[ He had not realized that the ball of feathers was so sharp inside... He had treated it with the affection a dog shows for a toy. A little rough, of course, but always beloved. This new side to the things intrigues him, deepens his interest in it. He lets one of the poky little cogs run past the back of his finger, scratch at his skin before he pulls his hand back. His expression wavers, like he's not sure which one he wants to choose. He purses his lips eventually, neutral.
His voice lowers, whispering where he sits close at Brandon's shoulder. ]
Could be, could not. We've been, and gone. If...
[ There are things that shouldn't be said and Ivor knows that, shoulders hunching up. ]
[ A faint, mischievous impulse briefly courses through Brandon as Ivor feels about inside the messenger, the utterly impossible notion of having it shut on his hand and, in some bizarre sense, capture the hyena.
It's entertaining precisely because it is so nonsensical, a ludicrous extension of the nature of their interactions thus far — from his perspective, of course. From Ivor's, there seems to be a certain gravitas Brandon finds appealing, enough so that only the slightest twitch of buried excitement disturbs his attentive facade, head cocked to receive the whispered secrets that are no less interesting to him in the midst of private amusement. He would ask for clarification — which would they, which would Ivor prefer, to stay and have power or to go and be free — but he is, as ever, so concerned with pushing, when already this whisper seems like more than Ivor should be saying.
The feathers shift slightly in the breeze, brushing his fingers, and Brandon keeps his voice lowered as well. ]
Many things will be possible.
[ Some sort of promise, that's for sure, somewhere between earnest yet meaningless, absolutely unreliable and unexplained, and emptily prophetic. Offered seemingly for no reason and without any observable motive, other than what people always come to the Hill and the House for. ]
[ Not captured physically, but at Brandon's words Ivor's hopes are caught. There is something he wants. Something too outlandish to the world he has always known to believe in. But the thought of it lingers: world where the lines between their witch-brat blood and the royal inheritance of Death will be erased. There's more than this place. Chains to be slipped.
He sits close, exhales audibly. A want he can't speak of, lest the House hear him. It feels dangerous even to think on it with too much longing. ]
Or we rule here.
[ He excludes the alternative from his words, but not from his meaning. ]
[ For the first time in anyone's view since he got here, Brandon lets a little frown form a fleeting divot in his brow, allows some indefinable stress into both the inhale before he speaks and the voice that leaves his throat.
It isn't so much that those things are true or not true, or whether or not his playacting is accepted or rejected or wasted on the people he directs it against; it's that this role is the one he wants to play for Ivor, here and now, and so it is who he is, here and now. ]
I'll do what I can.
[ The voice of someone juggling just one too many balls, knives, and flaming torches. He can't promise anything to anyone here, but least of all to Ivor, as much as he wants to. After a moment he looks back down into the messenger, seemingly chastened by the limitations of his objectives. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
His voice lowers, whispering where he sits close at Brandon's shoulder. ]
Could be, could not. We've been, and gone. If...
[ There are things that shouldn't be said and Ivor knows that, shoulders hunching up. ]
If it let us.
[ The Hill. The House. ]
no subject
It's entertaining precisely because it is so nonsensical, a ludicrous extension of the nature of their interactions thus far — from his perspective, of course. From Ivor's, there seems to be a certain gravitas Brandon finds appealing, enough so that only the slightest twitch of buried excitement disturbs his attentive facade, head cocked to receive the whispered secrets that are no less interesting to him in the midst of private amusement. He would ask for clarification — which would they, which would Ivor prefer, to stay and have power or to go and be free — but he is, as ever, so concerned with pushing, when already this whisper seems like more than Ivor should be saying.
The feathers shift slightly in the breeze, brushing his fingers, and Brandon keeps his voice lowered as well. ]
Many things will be possible.
[ Some sort of promise, that's for sure, somewhere between earnest yet meaningless, absolutely unreliable and unexplained, and emptily prophetic. Offered seemingly for no reason and without any observable motive, other than what people always come to the Hill and the House for. ]
no subject
He sits close, exhales audibly. A want he can't speak of, lest the House hear him. It feels dangerous even to think on it with too much longing. ]
Or we rule here.
[ He excludes the alternative from his words, but not from his meaning. ]
no subject
It isn't so much that those things are true or not true, or whether or not his playacting is accepted or rejected or wasted on the people he directs it against; it's that this role is the one he wants to play for Ivor, here and now, and so it is who he is, here and now. ]
I'll do what I can.
[ The voice of someone juggling just one too many balls, knives, and flaming torches. He can't promise anything to anyone here, but least of all to Ivor, as much as he wants to. After a moment he looks back down into the messenger, seemingly chastened by the limitations of his objectives. ]
This may be the extent of it.