( this is still earlier in the evening — before clarke discovers the joys of mai tai's and the thrill of the knife game — so the face of someone dying for a dance is met with the expression of someone dying to rewind time and never show up here in the first place. but there are many moments in her life she'd like to avoid, and yet most of them were successfully twisted into some sort of tactical gain, to the point where clarke willingly shoved aside her personal feelings for the benefit of her people. and the second venti crowds in her personal bubble and paws at her arm, it feels like a chance.
an opportunity.
the last time she'd see him had just been a split second of eye contact; half a heartbeat in mizuki's under-used cabin, before an ethereal swirl of feathers dragged him out of a tangible form and into the heavens. he'd missed the aftermath; clarke and mizuki knelt on the floor, putting diving terminology to faces and the fallible holes in his story. he'd missed clarke saying he was right about war, and mizuki crumbling beneath a suffocating sense of failure. he'd left her to pick up the pieces of a conversation she'd not even wanted to deviate towards.
the last time she'd seen him had left an aftertaste of animosity and resentment along the back of clarke's tongue, and no, she doesn't want to dance. not at all, not with venti. but those residual questions eating at her thoughts overtake simple human desires, and if he offers a hand again, she'll take it. allow venti to drag the two of them to the dance floor, but the second he moves to meld into the music and dance away from here, clarke takes her turn to grab his hand.
hard. unyielding. and guiding one of his arms to her waist and draping one of her own around his shoulders. drawing close, the stiffest slow dance posture as hungry like a wolf blares over the speakers around them.
this is fine, venti. give in. if he'd seen humans bring gods to heel before, he can accept that it's going to happen in the middle of the rischie tonight too.
they're the same height, it's no big task to crowd further into his personal space. to slot their cheeks alongside each other until clarke can speak directly into his ear and ask those follow up questions she'd been robbed of a few days ago. )
no subject
an opportunity.
the last time she'd see him had just been a split second of eye contact; half a heartbeat in mizuki's under-used cabin, before an ethereal swirl of feathers dragged him out of a tangible form and into the heavens. he'd missed the aftermath; clarke and mizuki knelt on the floor, putting diving terminology to faces and the fallible holes in his story. he'd missed clarke saying he was right about war, and mizuki crumbling beneath a suffocating sense of failure. he'd left her to pick up the pieces of a conversation she'd not even wanted to deviate towards.
the last time she'd seen him had left an aftertaste of animosity and resentment along the back of clarke's tongue, and no, she doesn't want to dance. not at all, not with venti. but those residual questions eating at her thoughts overtake simple human desires, and if he offers a hand again, she'll take it. allow venti to drag the two of them to the dance floor, but the second he moves to meld into the music and dance away from here, clarke takes her turn to grab his hand.
hard. unyielding. and guiding one of his arms to her waist and draping one of her own around his shoulders. drawing close, the stiffest slow dance posture as hungry like a wolf blares over the speakers around them.
this is fine, venti. give in. if he'd seen humans bring gods to heel before, he can accept that it's going to happen in the middle of the rischie tonight too.
they're the same height, it's no big task to crowd further into his personal space. to slot their cheeks alongside each other until clarke can speak directly into his ear and ask those follow up questions she'd been robbed of a few days ago. )
So what's it like?
( being a god. )