ximilia | text ↪ un: torontonian

I was reading up on the other missions. Seems like 'teamwork's' the name of the game. Why not kick it off here? It's not like I've got better shit to do.

（ 'weird about it'. yeah, he fuckin' bets. he laces his fingers behind his head as he walks, which ruffles his hair into a fluffy halo. somebody forgot to stock a decent fucking hair product in this joint, no cap. and he is the one suffering for it. his vanity! someone think of his vanity pls. ）

I'm pretty sure you wouldn't want to charge anybody for healing in a place like this. Seems like a great way to have your front liners say 'fuck you' when you get your l'il medical panties in a twist later on.

[Teamwork. He's not wrong. Cain knows that too, it's just—he can't help it, he doesn't trust anyone else. What if he's tasked to turn around and stab someone in the back, or someone else is supposed to do it to him? His experience so far proves the chance. And 'transactional relationships' are one of the truest tenets of the military, or at least his experience of the military.

He watches Cy mess with his hair, which would almost be cute if not for the preoccupation of his thoughts.]

... All right. You ask someone who says they'll do it and I'll go to 'em. [They've completed the circle back around, finding themselves near the armory and sunlight room. Cain's brow furrows.] How do you get to the kitchen from here? Are they just gonna let us in?

Tally ho, my good friend.

（ he gestures towards the sunlight room doors. which he then graciously hits the door panel to open, standing aside with an expansive bow to indicate that cain should precede him thither. ）

You gotta cut through here. This place was not designed by a civil engineer lemme tell ya h'wat.

（ who puts tech storage right next to food!! that is against like, three different regulations off the top of his head, man. ）

[That earns an amused snicker despite himself, but he has to admit it isn't too terrible strolling through simulated nature to the cafeteria. The influence of sunlight is palpable; his posture loses an edge of stiffness, shoulders down as he ducks in and ahead.]

What did I say? We aren't friends. [His smile blunts the landing.] You're just my magical tour guide right now. Tall, handsome, could use a hairbrush, likes to talk a whole lot of nothing...

[Horny might be another worthy descriptor, but he keeps it to himself for now. Don't throw stones in glass houses.]

Yet. But I know from long experience that my charming demeanour renders all and sundry weak to my animal magnetism.

（ but, you know, he's not going to argue with that whole lot of nothing. he's more just surprised that somebody picked up on it so fast. always gotta watch the clever ones. not smart, clever. the ones who've had to be mindful of others, their moods, their behaviours, their attitudes, just to survive. they're the ones that'll eat you alive.

he kicks a rock off the path. it's weird, how real it feels. then, iantha's dreamscapes were always just the same. ）

Sooner or later we'll have matching BFF necklaces and we'll be gossiping over boys together while we paint each other's nails. I know the score, Cee.

[Cain rolls his eyes for emphasis. Across a wooden bridge on the path, he shoves Cy's shoulder to push him off, into the grass. It's almost companionable, or physical for the sake of something physical—a language he communicates better than words.]

In your dreams. I'm not that easy. [Just selective.] Hold on, you said you don't fight? Why not? 'Cause with what you can do with magic, even just the trans-whatever, that's a huge waste.

[He can dream up too many scenarios where that sort of power would have changed his life. Uprooted everything, gave back control where it was taken away. No one would've been able to touch him. A silly fantasy of superpowers that little boys have, not grown men; he'd stopped a long time ago.]

（ he goes easy, unresisting. half a jog by the time he gets to the grass. even knowing it's an illusion, the sensation of give beneath his soles is a nice change of pace, and he just meanders his casual way back to the path with his hands tucked into his pockets. even the air smells fresh and green. wild shit. ）

Oh, I'm a massive coward. Just toootally spineless. Somebody pulls a gun on me I'll probably faint.

Wait, seriously?

[It's not that Cain doesn't believe him, but... who just says it like that? No one in their right mind admits to being a coward. It's not an admirable trait to have in a scenario where you're meant to rely on your teammate. Then again—the blunt honesty could be helpful. It won't be a surprise when it matters.

He did say that he'd been shot. Residual trauma?]

Probably don't wanna tell people that. Could just say you don't like guns or something.

Guns. Knives. Especially large needles. Big dogs. Small dogs. Just like, really anti-pain in general. If I stub my toe I will wail like a Victorian widow, you've been warned.

（ this is all just said. so lackadaisically. he steps back onto the path with a bit of an oof as his shoe hits the cobbled walkway. ）

Hopefully I won't be a total waste of oxygen out on mission. Maybe I can be the sexy, sneaky one? I'll honeypot a motherfucker, see if I care.

[He stares now, incredulity in the look, though eventually it slides off and focuses on the path ahead.]

I mean, it's not all gonna be about fighting. Probably. I can't do half the shit some people can. [Everyone has something they're good at, even if it isn't combat, Cain thinks.] Guess that's why they wanted you here. To look pretty for our morale.

Awh, CeCe, you think I'm pretty?

（ he leans down and in just a smidge, and bumps his shoulder into cain's. gently, mindful of that guarded side. ）

I guess if I can bring your （ the world's most pointed pause. he clears his throat, and then continues effortlessly: ） morale up then it's all worth it.

[The amount of obnoxious nicknames this guy would invent if he knew his real name... it can never happen....

Against better sense and reason, as they near the exit on the other side of the room—another pair of automatic doors accessed by a panel on the wall—he makes a bad decision. It's stupid, yet Cain does it anyway in defiance of several shitty facts, the most primary among them that he's here, now, starting over again. And because he's done this for far less in the past, it feels effortless. He hasn't really changed at all.

Maybe it's just talk. Flirtation on nothing, on a thread of charisma, to make Cain more amenable to teamwork and conversation and everything good, buddy-buddy, beneficial. He'll find out in the seconds it takes to step sideways and intersect Cy's path, getting a gloved fist in the front of that ugly, patterned shirt. The difference in height is both absurd and frustrating; he realizes he's never actually tried to kiss someone taller than him, because most people aren't this fucking tall unless by deliberate fault of genetic modification. He pulls Cy down to him and lands a kiss hard on his mouth.]

（ purpose is always the same, and you learn to recognize it. sometimes even before the people themselves do. certain things are coded into microexpressions and motions and people are often way more predictable than they're willing to accept about themselves.

(a few thousand years' experience helps, too.)

so cy's not exactly surprised when the kid does an about-face and hauls him in. he's more intrigued, pleasantly amused, and of course he kisses back, one hand lifted up to let his thumb catch at the edge of his jaw, fingers fanned against his neck. cy lets him to be the one to call the shots not out of any especial dislike or inability for doing it himself, but because hey — he's the injured one, he knows his own limits and what he's after. the kiss, therefore, is exactly as slow and languid as cain wants it to be. cy tastes like cheap beer and whatever candy he's been eating apace, and the cigarette he's still holding in one hand. ）

[Cain's hand remains twisted in the front of a shirt long enough to take what he wants from the kiss, which is not slow or languid. That isn't how he kisses strangers. It's hard pressure, tight lips, daring edge of teeth and brief, wet slide of tongue. It's hot and combative, and if it didn't hurt to move, he'd be pushing Cy up against the wall by the door. It's pleasant. More than pleasant—an interruption to the furious, churning thoughts in his mind, removing him from the moment by the warm press of a mouth and the physical proximity of another body. No expectations. He doesn't know Cy, and Cy doesn't know him. So why does it feel like he's doing something wrong?

After a few slippery seconds of that, he backs off with a lingering, evaluative look. He rubs his tongue against the inner line of his own teeth, tasting smoke and beer and something sweet. Apple?]

Thanks. [A word punctuated when fingers steals Cy's cigarette and perch it between his own lips; he turns away.] I can get to the kitchen from here on my own, big guy.

（ he laughs, and gives the guy a bit of a jaunty little bow, like a ballet dancer. amusement is writ plain in his expression as he straightens up afterwards, and he doesn't even make any obvious lamentation about the loss of that cigarette. he does, however, smooth down his shirt where it wrinkled up into the guy's closed fist.

he knows the type — and he isn't going to push. the guy wants to crash into his boundaries full tilt and bolt like a spooked cat, that's fine by him. ）

Yeah, yeah. Don't be a stranger. Hasta mañana.

（ and off he goes, casually as you please. whistling, off-key. ）

text ↪ un: torontonian

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