[If Hannibal were someone else, Helena or Zane, someone unstable, someone fractured, stepping into the tight streetlight radius of Dillon's aura would have a countering effect, stabilizing, healing. Hannibal is not damaged. His nature, his pattern, is being correctly, purely expressed; the part of Dillon that is not human or animal but fire and power he cannot reign in likes that, encourages it, whets it.
The part of Dillon that is a raw, tired, exasperated child catches a glimpse of fractal reflection when Hannibal is close, a step or a half-step away, startles out of stride that the star would prefer to keep more rhythmic. Not the startlement of fear; the kind of someone tripping on debris they hadn't noticed. He turns, scowling, slower than he should, a rapid metamorphosis from aggravation to concern as he sees what this atmosphere has inevitably done to him, purified, unleashed.
He gets a hand up as Hannibal surges and looms in his vision, slow, sloppy, and his eyes are wide and freaked but still more in the sense of the bizarre than the frightening, not adjusting fast enough to give him the benefit of adrenaline until pain, until teeth, until he's screeching what the hell even though he damn well knows and jabbing just there at the hinge of Hannibal's jaw, stumbling back after he forces it to release him. The blood drips in symmetrical, parallel tracks on either side of his mouth as his nose repairs itself.]
no subject
The part of Dillon that is a raw, tired, exasperated child catches a glimpse of fractal reflection when Hannibal is close, a step or a half-step away, startles out of stride that the star would prefer to keep more rhythmic. Not the startlement of fear; the kind of someone tripping on debris they hadn't noticed. He turns, scowling, slower than he should, a rapid metamorphosis from aggravation to concern as he sees what this atmosphere has inevitably done to him, purified, unleashed.
He gets a hand up as Hannibal surges and looms in his vision, slow, sloppy, and his eyes are wide and freaked but still more in the sense of the bizarre than the frightening, not adjusting fast enough to give him the benefit of adrenaline until pain, until teeth, until he's screeching what the hell even though he damn well knows and jabbing just there at the hinge of Hannibal's jaw, stumbling back after he forces it to release him. The blood drips in symmetrical, parallel tracks on either side of his mouth as his nose repairs itself.]