anyone;

[Trystane]

He knows peace intimately. Perhaps, too intimately. Lacking in adventure, heartache and dramatics (good and bad), he lives in constant companionship with even-tempered waves. Some might believe this to be a life worth living, untouched — not perfect (nothing is in nature), but at its worst, quiet tedium. And that is not so bad. It is an ideal, one of a multitude. But he yearns often for something impressive and extreme. For great emotions stirred within, for an opportunity to release it like a breath. Joining the atmosphere: nitrogen, oxygen, the gaseous compound of whispers and evaporated tears. *****He desires something. Something. A wild storm, a whole and uninhibited experience. His heart jitters in his chest, and cold draws him nearer still. He sways a bit on his feet and their heat pulls them together like opposite magnets. The negligible brush of skin evokes an immense, primordial ache. But he too resists indulging it further. They are not untethered spirits, neither of them. They are kept still and anxious, compelled not only by nature (the nature that wills them into a unity, drives for it always as a rule), but by society (willing them otherwise, expecting from them courteous restraint). But prying eyes are few, those that are left are huddled in hushed summit. They are obscured by darkness, but moonlight falls silvery and bright, negating much of that welcome disguise. So he toys with the idea, to nudge her and explain a star formation he had kept his eyes on since boyhood. Any excuse. *****He is not smooth enough. Not learned enough. He is a botanist and a zoologist, an eager consumer of detail, but he is not a seasoned companion. He can tell by her own unsure energy that she isn't either, and he can't help but let out a small and awkward chuckle. Something, stitching them together with understanding. It's a good enough start. “I suppose so. It's made me the man I am. But I guess that's probably the same for everyone.” He shifts, wondering how he can explain it to her, “I am wild, in my core,” He tilts his head, he does not mean rabble-rousing, but he suspects somehow he will understand him perfectly, “Nature it stronger than anything. It's in us all. I imagine the gulf between us is not so great. Nothing really, at all.” He clears his throat, babbling his own curiosities to the zeitgeist. A nervous tic of his. His brows furrow together, and he wonders on her final line. I just needed to get away from there. He could have missed it, everyone needs to flee every once and a while. But it is not imperceptible. It is there, maybe restless to be addressed, but that would be a bold assumption. She is opening, and he is curling in on himself. His dark lips part, mouthing words silently. *****“Triplets,” He laughs airily, “Sounds rough. Are you... close with your siblings?” He is eyeing her, and then the starfield, with casual shifts. “I have a half-sister, but, we aren't so close. Actually, we are strangers, really. Viera...” Trystane. It is steep, it is stone. Such recovery. From the daily press, the deepest nest, the keeper's keep.