[PSL] in this sense the open jaws of wild beasts will appear no less pleasing than their prototypes

[katabasis]

The bread that is over-baked so that it cracks and bursts asunder hath not the form desired by the baker; yet none the less it hath a beauty of its own, and is most tempting to the palate. Figs bursting in their ripeness, olives near even unto decay, have yet in their broken ripeness a distinctive beauty.

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[katabasis]

Thomas is so-- brilliant. He is bright and sharp and shining even here, as they've fallen from the road and are pursued by foul weather. Nevermind everything that should cast its shadow over him. Forget the part where maybe the man has lost some capacity to recognize his own vitality; it's as if James could still close his hands around him and feel the shape of Thomas's importance in the world he's been estranged by. As if he has some radiant quality that transforms into weight and being and creates places where there should be none. And how sharp his kiss is shouldn't burn away James's lingering frustrations, and yet. And his hand at his side shouldn't seem so steady, and yet.

This is how people should care for one another, he thinks. If there's a piece of him that wants to take Thomas by the shoulders and hold him here until he sees himself, then there can be an equal part that just wants to keep him here to kiss him in a way that's better and kinder and some other kind of heated. He can also let him go - let Thomas step back -, and he can laugh out loud though a moment ago it didn't seem likely.

He does laugh - (christ) -, a hoarse sound as his fingers slip from Thomas's elbow. He touches the small of his back instead, a gentle encouragement to move on from this place. "What's there to say? Point and pull the trigger. That pistol shouldn't be trusted to hit what you mean to unless you're over top of it." Practice is the real answer, but that's hardly productive.

"--Though mind the line of your arm," he says. "There can be a moment between pulling the trigger and the discharge. Keep steady through it and you'll practically be a marksman."

[aletheian]

As he knew he would, James finds some scrap of practical advice in a request whose answer should be 'practice'; initial dismissal followed by something Thomas would never have thought to keep in mind, that gap between attempt and actual launch. He smiles, walking alongside him once again.

(Maybe the burden of I wish you could see yourself how I see you has has changed hands. Thomas carried it for so long, over his dear sailor. There is a possibility that he'll never accept his own worth again after everything that's been done to him, despite the way he's been able to hold himself together, and that James now carries it. Is it somehow fitting? Symmetrical?)

"You are so uniquely beautiful when you laugh like that," Thomas tells him, accompanied by the quiet rustle of leaves shifting in the open air, the crunch of growth beneath their feet. "It does something to your eyes - the same thing that happens when you try not to smile. I think-- you should hope we don't come across any wildflowers, because I'll ask to tuck one behind your ear."

Thomas stahp.

Anyway.

After an hour of walking, the sound of a rifle in the distance followed by a dog barking breaks the serenity-- not so distant that they don't catch the aftershocks of birds trilling their alarm, flying away, but not so close that it's any birds near them. No further commotion can be heard, which makes Thomas think it's a hunter, but corrects himself internally; it's not like he'd know. He looks over at James, quizzical.

"Would anyone who lives in Savannah proper be out knowing the weather's about to turn?"

[katabasis]

It's all nonsense. The philosophy, the sentiment, the fairly useless question of how anyone becomes a crack shot having last fired a gun decades ago - every piece should have very little hold on them as they travel through the wood. Or maybe they do. Maybe it's the place which is incidental and these questions and their shared fondness are the points by which the rest is tethered. The shape of being kissed is as solid as the trees around them, the question of what comes after as the smell of encroaching rain in the stale late summer air. And Thomas, though he is easy and brittle by turns, seems more true than the gunshot.

CRACK! The report murmurs afterward, a hum of the sound lingering in the air. James realizes his own stillness only after Thomas speaks. He turns his face to him, ear cocked still toward the hole in the afternoon punched by the sound.

"It's possible."

Though unlikely? He isn't certain. What does he know of hunting or the habits of people who live in real, proper places? Next to nothing. There's a fleeting thought for the fact that they might have brought a rifle along so as to craft a better lie for their presence here, but he can't imagine it would really lend them anything but the smallest measure of legitimacy.

So: after a moment, he walls on again - along more or less the same line they've been traveling. "We should keep moving." They'll either find out or they won't.