the fuckface who holds time itself in his hands (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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realityshifted2010-10-16 02:39 am
collector) wrote in realityshifted2010-10-16 02:39 am
Entry tags:
Sacris Solemniis
[Teapot before him, a plate of pastries beside it, Braxiatel sits at the kitchen table with Strindberg's Ett drömspel open in front of him. Braxiatel stirs sugar into his tea, and a faint smile crosses his face as his eyes flicker to something in the seat to his left.]
[He leans forwards and pours a second cup of tea, then lifts it up to hand it over, the smile widening.] I don't know what you mean by 'ulterior motives,' Comman—
[Braxiatel's fingers tighten on the cup before he can let it go. For a moment, it hangs there, hoping for a hand that cannot take it.]
Ah.
[It is a quiet realization.]
[Braxiatel sets the cup down, away from him. He leans back in his chair and picks up a scone to eat.]
[He leans forwards and pours a second cup of tea, then lifts it up to hand it over, the smile widening.] I don't know what you mean by 'ulterior motives,' Comman—
[Braxiatel's fingers tighten on the cup before he can let it go. For a moment, it hangs there, hoping for a hand that cannot take it.]
Ah.
[It is a quiet realization.]
[Braxiatel sets the cup down, away from him. He leans back in his chair and picks up a scone to eat.]