( the teasing is light, inoffensive. it's almost cute, if such a word is applicable. he thinks it's not, not in any typical fashion, but—.
marc had grown up religious — it'd been impossible not to, with his father being who he was. he'd grown up believing in a god he didn't quite understand, couldn't reconcile with what he thought versus what his father taught him. boyish and then teenage rebelliousness and a desire to butt against the idea of pacifism as an answer sitting ugly against frustration and disappointment; estrangement and being disowned. then, he'd died and the lessons had started to make a little more sense.
(then elias had died and marc had experienced a minor crisis of self.)
it doesn't feel judgemental, the way she offers the 'you and everyone else', and it earns a hum of acknowledgement as her fingers brush his skin, down his shoulder and back up again. when she stops, when there's a moment of quiet that feels longer than it is, he looks at her. catches the weariness, the tiredness. he doesn't say anything about it, it'd be hypocritical (not his primary objection, marc has always been a 'do as I say, not as I do' sort), and he can guess as to how it'd end. instead, he answers, wryly— )
If that was going to happen, it would've happened a long time ago. ( a pause, then, and it's as if a thought occurs to marc and he adds, almost brightly (for him)— ) Besides, I don't stay dead. ( it's offhand, dismissive, spoken in the kind of tone that says 'as an explanation, this works'. it doesn't seem to occur to him that it might not.
then, he lifts a hand. it's not quite the raise-and-reach she'd had to do, the height difference working solidly in his favour, and he brushes wet strands of hair away from her face, consideration pulling at his features. ) My water bill's going to be astronomical.
no subject
marc had grown up religious — it'd been impossible not to, with his father being who he was. he'd grown up believing in a god he didn't quite understand, couldn't reconcile with what he thought versus what his father taught him. boyish and then teenage rebelliousness and a desire to butt against the idea of pacifism as an answer sitting ugly against frustration and disappointment; estrangement and being disowned. then, he'd died and the lessons had started to make a little more sense.
(then elias had died and marc had experienced a minor crisis of self.)
it doesn't feel judgemental, the way she offers the 'you and everyone else', and it earns a hum of acknowledgement as her fingers brush his skin, down his shoulder and back up again. when she stops, when there's a moment of quiet that feels longer than it is, he looks at her. catches the weariness, the tiredness. he doesn't say anything about it, it'd be hypocritical (not his primary objection, marc has always been a 'do as I say, not as I do' sort), and he can guess as to how it'd end. instead, he answers, wryly— )
If that was going to happen, it would've happened a long time ago. ( a pause, then, and it's as if a thought occurs to marc and he adds, almost brightly (for him)— ) Besides, I don't stay dead. ( it's offhand, dismissive, spoken in the kind of tone that says 'as an explanation, this works'. it doesn't seem to occur to him that it might not.
then, he lifts a hand. it's not quite the raise-and-reach she'd had to do, the height difference working solidly in his favour, and he brushes wet strands of hair away from her face, consideration pulling at his features. ) My water bill's going to be astronomical.