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“...so, you're Blade?”
The silence is permeable in the air. Ever since he got permission to join the Stellaron Hunters, he’s gotten along with Kafka — Elio nodded vaguely and said this was in the script — Firefly looked slightly suspicious, but seemed to be fine with it — and Silver Wolf just invited him to a gaming tournament.
Blade doesn't seem to like him.
He's the only one who hasn't talked to him so far; the only one who has only glared at him from across the room. Wonweek has tried to talk to everyone, and then–
And then there's Blade. He hasn't even given it a go: the guy hates him, and they've just met. His eyes — his eyes keep staring directly through him, crimson-orange. What's with this guy? Does he want him dead?
So the whole time Wonweek's just been sitting in the corner, staring out at the stars, watching them rush by like tiny pinpricks of light in vast, swirling water.
They spell out– they spell out–
Breathe in. Breathe out. There will be no blood on his hands, not today. Not after– breathe.
He digs his nails into his palms — gloved hands stop the blood from seeping out, dripping onto the floor. Stop him from fucking everything up again, and this time he decides he's done with waiting and dancing around the point in a polite show of politics.
So that's what brings him here, arms crossed and facing Blade. He's taller than him, just slightly– his shoes have tiny heels, but he looks up at him still, head tilted up to make eye contact.
“You're Blade, right?” he insists, shifting so a hand is on his hip instead. His clothes feel too-much on his skin (a tight sleeveless turtleneck that clings to him a little too much to be comfortable, black jeans and a matching jacket.), and he thinks he's going to throw up.
Ugh. He sounds like Sunday.
It's three, four, five seconds before he gets an answer. Eventually, there's a, “yes.” Descriptive; thanks, buddy. He doesn't seem particularly interested in him, but still at the same time his voice isn't… rude, or particularly standoffish. It's just blunt, if nothing.
And Wonweek can work with blunt.
“And you know me, I guess? Wonweek, if you don't,” he continues, bullshitting his way through the conversation. “From Penacony. Robin's twin brother? Uh, technically. Really, it's complicated.”
Blade raises his eyebrows. Wonweek gets a sudden surge of energy– an expression change. That's more than he's gotten for ages. Thank fuck.
So he continues talking. “I mean, does it really count as being her brother when I'm just… an alternate form of her real brother? What am I, really?; from another dimension, or…” Wonweek shrugs. “Interesting to think about, if nothing. Don't you think so?”
“It is.” Ha! “Are you the beginning, or is he? Are you two lives running side by side, or are you something else entirely? The memories you have — are they yours truly, or only fabricated?” After saying all this, Blade descends back into silence.
Wonweek blinks rapidly. Well, he wasn't expecting that. “Some real interesting words you got there. Thought you'd be a man of less words, really.”
Blade seems to pause before speaking again, but he does all the same. “You don't always need many words to convey the point. It starts to get frivolous.”
“I truly dislike frivolous people.” Sunday never stops following him, it seems. “Fair enough. You think I'm frivolous, then?” he jokes.
Although, he seems to take this seriously. “...you have a lot to say,” he says eventually. “The Stellaron Hunters are not a family in a way you may recognise. You expect us to be tight-knit, to know everything about one another. We only banded together for a common purpose.”
He pauses.
“...you aren't tight-knit?” Wonweek raises an eyebrow. “Forgive me, but I don't believe that. You do know everything about one another, no? I've– seen that. And I've barely been here a week.”
Blade does not answer to that. Wonweek, all of a sudden, feels sick to his stomach, the rotting taste of mistakes on his tongue. So he laughs lightly instead. “I have a lot to say? Aww, should I take offense to that?” And curses himself immediately for it; what the fuck kind of thing was that to say? Aeons, Wonweek.
But for some reason, there doesn't seem to be any complaint to it. “I didn't mean you overused your words,” he says. Blunt again. “I meant you just use a lot of them.” He raises his eyebrow at the taller man — elaborate? — and he does. “If you used all those words for one idea, that would be frivolous. But you had lots of ideas. It doesn't count.”
He blinks again, one of his wings twitching. The false halo behind his head, looking slightly like Sunday's but different in the colour of the eyes and the slightly more silvery sheen to it, glows ever-so-slightly brighter for a second.
Just a second, though.
“Huh. You have a point,” he shrugs. “I'll take that as a compliment, then.” Wonweek watches Blade's lips curl up just slightly, and, well– he'll count that as a win.
“If you want,” is all he says, though. “I won't take offense either way.”
Wonweek snorts in laughter. “Didn't think you would. You don't give me the impression of someone who'd care either way — if you know what I mean?” Judging by the small hum of affirmation, he does.
He opens his mouth to speak for a second, before he's interrupted.
“That gaming tournament?” Silver Wolf calls from the other room. Isolde is in there too, apparently, judging by the expensive accent chattering away animatedly as Silver Wolf hums in affirmation once in a while– clearly paying attention, but letting Isolde talk.
Wonweek turns back to Blade, who seems to nod in understanding. “I gotta go,” he says anyway, and places a hand on his chest, bows in that Oak Family manner, then straightens up and grins at him.
“I'll see you around.”