Kane

“Sorry, man,” he offers with a timorous grin this time, one that doesn’t quite reach it’s usual height. “I didn’t realize you were so-”

He stops, the descriptor ‘young’ getting swallowed down with the last lingering taste of whiskey in his mouth. It’s not together accurate somehow. Kane’s probably got close to a decade on the kid at 25, but this boy is wearing his age like a fine shirt being wrung through the wash indelicately. Like there should be vividity there in the pallor of his skin and not the raccoon circles that blacken his gaze. His tattered edges are all but tangible as he coil in on himself, regarding Kane like a leper instead of an ally, and one wrong word has Kane fearing the kid might totally unravel. So he reflects upon his choice of words and corrects it, “I didn’t realize it had gotten so damn hot out here. It’s a sin to offer a man a lukewarm bourbon anyway. Guess I’ve just gotten used to it. Alcoholism knows no temperature limits.”

He is a poor conversationalist but he’s gotten surgical at the self-blaming deflection. He hopes the boy can take the meager offering for what it’s worth.

Then the kid is laughing and Kane is momentarily heartened, thinking maybe his presence has managed to influence a turn in the kid’s despondency. But it doesn’t take long for him to realize the young man might be severely more damaged than his initial assessment let on. He’s laughing like his own death is a joke and instead of inciting a warm flutter of humorous comradery, it’s bringing forth a cold wave of pity Kane doesn’t feel like indulging. He’s too tired. He’s put too many young fairies in the Grey today.

He scoffs, shaking his head. “If I’d caught you a few weeks ago and it was all of that, dude, you would have wished you hadn’t ever laid eyes on me.”

There is no following offered elaboration, his job is straightforward and boring and always met with black and white opinion. The kid would either be horrified or worse, beg for magic to end his suffering. Kane isn’t all together convinced it wouldn’t be the latter. Just another reason to maintain a level of friendly anonymity. At least on the career front.

His name, however, he’s happy to give in return. “Kane,” he says amiably, enveloping the pale fingers in his much larger tan ones.

“So whadya know, Grayson? You’re rocking that gloom and doom fashion like you’ve seen some shit. Rebellion going that bad? Somebody steal your sword?”

He already knows the conditions of the camp, how despiration is now the meal of the day for all of the motley crew of rebels. He’s seen the dehydration of their hope and the thin, threadbare state of their bodies, despite all the combat training to compensate. He can’t help them, save heal the worst of their wounds and offer an easy death to the ones who are beyond help.

But maybe this kid, looking for all the world like a neglected downtrodden puppy, just has something he wants off his chest. Or maybe he’d just appreciate a friendly ear to bitch to. Either way, Kane settles back against the log and takes advantage of the moment to rest and offer his company if nothing else.