[ Last son of the House Belmont. It sounds archaic and overly formal, but clearly means something. Orphans are still a universal thing, even across time. That's not surprising at all.
The offered hand gives him pause. Sharkface twitches, waiting a beat too long before taking Trevor's hand gingerly. He doesn't like touching people these days, and especially not out of armor, but right now he's pretending to be normal and acting like a psychopath isn't going to make that any easier.
Suck it up. Stand up straight and don't lose your shit, and it'll be fine. ]
Ephemera.
[ No house, whatever that means. It's only half a lie, anyway. The name still feels wrong, on a fundamental level, but it's the one he's been giving out and thus he's stuck with it. There's nothing left to do but commit.
Trevor's hands are callused and strong. Unsurprising. Sharkface's are peppered with burns and little scars, and black rings tattooed around his fingers. Most of them have been broken and set more than once.
It's strange to touch another person after so long, and not mean them any harm by it. And for a moment that's all there is, that strangeness and weird, quasi-uncomfortable intimacy of touch. It's been years, literal years, since he's touched another person outside of a fight. It feels like a trick, like something that can't possibly last.
Then it goes strange. There's a sudden flush of fondness and surprise at how the moment is going, a stranger showing small kindness to another, and an underlay of deeper frustration, the feeling of being trapped and not knowing where the attack will come from but knowing it will come, because of course it will. And none of it belongs to him. It belongs to Trevor, this man with the scarred face and easy manor, who Sharkface stupidly let his guard down to.
Sharkface jerks back, going into stance without thinking about it. There's a knife in his hand and his good eye is wide and furious. ]
no subject
The offered hand gives him pause. Sharkface twitches, waiting a beat too long before taking Trevor's hand gingerly. He doesn't like touching people these days, and especially not out of armor, but right now he's pretending to be normal and acting like a psychopath isn't going to make that any easier.
Suck it up. Stand up straight and don't lose your shit, and it'll be fine. ]
Ephemera.
[ No house, whatever that means. It's only half a lie, anyway. The name still feels wrong, on a fundamental level, but it's the one he's been giving out and thus he's stuck with it. There's nothing left to do but commit.
Trevor's hands are callused and strong. Unsurprising. Sharkface's are peppered with burns and little scars, and black rings tattooed around his fingers. Most of them have been broken and set more than once.
It's strange to touch another person after so long, and not mean them any harm by it. And for a moment that's all there is, that strangeness and weird, quasi-uncomfortable intimacy of touch. It's been years, literal years, since he's touched another person outside of a fight. It feels like a trick, like something that can't possibly last.
Then it goes strange. There's a sudden flush of fondness and surprise at how the moment is going, a stranger showing small kindness to another, and an underlay of deeper frustration, the feeling of being trapped and not knowing where the attack will come from but knowing it will come, because of course it will. And none of it belongs to him. It belongs to Trevor, this man with the scarred face and easy manor, who Sharkface stupidly let his guard down to.
Sharkface jerks back, going into stance without thinking about it. There's a knife in his hand and his good eye is wide and furious. ]
Don't.