[ It's been a shitty day in a string of shitty days. Tony grew tired of the game shortly after it started and hasn't warmed back up to it since. He avoids it as much as he can, retreating to the smithy or the cottage with his phone, uncharacteristically, ignored. The smell of death on the wind makes him feel panicky and useless; he spends his nights drafting suits of armour he can't make, using up precious sheets of paper reworking the designs over and over.
He has to turn up to the voting, though. If it wasn't a town rule, something in him makes him want to go. He's pretty sure it's not natural, but that doesn't mean he can ignore it. He sits near the back, unhappy and fidgeting, eyes fixed on Stephen and Shadowheart in turn, occasionally tracking the faces of his colleagues, people he's known for years -- or thought he knew, at least. It feels like watching some horrific play, with actors pretending to be his friends and companions.
On the walk back, he's as silent and unhappy as Stephen, though his failures seem much less personal. It's easy to slip back into that routine, making the place as secure as they can for the night, working their way around a little house that's on its way to becoming familiar.
He's running the faucet and about to turn and ask if Stephen wants some tea before they try and fake sleep for a few hours when the man himself interrupts. The arm that roughly grips him feels strong and desperate, a man reaching for a life raft in the middle of the ocean. Tony shuts off the tap, reaches up to rub his palm over Stephen's knuckles instead. Bows his head, letting himself become the curve around which Stephen can find purchase. ]
Hey. [ Reassuring, or trying to be. ] Hey, come on.
[ He threads his fingers through Stephen's and tugs his hand up a bit to fit it more firmly over his own heart. ]
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Date: 2025-10-17 09:26 pm (UTC)He has to turn up to the voting, though. If it wasn't a town rule, something in him makes him want to go. He's pretty sure it's not natural, but that doesn't mean he can ignore it. He sits near the back, unhappy and fidgeting, eyes fixed on Stephen and Shadowheart in turn, occasionally tracking the faces of his colleagues, people he's known for years -- or thought he knew, at least. It feels like watching some horrific play, with actors pretending to be his friends and companions.
On the walk back, he's as silent and unhappy as Stephen, though his failures seem much less personal. It's easy to slip back into that routine, making the place as secure as they can for the night, working their way around a little house that's on its way to becoming familiar.
He's running the faucet and about to turn and ask if Stephen wants some tea before they try and fake sleep for a few hours when the man himself interrupts. The arm that roughly grips him feels strong and desperate, a man reaching for a life raft in the middle of the ocean. Tony shuts off the tap, reaches up to rub his palm over Stephen's knuckles instead. Bows his head, letting himself become the curve around which Stephen can find purchase. ]
Hey. [ Reassuring, or trying to be. ] Hey, come on.
[ He threads his fingers through Stephen's and tugs his hand up a bit to fit it more firmly over his own heart. ]
Could be worse.