preston rawlings, psychic accountant (ex_clerk820) wrote in rooms,
Re: Gatsby: Preston/Saint
Preston smiled in sudden understanding. "Oh, you were trying to be quiet." His eyes roved around the landscape as he tried to think of some helpful metaphor to further explain what he had meant when he had called Saint "loud" and a crease appeared between his brows. "That wasn't what I meant. You are not loud in... in... volume. Not... here." He held his palm up a few centimeters from his nose, illustrating the type of thoughts that thrust themselves at him. "Not aggressive like a shout. When I said loud I meant there is a... lot there." Preston's carved shoulders stretched upward in a helpless shrug. "I am bad at explaining it."
There was nothing inherent in the ability of reading thoughts that actually suggested understanding. He could perceive what was there, but not necessarily comprehend it, as everything had to be forced through the lens of Preston-self, not unlike the translation of language. It was only in that moment in which that self disappeared, the total melding of minds, that comprehension and perception merged into one.
Preston's blond brows sketched upward in flat lines of sunlight. "This version of you is the loquacious version?" he asked in humorous disbelief.
When the other man shifted the sun did as well, in that particular place, unhindered by the twisting leaves that found other patches of road to shelter. Preston's pupils shrank, revealing a spread of newly blue iris that gleamed like pale quartz. His automatic impulse was to match the forward with a retreat, which he did without thinking. "No, not from you. Specifically."