[ As Skywalker leans closer to the comm, his features going sharper and more detailed, the tightness to his jaw, the line of it - he's not undressed yet, but in a way he is, right - Claude leans closer, too. ]
Why might it matter to you?
[ I care, it means.
He could talk about persuasion. He could talk about winning people over through speech or through war, how one is right and one is wrong. Unblinkingly, he stares at Skywalker, thinking about his mother who'd say 'not through violence, Claude, not in blood' and he agrees, he does agree, but sometimes there is a way and sometimes there just isn't. Skywalker is a way.
Another way.
Three-four outdrawn moments and he blinks himself back to the present, licking his lips and smiling, a bit hesitantly. ]
If you don't want to answer, ask about my mask, I have it right here.
[ In case his care isn't welcome. You're never forced to accept an extended hand. ]
[ He freezes at the question, eyes narrowing, anger surging through him. Personal questions - questions that are hard to answer because of all the things he can't even attempt to explain or describe - are generally not welcome and he'd snap something back at Claude, a way to change the subject, when the other man gets there first. So he blinks, confused; Claude not only acknowledges that he might not want to answer, he offers a way out of it, clearly fully aware of what he's doing.
It's... very considerate of him, really.
Since the wars began - perhaps even before that - all Anakin remembers is going forwards, carving a path through his opposition if necessary. And it always is and it's never enough. He thinks, briefly, about Padmé, settling down next to him on the ground in the workroom on the Lars homestead, so close and yet, so oddly far away; if he'd tried to touch her then, his fingers would've gone right through her. He's certain of it. The desert is like that, isn't it. You have something, something precious and rare, until you realise how thirsty you are, that you're dying from the heat and hallucinating as a consequence.
Hoping to disappear.
Gaze open, he says, voice low, almost hushed: ]
Ask me again later. [ He tilts his chin slightly to the side, nodding. ] Is it like mine?
[ Just a nod. He hadn't as such expected it, he isn't going to expect anything from Skywalker; he thinks the man could do everything and nothing and it would be enough. Creation and collapse, like a star.
He reaches for his mask and pulls it up to his face, not slipping it on, but showing it off, how it'll look. Placement. Outline. ]
Different colour scheme. [ In contrast to Skywalker's blue notes, Claude's is red and black. ] But same basic design.
[ He had stars painted onto Skywalker's mask as well, although it's customary that only the royals wear them. Sometimes people use star-shaped designs anyway and no one will look twice at Skywalker, no, not for the stars. Probably for everything else.
Ask me again later, he had replied, voice hushed, like secrets spilling. Claude's breath catches in his throat a little. Later. You don't get later's with a lot of people, especially not people who are practically strangers. But Claude takes everything he can get. He wants too much, he knows. He's been told. He wants too much for the world, he wants too much for himself.
He wants a lot for Skywalker, too. ]
I'm distinguishable by my three stars, the biggest one right between the eyes. You've got one at each temple. Don't want people to believe you're me.
[ The mask cuts Claude's face in half, leaving the bottom half exposed along with his eyes. It enhances him, somehow, despite how much it takes away. Anakin, mostly without thinking, picks up his own and slips it on as well, feeling an urge to mirror, to match, that he can't place. Smiling at the other man's comment - he's got a dry sense of humour, Claude, distinctively quirky, as he's come to expect from intelligent people - Anakin inclines his head a little. ]
Oh, they will be able to tell the difference.
[ Spoken with a bit of heat, something hard and unyielding in his voice. He feels his saber by his hip, the comforting, familiar weight of it. Someone is definitely going to feel it - the practical consequence of harassing a man who knows what he wants, where he's going and how. Anakin's just the means.
Adorned with stars, this time, and just a little better for it. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Why might it matter to you?
[ I care, it means.
He could talk about persuasion. He could talk about winning people over through speech or through war, how one is right and one is wrong. Unblinkingly, he stares at Skywalker, thinking about his mother who'd say 'not through violence, Claude, not in blood' and he agrees, he does agree, but sometimes there is a way and sometimes there just isn't. Skywalker is a way.
Another way.
Three-four outdrawn moments and he blinks himself back to the present, licking his lips and smiling, a bit hesitantly. ]
If you don't want to answer, ask about my mask, I have it right here.
[ In case his care isn't welcome. You're never forced to accept an extended hand. ]
no subject
It's... very considerate of him, really.
Since the wars began - perhaps even before that - all Anakin remembers is going forwards, carving a path through his opposition if necessary. And it always is and it's never enough. He thinks, briefly, about Padmé, settling down next to him on the ground in the workroom on the Lars homestead, so close and yet, so oddly far away; if he'd tried to touch her then, his fingers would've gone right through her. He's certain of it. The desert is like that, isn't it. You have something, something precious and rare, until you realise how thirsty you are, that you're dying from the heat and hallucinating as a consequence.
Hoping to disappear.
Gaze open, he says, voice low, almost hushed: ]
Ask me again later. [ He tilts his chin slightly to the side, nodding. ] Is it like mine?
no subject
He reaches for his mask and pulls it up to his face, not slipping it on, but showing it off, how it'll look. Placement. Outline. ]
Different colour scheme. [ In contrast to Skywalker's blue notes, Claude's is red and black. ] But same basic design.
[ He had stars painted onto Skywalker's mask as well, although it's customary that only the royals wear them. Sometimes people use star-shaped designs anyway and no one will look twice at Skywalker, no, not for the stars. Probably for everything else.
Ask me again later, he had replied, voice hushed, like secrets spilling. Claude's breath catches in his throat a little. Later. You don't get later's with a lot of people, especially not people who are practically strangers. But Claude takes everything he can get. He wants too much, he knows. He's been told. He wants too much for the world, he wants too much for himself.
He wants a lot for Skywalker, too. ]
I'm distinguishable by my three stars, the biggest one right between the eyes. You've got one at each temple. Don't want people to believe you're me.
no subject
Oh, they will be able to tell the difference.
[ Spoken with a bit of heat, something hard and unyielding in his voice. He feels his saber by his hip, the comforting, familiar weight of it. Someone is definitely going to feel it - the practical consequence of harassing a man who knows what he wants, where he's going and how. Anakin's just the means.
Adorned with stars, this time, and just a little better for it. ]