was a hand upon his head, and worn fingers carding through unkempt hair.
And golden were those predator eyes, though they closed .
And Talon was still.