[ Set's mind is a mess of contradictions that are natural and not at all at war. He is able to slice pieces of himself into incomprehensibly complex shapes in order to fit the strange uniqueness of each individual he meets; there is no mold, when it comes to how Set will act, react and decide upon his treatment of each soul. He dislikes the idea of 'mortals', as a principle, scorns them... and yet, still endeavors to hold each one before his eyes as someone to study, to engage with.
Maybe that is why, Liem continues to surprise him. The way he gouges his blade into the hosta they are still mildly confined in, in order to hold him. It hurts, cuts deeply. To think that someone he'd just brutalized could still find something in himself to do anything other than thrust him away, in rejection. Liem entrusts the decision to Set, and he feels something fragile grind within his chest, like the broken edges of bone rasping too-roughly against one another. Whittling it down so it won't ever be the same shape that it once was. A fragmentation, caused by some unknowing, delicate blow. ]
— thank you.
[ Gratitude is a messy thing, from Set. It is there, in the way his stomach clenches, the way his shoulders curve into a defensive hunch, knees digging into Liem's waist as he lowers himself further atop him. Set stretches like a cat, once he presses himself into the other man's hold, lengthening himself with driven purpose. As he lifts his chin at an angle, to bare the line of his throat, one hand breaks free of where he had found the point of Liem's ear, to reach behind his head and draw the curtain of red hair aside and over one shoulder. ]
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Maybe that is why, Liem continues to surprise him. The way he gouges his blade into the hosta they are still mildly confined in, in order to hold him. It hurts, cuts deeply. To think that someone he'd just brutalized could still find something in himself to do anything other than thrust him away, in rejection. Liem entrusts the decision to Set, and he feels something fragile grind within his chest, like the broken edges of bone rasping too-roughly against one another. Whittling it down so it won't ever be the same shape that it once was. A fragmentation, caused by some unknowing, delicate blow. ]
— thank you.
[ Gratitude is a messy thing, from Set. It is there, in the way his stomach clenches, the way his shoulders curve into a defensive hunch, knees digging into Liem's waist as he lowers himself further atop him. Set stretches like a cat, once he presses himself into the other man's hold, lengthening himself with driven purpose. As he lifts his chin at an angle, to bare the line of his throat, one hand breaks free of where he had found the point of Liem's ear, to reach behind his head and draw the curtain of red hair aside and over one shoulder. ]