There is little gentleness inside of Drakon. Little quiet and little things that could be claimed and tagged as tender. He is, instead, a thing of thunderstorms. He is summer rain and lightning that cleaves the sky in two. He is his mother’s energy spent and splayed across the warm, humid months and it follows wherever he goes. The grass burns beneath his feet. The rain that comes is violent. But for any piece of him that was to harbor something soft, something sweet, it would be for his sister. It would be for her alone.
So he is quiet as she approaches him and the smile he gives her is distracted but kind.
“Never can,” he murmurs back, his booming voice trapped into the near whisper—not willing yet to wake those around them. To announce their presence to the sleeping world. It was true though, and he knows that she knows it as well as he. How often sleep eluded him. How often he would sleep beneath the summer of his own making, glancing up at the promise of thunderstorms building over him. The rain barely checked back as his own gifts grew and his control grew with it, albeit slower.
He finally drags his red gaze back toward her, the smile brighter as he focuses on her face. “Safe as fire can be, I think,” he frowns then and glances down, flames racing up his legs in response to his thoughts and then snuffing out, leaving the spot smoking like a forgotten campfire. At her question, his gaze drifts again until he is looking back out at the same sleepy sky as she. “Eternal summer,” there is no expression that follows as he muses on it. “Wheat and sun and endless heat for as far as I could see.”
