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The Beheaded has been called many things, The prisoner, a bastard, an asshole, piece of shit- yeah if he's honest its mostly just curses. Not to say he hasn't earned those titles, one doesn't simply run around slaughtering people without making a name for himself, though people is stretching it.
Point is, he has been called many things, Pretty has never been one of them.
So why is it he finds himself here, lounging on a log surrounded by trees and accompanied by someone between a stranger and a friend. Drifter sat across from him drilling holes through where is head should be with piercing eyes. Beheaded had to willed down the urge to shift in his spot against the fallen tree.
"uh, what?" he could have read that wrong, the font this guy uses isn't the most readable you know.
Drifter to his defense only tilted his head, posture relaxed as his gloved hand lifted and another message popped up, displayed by the floating machine kept at his side
[The Flames, I think they Look pretty.]
Beheaded against his will, feels his body tense. The star he had for an eye dragging over each letter, Pretty? Fuck, he hadn't read wrong, Drifter had called him pretty, well his flame head at least but shit man that's kinda just his face so yeah.
"You have odd taste, you know that. Most sane people usually see fire as oh i don't know, dangerous?"
Beheaded shifts in his spot, trying to relax his tensed muscles, he feel like there's a saying about this? deflect, deflect, deflect, or something along those lines.
Drifter only looks at him odd, or maybe confused? hard to tell with him.
[It's never hurt me before.]
Thank god Beheaded wasn't eating something or he would have choked, somehow, again flame head. Yet that doesn't stop the way said flames flare up, the deep maroon burning a sudden striking scarlet before dying back down just as fast.
"what kinda logic!? your not immune to fire dumbass you can still get burnt."
His voice is strained, making him cringe as he leans forward, waving his hand through his own head and showing how his hand catches fire before quickly putting it out on the ground beside him to prove a point.
The dirt sizzles, it had been raining the night before.
ok, maybe that was a little dramatic, but he can't really feel pain all that much anyway so it's fine.
[you didn't have to do that]
That paired with the disapproving look on drifters face is enough for beheaded to get the message, 'that was dumb'.
"You didn't have to say something stupid" He fires back, childish he knows but still.
Drifter only sighs, standing up from his spot in the dirt. he holsters his gun, during their conversation he had apparently finished whatever he was doing with it.
Brushing off his gloved hands he offers it to Beheaded, who begrudgingly takes his hand and allows himself to be hauled up to stand.
They stand there for a moment, drifter staring at him and him avoiding his gaze.
"so are we gonna get moving or-" Before beheaded can react drifter swipes his hand through the flames, gloved fingers barely grazing against the star Beheaded had for an eye.
The sudden feeling of having someone's hand brushing against his 'face' sent a shiver up his spine making him yelp, much to his strong embarrassment.
He wants the yell at drifter, curse him to high hell for being stupid and literally sticking his hand in fire, yet, he can't. Because in that same moment drifters fingertips find purchase in the fire and now, now drifter is holding beheadeds face in his hand.
his palms don't burn, hell the fire doesn't even seem to singe him as they both stand there. Beheaded sure his face is unreadable, at least he hopes it is. yet that's not what he focuses on, no, instead what grips his attention and keeps him in place was the look of genuine fascination laden in drifters eyes. guess he wasn't expecting to actually find something to hold in the inky fire
granted? neither was the beheaded.
The fragile silence stretches on, and neither move for a long moment.
Until hesitantly, cautiously drifter swipes his thumb along the surface he's found. the action was light, as if he feared he might break him should he press too suddenly. it's too much, yet not enough, an intimacy beheaded has never sought suddenly thrown in his face without grace by someone he's only known a few months. The Beheaded despite himself Flinches and in turned drifter froze, the implications of actions not thought through dawning on each.
In an instant drifter jerks his hand back, the beheaded stumbling away. his own hand trembling imperceptibly as he draws it to the flames above his neck his finger tips ghosting where drifters hand had been. His own calloused fingers singe in the face of the fire, yet drifters hadn't, the flames danced in drifters palms where they now burn his own.
A sharp typing cuts through his thoughts, followed by a holographic message popping in front of him
[I'm sorry, i shouldn't have done that.]
his attention bounces from the text displayed back to drifter.
drifters hands hovered over a small text interface where he typed, then backspaced, then typed again. his shoulders tense, an unmistakable shake in his fingers as they dance over the keyboard and another message pops up in front of the beheaded.
[Be assured that won't happen again.]
And the Beheaded, vision focused in the deep blue that dusts what little of drifters face is exposed, in a moment of weakness, hopes he's lying.