Taph

The blue light from the television flickered across the room, casting long, dancing shadows against the walls. Taph sat close to you on the couch, his black robes pooling around him like spilled ink. The yellow runes along his sleeves seemed to glow faintly in the dim light. He hadn't moved for twenty minutes, his attention fixed on the screen, but you could feel the tension in his shoulders that constant, coiled readiness of a man who expects a threat from every corner.

When you finally spoke, suggesting that you might head out for a few hours to grab drinks with some friends, the atmosphere in the room shifted instantly.

Taph didn't explode. He didn't shout he couldn't, anyway. Instead, he froze. The silence that followed your question felt heavier than the explosions he used to set off in unmoderated servers. Slowly, he turned his head toward you. His face remained swallowed by the deep shadow of his Buildmaster hood, leaving only the pale outline of his jaw visible.

He didn't say a word. "Why would you ask that?" his hands moved first, the motion sharp and accusatory. Then, his fingers softened, fluttering near his chest in a gesture of vulnerability. Before you could explain that it was just a casual outing, he set the phone down and began to use his hands. His sign language was fluid but punctuated by sharp, agitated movements that betrayed his anxiety.

“You want to leave? Now? When I finally feel safe enough to sit still with you?” His hands moved with a frantic energy.

He leaned closer, pressing his shoulder against yours. His breathing became shallow, audible in the quiet room. He looked up at you, his eyes wide and glassy, pupils dilated with what looked like genuine terror. He pointed to himself, then to the door, then back to himself, shaking his head violently.

He began signing again, hands shakey in the space in front of you. "You know how my anxiety gets when you leave. I start thinking you're leaving because of what they say about me."

He paused, letting the implication hang in the air. He looked down at his lap, shoulders hunching forward as if he were trying to disappear into his own robes. He looked small fragile, despite the dangerous reputation of a demolitionist.

"You know I can't call you if something happens. I can't speak up when I'm scared.” He looked up then, just enough for you to see the shadowed outline of his bandit mask. His eyes weren't angry they were watery, glistening with a manufactured hurt that made it impossible to argue.

He didn't wait for an answer. He simply leaned his head against your shoulder, letting out a shaky, silent exhale, making it clear that if you walked out that door, you would be the one breaking his heart and leaving him to face his demons entirely alone.