Basked In Golden Light [Xerxes Break x Reader]

XIX.

"Incapacitate."

*

". . .so everybody already knows about my past." Break bows his head in solemn thought as his fingers glide over the folds of a coat that didn't belong to him. You don't know what kind of tar is swimming in the pools of his eyes, because none of it reflects on his eyes- they only remain in their redness, invaded by an impassiveness that bent the rest of Break's features into stillness, into an undecipherable pierce like that of a swiftly-lodged arrow.

"Thanks to me, I avoided a lot of explanation time for you," Rufus boasts a smug flap of his fan, "so now, without hesitation, let's continue our little chat."

The sleeves of the coat fit around the pale, invisible rapture of Break's wrists like low hanging cuffs, linked and connected in their metallic binding. Break's shoulders dip from the guilt of a prisoner, too, and his methods as his eyes slowly slide up to meet the poised, superior flourish of Barma's remind you of a prisoner draped in rags and misery, staggering into the round room where they would receive their judgment under the glow of a sunny day.

Barma's eyes are nowhere as luminous; neither are the chandeliers that twinkle despite the heavy seriousness of the silence, but Break's eyes squint a little in submission to a brilliance you were blind to.

"(F/N), everybody," Break's voice was soft, the kind that would curl and shatter upon even the most feathery of touches. "You can all decide what to do after hearing this, but if. . .in the future you come to regret hearing these things, just come and hate me."

Break turns his head, denying the pity before it's even offered to him, and his action is so damnably graceful, you're only left with a quiet, fragile utterance of his name that plays itself on the open flesh of your lips.

Break's gazing at Barma like molten pieces of monstrosity have been pasted onto the fairness of his skin, though his expression never moves into a disgusted grimace, frozen in his somberness, and the words tumble off of his lips like the gush of a spring: startling, unexpected, and noisy.

*

"The name 'Kevin Legnard' still hasn't been forgotten, if I were to rat out this name to Pandora, you would surely be sentenced to death. Come here, there's still so much information that has yet to be questioned out of you." Rufus Barma, who reveals uncoiling wrath upon his displeasure.

*

"Are you really defending this sinful person? I'd never expect you to like him this much." Rufus Barma, four steps away from driving his knuckles against Break's chest, growling lowly when you invade the space that kept him from his prized information.

*

"My, my, I told you never to make illusions of me, didn't I? Or is this due to the effect of the Contract? Not only does your outer body stop growing, but your brain as well. . .? Ruf. . .?" Sheryl Rainsworth, as real as the painted lines of chandelier lights that align themselves with the aged wrinkles of her face. It's the first time you see Barma speaking with a stammer.

*

"What's wrong with you guys? You look pathetic," Break says, and already, his shoulders rise a little in his amusement, and he steps farther and farther away from the haunting illusion of a filthy, empty prisoner he was developed in.

He's slowly collecting himself, returning to the casual smiling, the spins of his fingers, the light that plays in delight. You feel relieved seeing him smile freely again.

"It's because, to keep hearing such extreme things- my head has such a hard time keeping up with all of this," Oz throws an arm over his eyes, celebrating with dramatics and a guttural sigh.

"And you, (F/N)?" 

Break's gentle when he looks at you, softened from the brutality of the scenes that played earlier. It's appreciated and worrying. You only choose to return his smile, praying it doesn't reflect as ghostly when they're on your lips.

"I'm. . .all right," the words experiment, test themselves on the rolls of your tongue, but you decide that they're fitting. His expression is changeless. "Ah, but I'd quite like to go back home as soon as possible."

"Yeah, some tea and a few cakes would sound perfect," Breaks speaks more to himself than he does to anybody else, and he blinks in surprise when everybody shovels him with their judging glances.

"It's too late in the evening for tea and cakes!"

It's silent with the lack of a response, and Break sputters, before he begins into laughter, a horribly pleasant sound when it lasts, ringing on your ears. It's not quite as rich as his cackles after his morning tea, but Break's eyes have seen the dazzle of the chandeliers and the blades of anguish and threat that line themselves on Barma's fan and on the condescending curl of a smirk on his lips; you can't blame him for the laughter that leaves his throat a few rings too early and a few pitches too hollow, but its better than remaining in the porcelain stillness fitting only for dolls that sit poised in their tailored dresses and patches.

You wait, with folded hands and conversation you prepared for. You wait until the horses neigh and stomp against the fractured cobble, until Break's smiles finally lighten into something that sparks with the substance of genuineness.