Arc II: Question Game [Elisha & Keon]

Elisha had begun to take The Wallace Sword out with him when he went on walks or errands in general, but this time he'd taken the relic with him to the training grounds of the palace. Being able to carry it for extended times was fine, but his arms also needed to practice holding, thrusting, and swinging it as well. Training equipment wasn't as important-- but the space was. 

He was dressed in the simple white recovery clothes they'd been given. Though they didn't suit his style, they were breezy and easy to move around in. That plus his black leather gloves, which he was also glad to be able to wear. He walked into the grounds, and cast his gaze around. Quiet, for the time being-- perhaps it was just a good time of day. 

He unslung the sword from his back and propped it up near a corner, then got into the mind for warm up stretches. From neck, to shoulders, to elbows and wrists, and so forth, he worked the different areas from head to toe. He didn't seem like the type perhaps to exercise, but the body's muscles helped with circulation, and for a short time he had trained with the clergy's 'missionaries' when his father had been considering options for sending him away.

Elisha's footsteps as he headed across the grounds did not go unnoticed. Keon, during his time shrinking in on himself, had learned to recognize his former housemates by their footsteps as they walked to and fro past his door. He knew when Shiloh was coming to see him, the beats of his steps as sure as a heartbeat. He knew the clip-clop of Sabin's hooves, Emory's gentle gait, Rus's... well, he still had to listen more to Rus. The other heir hadn't done much walking. But Keon knew Elisha's, too. Elisha, who always seemed to know exactly where he was going. Elisha, who Keon felt that he barely knew at all. 

That, needless to say, could be dangerous. He'd never been one to take risks: if a situation was dangerous, Keon generally preferred to sit back at a safe distance and have people do it for him. But there was something new in him now. Whatever it was had woken him from that inner drowning, threaded into Rus's impassioned words. (Don't think about that.)  

Whatever that thing was, it made Keon decide that two things were more worthwhile than he'd previously thought: taking risks and lying. 

The sorcerer's arm was held out in front of him. Remnants of smoke licked at his wrist as the fire bolt's energy died down. He'd been hurling magic at the training dummies since the early morning, after showering, taming his hair, and eating breakfast for the first time in days. Rebuilding muscle would come next.

After the footsteps stopped and Keon heard the telltale thunk of the Wallace Sword against the wall, he shook the ash from his hands and headed across the training grounds to greet the cleric as he worked his way through floor stretches. There was something he wanted to ask of Elisha, but before that, Keon needed to know what he was after. A scorpion in their ranks simply would not do.  

"Hello, Elisha." He flashed a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes – the mask was not yet fully complete, despite his practice – and made himself comfortable lounging against the wall near the other man's sword. "Are you planning on training with your relic today?"

The shadow of movement gave him slight pause as he leaned forward on the ground, hugging his knees. He looked up to see Keon headed towards him-- and while the surprise didn't reach his face, he certainly felt it. What had prompted the man's return to life? Simply time and food? Did Shiloh finally get through to him? ... Maybe more substances? Regardless, he hadn't noticed him at first because he had been fully convinced he wouldn't have found him here. 

It wasn't a bother, though. Quite the opposite-- he finished counting for the stretch as Keon approached, then spread his legs and reached for one foot, exhaling slowly. 

"Keon~" The other's name was melodious on his tongue, and Elisha's red eyes searched Keon's face and body in observation. Still gaunt, and still a little haunted, but there was an alertness to him that had been absent during their first group field trip into the city. Keon even felt well enough to pretend to smile. That was good. 

He was forced to stop looking as he leaned over to his other foot. 

"Just a little bit. One has to be gradual in rebuilding strength, otherwise it'll be one step forward and two steps back. How long have you been at it?" A pause. "You're free to join me, of course."

"Simply here to provide company," he drawled in response. At least the tone of voice was back to normal. In all fairness, Keon had never performed with a fake face before; he'd been stoic, in his own way, but rarely had he ever needed to wear this heavy of a social mask for extended periods of time. Voice first. The smile would come naturally soon enough. If there was anyone to study from, it was Elisha. He seemed so open and friendly, but he must keep his true self hidden away, or Keon would know... something about him by now. Those who were truly that open tended to spout endlessly about their lives. 

Besides. It was his own fault that he'd never approached Elisha before their deaths. The least he could do was get to know the person he'd been through fire with. 

He didn't realize that the fascination had betrayed itself in his eyes until it was too late, a couple of blinks righting his expression back to a blank slate. Elisha, Keon noticed, hadn't physically changed as a result of the sword. Everyone else had, even if only a little bit: his own eyes glittered metallic gold, Shiloh's ears had become pointed, Emory's horns, Rus's freckles (don't think about that) and of course, Sabin's entire... the whole Sabin. 

"Regrettably, I got a bit of a late start," he continued, adjusting the soft sleeves of the group-standard white shirt. No need to train in his new clothes. "Actually, I had some questions for you. It occurred to me that we have not spoken one-on-one since we met – discourteous of me. So, why not rectify that?" A thousand questions pushed against each other to be first, but he held his tongue for Elisha's response. Maybe the cleric simply didn't like him. It wouldn't be out of the question; most people didn't like Keon, some of the former Lambs and August excluded. Even so, curiosity outweighed the risk of rejection.

The formality of Keon's words made Elisha smile. It was so different from how any of the others spoke. So, not literal sparring, but verbal sparring? He was game. 

"Don't blame yourself~ We were all quite busy." And I thought I had already learned a lot about you, just through watching your interactions with others. Not that there wasn't more to learn about Keon-- especially considering he had surpassed all of Elisha's expectations-- but that plus Shiloh's presence had been enough to keep him from going to bother him. 

"But sure! How about this-- for every question I answer, you'll answer one in return. Ask whatever you'd like." It was a simple enough game. "I'll start easy-- you ate breakfast, yes?" Just further probing on his health.

Ah, of course. Keon expected nothing less than a price; this wasn't a favor, after all, and he wouldn't owe Elisha anything simply for talking about himself. People gave, and they took in return. A simple rhythm.  

He nodded once as if to formally seal the agreement, though something within him twisted with anxiety at the possibility of Elisha probing too far. Cross that bridge when you come to it? "Yes, I did. Training on an empty stomach is a fool's errand, especially for someone whose weapon of choice is slinging fire." A pause. That felt right. Best set the precedent for detail before his opponent could set a pattern of two-word answers.  

Keon tilted his head after a moment, grown-out bangs swishing against his cheekbone. "You have the misfortune of knowing more than enough about my family life at this point. What is yours like?" Best not waste his questions on things he didn't care about. He wanted to get to know Elisha, not dally about with small talk.

Elisha rubbed his nose as he lowered from a bridge pose and sat up into a cross-legged position. Well, that explained the smell of smoke. But it was good that Keon was sensible enough not to waste himself away. 

"Small, and very private." He turned over and stretched much like a cat. "My father, Merrick, is very stern and solemn. It suits him, as a mortician. He had me opening cadavers when I was 5." Elisha threw that tidbit out there more as one of those things that was meant to test people's nerves. And, it was a little bit of a hyperbole. Elisha had been forced to look at cadavers when he was 5. But he hadn't been allowed to touch them until he was 14. "I think all fathers have expectations, yours more than mine of course. Mine only had no patience for weak stomachs, and no patience for children." He rested back again, seemingly done stretching for the moment. 

"My maman's name was Aurelie, and she was an apothecary. She was also firm, perhaps firmer than my father, because she never lost her patience. She did not have to rush to tend the decaying dead-- she grew things and brewed things. She doesn't remember herself anymore however, and she's in the care of the church." He smiled, knowing he'd given Keon a lot of information. He had handed him the scalpel to his life-- the hard part was knowing exactly where to cut. 

"I've seen your father. Did your mother fail to shield you from your father, like me to mine?"

Cadavers at five was gruesome business. Still, it made sense. Elisha had always shown fascination for the more sinister side of things, the gorier side. That made him the perfect candidate for the request Keon was planning on making in the near future, but he could imagine it did not make Elisha the most... relatable in interests as a child. Something oddly warm flickered across his face as he imagined a tiny red-eyed boy with a scalpel and gloves. Was that why Elisha kept his hands covered, then? Force of habit?  

Somehow, everything Elisha said tracked with the way he was. Maman. French, then. Keon gave an absentminded nod, filing that away in the back of his mind. He'd learned the language to fluency early on, though he rarely spoke French these days; if he needed to say something to Elisha alone, perhaps he'd utilize it.  

She doesn't remember herself anymore. Those words, along with Elisha's question, drained the color from Keon's face. The snare had closed before he could process he'd stepped into it. This duel required honesty to receive honesty in return. He could deflect, but Elisha would step back, too. Besides, what did it matter? Keon was not close with his mother anymore. She would never see him again, anyway.

It took a moment or two for him to regain his wits. This was not a bad thing. He was learning about his former housemate, so it was only fair that Elisha learn more about him, too. "My mother," he began, words slow and careful on his tongue, "does not remember herself either. She lost herself a long time ago, and she's been roaming the halls like a ghost since. I haven't spoken a word with her for years – not for lack of trying. So... yes." He carefully avoided the topic of his father; Rus knew more than he should already. All the Lambs needed to know was what they had already seen.  

He'd been about to ask if Elisha was close with either of his parents, but the fact that he called his mother maman without extending the same affection to his father said enough. Circle back later. "The church," Keon said instead. "Did you have a close relationship with them growing up?"

Keon spoke carefully, like a man stepping through glass, but hadn't backed down. Elisha wasn't shy about watching the other man's face as he spoke, noting the way it responded. How wonderful, that Keon didn't use their assigned masks as an excuse to hide himself. 

It seemed like Keon had already mourned her as past and accepted it. That was probably for the best. 

"I would not call it close. I went to sermons, I roamed the grounds, and I did enjoy the art of the architecture. I attended many funerals, and spoke much with service leaders about life and death. But gods like those spoken of in worship never invoked in me the same sense of awe of the one I chose for myself." 

"That was for growing up, anyways. Before I left for Mercaid, I was tried as a missionary first. It didn't suit me and I didn't suit it." He grinned widely at Keon, a rare expression. "Also, they said my sermons were a touch unnerving." He seemed very amused by this. 

"How would you describe your relationship to Shiloh?" He switched the topic quickly, to something he was quite eager to know now that they'd both gotten into the rhythm of the game. He figured this was a less painful topic than Keon's fragile family, anyways.

Elisha's grin was contagious enough that Keon couldn't help a snort in response – somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. He could only imagine. A sermon by Elisha, if anything like the way he spoke normally, would be nothing short of chill-inducing. Part of him wanted to hear it even more in that case. "Well, you have full rights to speak at my funeral, then," he said with an upward flick of an eyebrow.  

The change in topic was quite welcome, though there were some things Keon wanted to circle back on after thinking on them for a moment. He still didn't know what god Elisha served. That would be important, wouldn't it? And his family... what he'd said was so vague.  

Shiloh was easy. He didn't need to think before answering, not like he may have before their deaths. No use pretending in that particular sense anymore. "We are friends," he said. "Loyal. He told me once that he would never leave me behind in the face of danger. I proceeded to embarrass him in public and accidentally make him cry. But he did not take back his words, even after that." His gaze softened as he lowered it to the sword against the wall. "That was the moment he gained my trust." Not that I deserve his, he almost said, but didn't.  

The god question lingered on the tip of Keon's tongue as he examined the cleric's face, the deliberate way his eyes scanned Keon's features. What was the source of that strange tension between him and Shiloh? It begged further examining, but with every new branch, they strayed further from the things Keon wanted to ask about. So many of the questions he thought about could be asked day-to-day. This was an opportunity, above all, to ask the hard ones.  

"What do you want?" The words came out relatively casual, but they betrayed that slight caution Keon felt in the back of his mind anytime he looked at Elisha. "Overall, I mean. Everyone has a want – power, connections, to prove something, to get revenge, to find themselves. Et cetera. So: what is yours?"

'What a very touching story,' he nearly had said, but he knew he wouldn't have been able to keep the edge out of his voice. "That does sound like Shiloh." He replied instead. Cried, hm? What would it take to make Shiloh cry? 

The question Keon asked cast a wide net, so he was glad for the clarification. Elisha pursed his lips anyway in a fake pout. "That assumes that most people know what they want. It's not as common as one might assume." He hummed in thought, pretending to deliberate, but he actually did already know.  

"Well, I don't want power." He tapped one finger against another, counting. "I don't need to prove myself. I can be vengeful, no mistake, but I don't currently pursue vengeance. And while it would be nice to know myself, it's not something that drives me." "... Perhaps I want You. And Shiloh, and Emory, and Sabin, and Rus. I want to know you, I want to see what you do, and I want a hand in you doing it. I want to know why, and more than that, I want to understand it. I..." a pause as he searches for the right word. "... like to dissect things. And I do like all of you. I have never quite belonged anywhere, and I don't think any of you have, either. So perhaps we belong together." His face lights up. "Ah, that's probably it, actually. Belonging." Pleased, he tilts his head as he considers what question to needle Keon with next. 

"What are we to do about your surname?"

Elisha's answer blew out of the water every one of Keon's expectations. Despite himself, he'd fallen into the old-fashioned mindset of taking one character trait and applying it to the entire person: it would be morbid, it would be creepy.  

And, well. It certainly wasn't something anyone else would say. It was perhaps the strangest thing he'd heard from anyone's mouth, ever – but as far as he could tell, it was honest, and it was endearing in its own way. The pieces had all been there, and now they were coalescing into an understandable image. Elisha, it seemed, did not know himself. He was still figuring that out, and he was looking to the others to help him do so. If he was looking for a mottled group of outcasts to belong with when he felt that he belonged nowhere else, he'd come to the right people. 

"Alright." Less a concession, more an agreement. Up until now, Keon had felt that his alliance with Elisha was tenuous at best. He and Shiloh did not get along, but he seemed fascinated with Emory, and Emory stuck close to him in return. Now that the curtain was drawn back, though, he supposed his distrust was unfounded. "I was and still am ready to take action if you had harmful intent," he added, quieter this time. "Belonging, though." 

It took a moment longer to sift through potential answers to the surname question. He hadn't thought about it, if he were to be truthful. What were they to do about it? Change it? The thought prompted a snag of hesitation. Changing it legally would mean... cutting the last string, as it were. That was too conflicting a thought to speak aloud, though, so Keon glossed over it with a shake of the head. "The Darklings hold no importance to surnames. We've no need to do anything about it."  

The next question came easily as Keon pushed off the wall, taking a few steps away with one hand folded primly behind his back. From this point on, he could allow his curiosity to guide him as it pleased. "What god do you serve?"

Was that... a threat? Elisha felt a small surge of interest. For someone who had been so dead set against having friends in the first place, Keon was rather protective. Perhaps, it was just the clash of what Keon had thought he'd wanted, what he'd actually wanted... and what he needed. It was an interesting change, one that Elisha wished he'd kept a closer eye on. The cleric felt like he'd just found the shape of the handle on the tool that Keon could be... and he hadn't even needed to ask a question for that one. 

But it was so much easier to deal with other people's problems than one's own. So much easier to protect others than one's self. Elisha could see that embodied in Keon with how he shied away from the question of his namesake. That was fine. If Keon wanted to hold onto his scars, Elisha wasn't going to stop him. The answer to the question wasn't as easy as the asking of it. "It doesn't have a name but it's well known. It doesn't have a form, but it's physical. It doesn't speak to me but I cut from it the answers I seek." He could stand, but it was probably better to balance dark words with an unthreatening demeanor. He clasped his hands together in his lap, looking almost meditative and peaceful.

"I worship the force that squeezes each beat from your heart. The divinity that sparks cognizance in your brain. The miracle of each sucking lung of air, the cycle of growth, the cleansing of toxins, the indulgence of hunger, the expression of carnal pleasure, the sharp heat of pain that reminds you that you are alive..." He sighs, almost wistful. "The human body is a miracle, with mysteries unto itself, and the blood in your veins on my knife is my prayer. Life and Death. Sacrifice and Balance. And all my god asks of me is that I revel in the experience of mortality and remind others of their impermanence even while wresting them away from the edge of death." 

"Is any other god worth it? Does any other god know us as intimately as ourselves?" Did that count as a question, even?

Keon found himself lulled into a false sense of security as they spoke. Hadn't everyone considered Elisha to be abnormally morbid? He seemed like a fairly normal person now, if a little strange. Someone he could talk to, at least. Nothing like the terrifying entity Sabin believed him to be. Perhaps Keon would have to have a talk with Sabin and Shiloh; if the group couldn't even pretend to get along, they would not be able to work together harmoniously in the future.  

For a moment, Keon's confidence wavered. Was Elisha truly the person he should come to for his impending request? Then he started waxing poetic about his god in perhaps the most unsettling way possible, and Keon tried in vain to shut his mind off before he could imagine the very things the cleric described. 'In vain' being the key phrase. A heart beating rhythmically, slick with blood; lungs and fungi and laughter and pain and Elisha, standing above it all. 

Forget the doubt. He was the perfect person to ask. Keon found himself less unsettled than oddly invigorated, his pupils dilating as his heartbeat picked up in his chest. This was what it meant to be alive. Elisha worshipped life. Three months ago, Keon would have squirmed at that, but now it filled his veins with fire. He couldn't help a flicker of a smile, a hand reaching up to cover it with an idle rub of the jaw. "No, I do not believe so. You certainly have a way with words."  

The tension in his voice had all but melted away, and Keon dropped his hand – all rings but one gone from his pale fingers – to look Elisha in the eye again. How could he ever have found this man uninteresting? "You told me that you did not yet know yourself," he said. The cleric did not have the air of someone with any sort of inner turmoil. Everything he said twisted against Keon's expectations in some way, and suddenly he couldn't help but press at that tension. "What do you mean by that?"

Keon didn't pale, didn't waver, didn't step away or turn his gaze aside. He actually seemed to be more invigorated, a slight tinge to his pale skin betraying the heat of his blood. Elisha knew masks, and that was not a mask. Suddenly, he found himself wondering how far he could push someone like Keon. What would be the tool to use? Perhaps, under his father's violence, Keon had built a strong disposition against things like gore and cruelty. Perhaps, it was even a realm of familiarity. 

Keon held his gaze from above, and from this angle Elisha could almost see it. Keon as Korin, unwavering, blazing, looking down on everyone around him. Did he still push towards that path, or did he want to evolve into something so much more brilliant? He hoped that Keon could rekindle his ambitions. 

Elisha shifted and stood, brushing off his dusty white pants. His hands clasped behind his back as he returned Keon's regard. 

"Would you consider yourself the same person you were, three months ago~?" He smiled warmly. "Actually, this was a different conversation that I'd been meaning to have, preferably in private." He paused, head tilting, and Elisha leaned closer to the taller man. Had his eyes always been that hue? He spoke slower, distracted as he observed them. "For now, let us just say... that I'm extremely good at compartmentalizing. And if you'd like us to continue that thread, you can visit my room later." He hummed, pouting again. "Unfortunately, this means that it's still your turn on the questions. But you can answer my earlier rhetorical one, if you'd like to be generous. I think I already know the answer, but guessing isn't the same as being told."

A brooch sat on Keon's desk back in the palace proper. Its eye, inset in gold, glittered red as a pomegranate seed. Elisha's eyes glittered the same way. Keon followed the lines in his face, the angles and harsh curves, before settling back into his characteristically intense eye contact.  

The invitation to table the discussion for later caught him off guard. It had been an offhand question: what do you mean by that? But, well. If Elisha wanted to get into it later, then Keon would gladly oblige. Compartmentalizing, hm? That would make a lot of sense –– from Keon's experience with it, at least. Elisha had the air of someone who kept his cards close to his chest. Instead of trying to pick apart the words laid out between them, he skipped straight to the next part: the question, his answer.  

Keon's internal flame had sparked again only after talking to Rus in his room. He supposed he had the other man to thank for that, but no way in hell would he do something so inane without good reason. Rus's conscience was clear. No more awkward tenderness was necessary. Either way, now the flame burned twice as bright, and Keon found calling it to his fingertips much easier than it had ever been before their deaths. The crown was likely to thank for that.  

"No," he said, straightening his posture as Elisha leaned closer with those pomegranate eyes. "I don't believe any of us are. Look at Sabin." That wasn't what Elisha had meant. However, it was an easy answer, and Keon did not particularly want to think about who he was and who he had been at the moment. Discomfort itched at his throat at the scrutiny the cleric was subjecting him to. Regrettably, Keon had not lost the personality trait 'refuses to back down from a perceived challenge' in death, so he met the gaze without leaning back to avoid the closeness. 

"One more question, then. You asked me about Shiloh. What would you say is your relationship with Emory?"

Elisha delighted at Keon's answer-- of course he should have known that Keon would be the best at this game, out of all of them. The answer and the obviousness of it to make Elisha's question seem less significant, the jest at the end to move the conversation onward... he did laugh, of course, but more in appreciation of the reply than the contents of it. Keon himself was un-budging, a solid foundation. Elisha did hope he could be the core of their strange little family. 

"Is this curiosity or interest?" He asked lightly. His eyes flicked to the side, and he brushed a small smudge of ash ineffectively from Keon's white shirt. Then he continued, "I think there's a hole in his heart that I can't possibly fill. When you're alone and you reach out for help in the dark, if another hand grasps yours do you cling to it or pull away in fear?" He turned his hand, palm facing inwards, and traced the back of his index finger down Keon's collar bone. All the bones and muscles stood out on Keon's form where he could see, still needing more nutrients and hydration. 

"Emory seizes that hand. I know he's fond of me, but I don't think it had to be... me. I do treasure him though. I think he's intelligent, ambitious, and sweet. He's nosy, but only because he means well. He's supportive, and tries to mend his own mistakes." A pause. None of that really answered the question. "I think he could do better." He laughs. "But he's mine." He ends the gesture in a friendly pat-pat on Keon's shoulder, flashing another smile, before turning to go unsheathe the Wallace Sword.

Oh, Elisha was pushing it. Keon found his mask tested when the cleric moved forward to brush a fleck of ash off of his shirt. By all measures, an idle touch from another person should not send you into an inner screaming panic, yet it was all Keon could do to keep his tensed muscles from jerking away. Still, he flinched.  

"Curiosity." A scoff followed the reply, but it sounded a little strangled, his focus narrowed in on the feeling of Elisha's finger tracing his collarbone. Keon's pulse picked up entirely against his will, and he felt that old, familiar burn creeping up his neck in response to the motion. What was Elisha's game here? Was he looking for a reaction? It was old news, or so Keon thought, that he reacted strongly to touch. Perhaps Elisha was simply fascinated by the bone structure. He knew that his body was only beginning recovery, so the bones and muscles jutted out in strange ways.  

Either way, the panic that Elisha's gentle touch elicited was deeply rooted, and it only began to fade once the cleric lowered his hand. Holy shit. Alright: now, process the words that hung in the air. He's mine. Possessiveness was not a trait Keon expected from him. Then again, expectations be damned, right? People were constantly surpassing them these days. It seemed like Elisha's bond with Emory went deeper than surface-level, then, something born from necessity and maintained out of fondness. Noted. If Keon needed to direct the group to split up, he'd have to remember who was comfortable around whom.  

Then it clicked. 

"Oh –" He's mine. Right. Keon stepped back almost on instinct as the cleric picked up his frankly gargantuan sword. "You have nothing to worry about, Elisha, I promise you I am quite straight." A practiced line, flowing off his tongue in that pompous drawl the house was so used to.

At first, Elisha hadn't thought much of the reactions of Keon's body-- it wasn't uncommon for one to abhor touch, especially if they suffered abuse. One could not say for sure if Korin relied purely on emotional manipulation, but Elisha himself knew the way frustration and anger could make people snap. Was the flush anger? Would he be struck? Or burned? 

But Keon hadn't snapped out of it until ELisha had re-established a small distance between them. The sword's sheath dropped to the ground-- sheath was a fancy word for several leather straps which held it on one's back. With both hands he moved to raise it, but paused at Keon's next words. 

"Hm?" He blinked at Keon, whose words were so neat and precise despite the wild rhythm of the artery at his throat and the strangled sounds he'd made earlier. No, that wasn't anger. That was dawning realization. Keon was flustered. He tilted his head, the sword tip dropping to the ground again. 

"Right. Straight." He kept his voice warm and pleasant but his eyes narrowed, looking quite like a cat which had spied a particularly stupid mouse. "Sorry, quite straight." He corrected himself. There it was. That was the tool to use. There was no fragility which could compare to the chinks in that armor. Elisha himself couldn't quite relate to it-- people were people, bodies were bodies, minds were minds-- but one didn't need to relate to understand it. It made sense, considering the way he was raised, the expectations he was under, the future that had likely been planned for him. Poor unfortunate heirs.

Elisha opened his mouth to say something, and then seemed to reconsider. While he would adore to drag this out as long as torturously possible, preferably over the span of at least several months, something like that could threaten to be a weakness to the dynamic of the group. Not that this was something that might be solved in one or even several days. Still, someone had to precipitate the thought. He stopped, hefted his sword, and rested it on his shoulder so that the point didn't drag on the ground. 

"Keon, I'm not afraid of you stealing Emory. Frankly, I'm not sure it's possible. I was only defining our relationship. Why ever would you jump to that conclusion?" He paused, then smiled innocently. "After all, I thought you were spoken for by August. My bad. I misinterpreted the way he looks at you..." He hums. "Did you know people's eyes frequently dilate when they see the person they're sexually attracted to?" He hadn't observed shit about August. All he knew is that he was Keon's longest friend, the only factor keeping him from pushing a different angle like the almost rivalistic tension between Keon and Rus, or the iron-hard loyalty between Keon and Shiloh. But now, he would have Keon looking at eyes.

There it was. There it was. As frustrating as being teased about his sexuality could be, Keon found himself sinking into a familiar space, his shoulders relaxing, his chin lifting with a tight roll of the eyes. August gave him shit for this. Constance had given him shit for this. Why not Elisha, too? Even so, discomfort squirmed under his skin after a moment under the spotlight. Discomfort bared its teeth and evolved into anger. 

"You are not qualified to speak to me that way." Fire flashed in his eyes for a brief moment, the muscles at his jawline shifting as it clenched tight. This could not be Elisha's true side. Could it? The scalpel hidden up his sleeve? And, truly, there was no reason for Keon to be so upset –– he'd endured this countless times from the people closest to him growing up, and it had never once bothered him to the extent it did now.  

The low flame of anger sputtered out when Elisha continued speaking. "August?" he replied before he could stop himself, though he said it as if he'd never heard the name before. It was true, August was the first person Keon had ever called his friend. Even now, in his anger, he never once treated Keon cruelly, and he knew that they shared a bond. But, as Keon stood in front of Elisha and thought about it, he had never considered August... well, he had never considered any man a romantic partner, but something that still lived within him despite his attempts to kill it brought awful thoughts to the back of his mind when he looked at men. Even that horrible, uncontrollable thing had not shifted in his heart when he looked at August.

What made him different? When Keon thought about him, he felt the same bloom of warmth he felt when he thought about Constance Blackwood pulling at his hair in her garden as they wrestled in the mud. It was warm and safe, but it was not the same kind of panic-inducing, heart-fluttering thing he felt when he looked at his housemates. It was... he was family. August was family, moreso even than Korin, moreso than his mother; oh, Christ, he had to talk to him. He couldn't let this anger between them ruin the one good thing his past had given him. 

But there was another thing that gave him pause: Elisha hadn't hinted at how Keon felt about August. He'd hinted at how August felt about Keon. But that couldn't be true, could it? Keon was almost certain August felt the same gentle, familial warmth about the friend he deserved better than. He'd have to pay close attention to the vampire's eyes the next time they spoke. 

Keon shook his head – this was the kind of thought process he wasn't supposed to have in public – but managed to cover up the fear and shame with a smoothed-over face and a deep breath. "People's eyes frequently dilate for many reasons, Elisha. Now, if you'll excuse me." He had to get out of this situation, now. Keon straightened his sleeves, gave his housemate a curt nod, and turned on his heel to stride back to the entrance of the training grounds.

Elisha had gotten excited when he saw the hard glint in Keon's otherwise molten eyes. The brittle anger, the heat of it-- but something happened and the mask reformed flawlessly. 

"Of course, sorry for keeping you~" He at least could understand when he'd pushed too far. He lowered his sword from his shoulder, the topic dropped for the time being. "And don't forget to come by later. It's important." Not that he would mind if Keon conveniently forgot-- Elisha liked to hunt, too.