Lion Head Mesa [sc] [M] Diamonds Under my Eyes

izaiah, being the type of man he was, wanted to delve into this topic as much as the next guy — or, more truthfully, be wished to be lulled into blissful honey-gold wonder by the purl of machiavelli's accented voice — but the web he was beginning to spin with his words was enough to stir a fleeting moment of sobriety from him. his brows furrow, the cogs behind his eyes visibly turning, now beginning to slump forward into a lay. the raven black limbs stretch in front of him like tendrils of dark smoke.
we're all being played, all the time, he finally answers, crossing one forelimb over the other. we're all cogs in the grand machine of life. no one is truly free. sometimes you think you're neither, when you're really both.
qashon. minya. akashingo.
his tail flicks; the hazel eyes harden as if they were made of stone. i'm the kind of man who is a rose in the garden. i'm-- only a piece, a fraction, one that just makes up the larger picture. i don't matter as an individual to the garden's caretaker. i'm just... there, a pretty thing to look at. and one day i'll wilt and die, or get picked and shipped off somewhere else.
but at least i can enjoy my time as a pretty thing, one brow raises, chin tilting upward to bathe in the twinkle of the stars. machi's eyes burrow into him still, as if he were building a home of his own beneath izaiah's skin. and i can learn to appreciate being looked at.