( her mouth curdles for a moment, lemon-sour, like biting into something sharp and debating whether she can tolerate the taste of it. it's hardly a passing judgement on his abilities, so much as her discomfort with the word he's chosen to wear like a crown. )
'Mutant.' Isn't that a bit rude to call someone? Not so sure I like the implications of the word.
( because mutant is one shade away from every insulting brushstroke she's been painted with. because mutant sounds like half-breed, sounds like mutt, sounds like monster, sounds like you aren't like us. she can't imagine wearing the title and not having it feel like a tight noose around her throat — but there's a pride to erik's stance, as though it's a throne, a jewel, to be known as such.
she understands it, she thinks — armoring yourself with what you are, in a world that rejects it. almost childlike in its explorative wonder, alina presses delicate fingers to the weathered lines in his strong palm, bends one of his fingers back and forth. not grisha. that much seems alarmingly, bafflingly obvious, when nothing she does interrupts the flow of his summoning. no, not summoning, she mentally corrects — his magnetism. )
I'm —
( she hesitates, a stunted pause. bringing herself to confess it feels like spitting out teeth, an apprehensive caginess that submits to the lurking fear festering in her chest. he's the first among them she's found to be like her, like calls to like, and while allies are in short supply — it feels dangerous, dragging her secret to light.
her throat bobs, cinching, when she swallows. narrows the focal point of her gaze, tunnel visioned, onto expression, when she forces herself to take such a hasty, haphazard leap. says, while her stomach twists inside out like she's free-falling: ) Grisha. Not a mutant.
no subject
'Mutant.' Isn't that a bit rude to call someone? Not so sure I like the implications of the word.
( because mutant is one shade away from every insulting brushstroke she's been painted with. because mutant sounds like half-breed, sounds like mutt, sounds like monster, sounds like you aren't like us. she can't imagine wearing the title and not having it feel like a tight noose around her throat — but there's a pride to erik's stance, as though it's a throne, a jewel, to be known as such.
she understands it, she thinks — armoring yourself with what you are, in a world that rejects it. almost childlike in its explorative wonder, alina presses delicate fingers to the weathered lines in his strong palm, bends one of his fingers back and forth. not grisha. that much seems alarmingly, bafflingly obvious, when nothing she does interrupts the flow of his summoning. no, not summoning, she mentally corrects — his magnetism. )
I'm —
( she hesitates, a stunted pause. bringing herself to confess it feels like spitting out teeth, an apprehensive caginess that submits to the lurking fear festering in her chest. he's the first among them she's found to be like her, like calls to like, and while allies are in short supply — it feels dangerous, dragging her secret to light.
her throat bobs, cinching, when she swallows. narrows the focal point of her gaze, tunnel visioned, onto expression, when she forces herself to take such a hasty, haphazard leap. says, while her stomach twists inside out like she's free-falling: ) Grisha. Not a mutant.