Broken Boulder aaaaaaaaaaa

oh he's definitely said something wrong. he watches alarian's eyes avert, watches his expression fold back in on itself -- a flower reversing its bloom, he thinks dazedly -- as his own stomach twists. good going singing-sunlight, you always did have a particular gift for shooting yourself in the foot. 

"okay, fine, i accept your apology," the chancellor says teasingly, trying to win back the affection in the air. mato had been to delight a moon: glowing, gleaming, always out of reach, cold and beautiful and capable of turning tides. alarian is not like this, he's not like a moon or a sun or a star at all, there's a volatility to him that delight is always caught by, always surprised. like -- like a sudden thunder storm on a sweltering summer day, like a late-come blizzard blanketing still fresh spring blooms. the attempt at humor dies in his face as he too looks away, adding sheepishly, "when i say we want different things, i mean i think i want the same things as you, alarian."