[Palamedes chooses to deliver his reply by hand, like a creep, although he spoils the fun of Sending Mail by walking it up to the door himself and knocking, to deliver it directly. The envelope is tidy and politely plain, and properly addressed despite him standing on the doorstep with it, and the letter within at a glance seems to have been written over the course of at least two different days—the pen color changes in the middle from black to blue, and the blue hand, while still Palamedes' tidy-adjacent scrawl, is tighter and more tense than the first half.
It begins:]
Dear Choso,
First: The paper smells lovely, like fruit, I think? And vanilla? I'm an appreciator of scents but not very knowledgeable about them, you'll have to tell me sometime. I like it, though.
Second: I'm sorry for not replying sooner, but things have been busy; I'm going to need to slough off a few projects before I unravel at the seams, but unfortunately that's ridiculously hard for me. Maybe I will unravel! You could spool me back together and then I could take a weekend off, or a month, who knows. Something like that. Just know that I've had your letter handy and I like to read it over again, when I'm thinking of unraveling. You, and it, are very sweet.
(I may have pined a little. Silly! I just saw you in Kelesis, but you know, it felt like the romantic thing to do.)
Once I've settled my too-many-projects, I'd love to meet both your brother and your garden. I miss you! I'll have to pine a little more.
I hope, since this has waited on my desk for me, that your housemates have learned to complain a little less. As for my household
[Here is where the pen and the apparent comfort level of the hand changes, with the unfinished sentence scratched out in the new color.]
Silver is doing well. He's repairing a ship and I've been spending some time there, you know, since my other soul likes to be wet. Saturn has "checked in" to Patho-Gen HQ for God knows what reason, I couldn't have talked her out of it even if she'd given me time to try. Apparently they have visiting hours, like a real hospital, so I've been lingering around while they keep her sedated and don't tell me anything. If they hurt her I'm going to do something reckless and probably insane, I think.
Lilias is gone, whatever "gone" means here, because no one knows, not really. I've learned that when someone you've imprinted with "goes away," it knocks your emotions around even worse than usual, so I still haven't sent this letter.
Again, sorry about that. I've been terrible company; besides sulking under Silver's ship, I've barely been out of the house.
Did you know it's been six months? Since we first arrived here. That shook me out of my own head, I think, so: here I am.
Yours, Palamedes
P.S. Literally, depending on the time.
[—Whether Choso decides to read it while Palamedes loiters on his doorstep or not, Palamedes greets him with:]
Hi. I thought about getting one of those little mailman hats, but... [shrug!] Doesn't matter now. I hope I'm not interrupting anything. I wanted to see you.
( the silence that permeates the house is palpable, now, with satoru gone. he hasn't seen felwinter around much, either, which he would take harder if it hadn't already been something of the norm; even after their talk together, he still feels the distance there, and too polite, he doesn't know if he should be working harder to clear it. if anything, it's only made him sink further into the mindless, comfortable repetition of garden work here, and at the farm, as though feeling and helping the plants grow soothes some part of his soul, even if it isn't his own. today, it's nearing the end of the broad span of daylight for the evening: which is why he's washing up, toweling his hands dry in the kitchen when he hears the knock.
there have been a few visitors here, but for the most part, he's been left to his own devices, hands deep in the overwhelming spiral of plants around the front yard--which is why he's dubious about answering, his mouth fitting into a faint frown. still, it could be someone come looking for satoru, and he doesn't want anyone else to be left with the sharp cliff of questioning that he'd been faced with once he'd disappeared for good.
his white t-shirt is still caked with dust and dirt from the yard, and his black pants show the same sort of mess--his hair's clawed up into something of a ponytail, wisps hanging down around his ears, framed around his cheeks. he opens the door with the purse of his lips, steeling himself for the polite refusal--
--and standing there, on his doorstep, is palamedes. framed by the dying light of the early evening, framed by the vining, flowering plants hanging over the top of the door: his chest clenches, his breath pads out of hi in relief, and it takes all of his self-restraint not to lock his arms in and drag him in for a hug.
the sight of the letter, offered neatly in an envelope, makes his breath crash into a husky, throaty sort of chuckle: he reaches out to accept it with both hands, clean, and hold it there between his fingers. )
...I wanted to see you, too. ( he says, because it's the truth, because there's really no moment where he doesn't want to see palamedes; he does at least have the manners to look bashful at how messy he looks, taking a step back to hold the door open wider, and offer palamedes the room to come inside. )
There's a table near the kitchen, just to the right here. You can sit. I'll make tea.
( it doesn't feel right to rip right into the letter now, no matter how much he wants to read it. he needs to take care of his very special guest, first. )
[Oh, and isn't he just lovely, work-tousled and utterly claimed by the plants around the yard even when he isn't among them. There's a charm to the dust and dirt, an insight into Choso's spectacular new garden, from the letter—even more charming than the plants themselves that Palamedes has been peering at from the doorstep while he waits. The plants are nice, objectively, he's very inclined to like plants as a general rule after a life lived mostly in a sealed tin can, but they're made all the lovelier by being Choso's plants, and the dirt on his clothes is much the same, endearing in its way for being his.
It all gathers into a fondness that breaks over Palamedes' face in a smile, almost giddy, when Choso is at the door. He reaches for him as he steps inside, a few of his tentacle "fingers" brushing Choso's shoulder, the side of his neck, his jaw, curling into a loose wisp of his hair—all an affectionate patter between looking at Choso and then the room beyond and then back again.]
Tea would be perfect. Hang on.
[One extra moment for Palamedes to lean in and catch him in a kiss, lips and friendly little tentacle suckers alike, the latter pulling away with a series of tiny pops. He moves to sit, leaning on his bony elbow and propping his chin in his hand.
It's been a strange handful of weeks, dismal in ways he'd not yet known and wishes he still didn't, but already sitting in Choso's house he can feel the grime and unpleasantness of those weeks starting to ebb away. He wonders if his letter half-drowned in those feelings is going to seem odd when Choso sits down to read it, the way he's already apparently unable to stop himself from smiling. If he were shorter he would swing his feet in delight, sitting here, liberated from his sulking by the simple sight of Choso in a dusty t-shirt. The dire details aren't important right this second, he supposes.]
I like your hair like that, by the way. It looks nice. As did the garden, for the record, you'll have to give me the grand tour. That's in my letter.
[He's getting ahead of himself. He clears his throat.]
How are you? It's quieter here than I thought it would be.
( hang on? his feet stop, stutter, half-turning back towards him--but it's only that brief, familiar tickle of the tentacle arm feeling for him, only the reach of palamedes to lean in for a kiss, something that has his breath catching in his throat, no matter how simple. it's still odd to become so familiar with these sorts of physical sensations, but he's realizing now that the loss of them is enough that he feels too tingly, getting kissed again, as though remembering their first all over again. a part of him almost hopes it can be like this every time: a part of him knows it already is.
when palamedes moves to sit at the table, only then does he stumble back into motion. carefully, he sets the letter at the table in front of one of the other chairs, across from where palamedes is, so that he can move to fill up the kettle and place it on the small stove. if he were being incredibly particular--which he often is, at least alone--he would work on warming the teapot with hot water, but he's more eager to have it all plated and be seated, to be able to look at palamedes across from him and breathe some relief.
of course, it's as he's filling the teapot with leaves that the comment about his hair comes--self-consciously, one of his hands lifts, covering the awkward ponytail with a rough chuckle, his back turned. )
It's a mess. ( he says mildly, teasing, but he leaves it at that. true, he'll have to show palamedes the backyard, as well, and the plants in his bedroom upstairs--even the kitchen has a few, small ones, tucked onto a shelf stretching towards the window.
the mention of the quiet has him working steadily to place tea cups and a plate of sweet raspberry cookies and finally, the tea pot, onto a tray, as the water works up to a bubble behind him. )
Everyone is-- ( he starts, stops, decides it's too callous even if it's true; he sets the cups down, the pot down, nudges the cookie plate pointedly towards palamedes, and with the empty tray under his arm, twists back towards the stove. a watched pot never boils, so they say, but he doesn't know what to do with his face, doesn't how to fix his expression. )
Satoru is gone. He disappeared. And L-- Felwinter, is... ( he doesn't have an answer for that one, really, as the kettle starts to hiss; he waits another moment, returning back towards the table so that he can pour the hot water into the teapot carefully. ) ...I think it's too painful for him to be here.
( that's the best way, he thinks, he can put it, as he returns the kettle and finally sinks himself down into his seat; there's nothing more for him to do with his hands except twist them into his lap, waiting as the tea brews. he glances up, briefly, at palamedes, almost apologetic, before looking down again. )
So it's just been me, here, for awhile. I'm sorry to have you here under these strange circumstances, but I'm...happy, when you're close. ( one of his hands finally lifts, then the other, but it's so that he can take the letter and start to carefully slip open the flap of the envelope. ) So I feel happier just having you here.
[As Palamedes settles in he can feel himself almost sink into the moment, the pleasant coziness of sitting and watching Choso move around to make tea. He watches him with the hint of a smile playing over his features, a smile that blooms in earnest when Choso touches his hair. If it's a mess—and alright, it is—it's a good one, and he's tickled by that edge of a tease.
Satoru is gone is like a sudden drop of water in the otherwise peaceful pond of this kitchen; it takes him a split-second, blinking, to catch up name-wise—he and Gojo were not that close—and then the only thing he can think of to say in the immediate moment is,] Oh.
[Oh, he hadn't noticed, busy with his own abrupt disappearance incident; oh, and it's strange to think about, Gojo not being around, one of them here from the very start. They'd known each other barely at all, something like professionally he'd say, but to know someone is there the way their first group has been there and then to imagine Gojo's spot suddenly empty still feels... strange. A community loss, from this side of the table, not a personal one.
(He picks up a cookie, as an afterthought, to be polite.)
And he wonders for another split-second about the community loss, the many things Gojo was bankrolling and what will happen now, but—that's for later. All that matters now is how Choso is doing, which Palamedes thinks is not too well, even as he doesn't say it and circles around to apologize about the circumstances. Palamedes frowns and reaches out—tentacles, they can reach further—to curl around Choso's wrist as he lifts the envelope.]
Choso, dear one, I never mind the circumstances. But I understand—it's... [he nods down at the letter,] Well, it's in there, as well. Lilias has disappeared, too.
[So he knows, quite literally, the feeling. The rest is nuance, but the abrupt absence he knows well, now. He rubs two tentacles affectionately over Choso's wrist, shrugging his actual shoulder.]
I was going to wait until later to ask, but I'd like to stay over, if you'll have me. This is hardly the time to be alone in this big house.
[To turn the afternoon into the evening and stay the night had been the plan, half-formed, when he'd left his own house in a fit of yearning and mail-delivering hubris; to wriggle into Choso's bed and re-familiarize himself with all the little details of skin and scent and warmth was on the agenda, of course. Even now, with this extra layer of sadness, the mental image of Choso by himself in the quiet of the house—well, Palamedes' intentions are many and varied.
He tilts his head a bit, smiling again, a touch more, well, morose than before. With a vague wave of the cookie,]
I was tired of walking by an empty room, personally—let's keep each other company. Yours is some of the best.
( carefully, one-handed, he slides the letter from the envelope, but only because he's more than happy to let palamedes take control of the other hand, to wrap around his wrist like he might be the only thing tethering him here to the ground. it still feels surreal, in some way, to think that satoru is gone, a loss that he hadn't thought he would really feel, at the beginning; but they'd become close, better friends than he thinks even satoru would want to admit, and there's a certain sadness he feels in the fact that everything satoru hoped for is now gone. it's as though this place is trying to teach him the lesson that there really are no second chances: that he is not here, himself, for another lease on life.
those are troubled thoughts that he can't quite put to words, yet. if anyone would understand them, he thinks it would be palamedes, but, as he starts to read the start of the letter, he hears it plainly--lilias. he can remember the name from his dutiful bid to recall all of those that are close to palamedes, as though hoping to work up the courage to introduce himself, and it makes his lips twist into a forlorn sort of frown.
not just him, then. there have been others--robbed from this life, from this chance, and gone to where? he can't begin to understand it.
there's a swallow, but the hand that's caught up with palamedes' touch twists, mostly so that he can stroke his fingers along the tentacles, gently, reassuring, as he continues reading along the letter. he can tell, immediately, the abrupt change; the way the words go from relatively cheerful to carefully morose.
as he folds the letter back up, one-handed, he reaches for the teapot: to lift it and neatly pour them each a cup, setting it back down again. )
Are you sure it's alright? ( not his immediate reaction, which would be to climb over the table and squeeze palamedes in like a reassuring plush toy--he tempers himself, hopeful but calm. ) You should let your others know, so they know where to find you, at the very least.
( but there's a faint, bashful sort of smile, a nod, as he works to pick up his teacup with his free hand. )
I would be honored to share my bed with you. ( matter-of-fact, over the lip of his cup. ) I've already--
( a rough swallow, as though realizing he's just bumbling through his thoughts without thinking; his throat clears, a little stubborn. )
I may have imagined it, from time to time, already.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
at last, the mail
It begins:]
Dear Choso,
First: The paper smells lovely, like fruit, I think? And vanilla? I'm an appreciator of scents but not very knowledgeable about them, you'll have to tell me sometime. I like it, though.
Second: I'm sorry for not replying sooner, but things have been busy; I'm going to need to slough off a few projects before I unravel at the seams, but unfortunately that's ridiculously hard for me. Maybe I will unravel! You could spool me back together and then I could take a weekend off, or a month, who knows. Something like that. Just know that I've had your letter handy and I like to read it over again, when I'm thinking of unraveling. You, and it, are very sweet.
(I may have pined a little. Silly! I just saw you in Kelesis, but you know, it felt like the romantic thing to do.)
Once I've settled my too-many-projects, I'd love to meet both your brother and your garden. I miss you! I'll have to pine a little more.
I hope, since this has waited on my desk for me, that your housemates have learned to complain a little less.
As for my household[Here is where the pen and the apparent comfort level of the hand changes, with the unfinished sentence scratched out in the new color.]
Silver is doing well. He's repairing a ship and I've been spending some time there, you know, since my other soul likes to be wet. Saturn has "checked in" to Patho-Gen HQ for God knows what reason, I couldn't have talked her out of it even if she'd given me time to try. Apparently they have visiting hours, like a real hospital, so I've been lingering around while they keep her sedated and don't tell me anything. If they hurt her I'm going to do something reckless and probably insane, I think.
Lilias is gone, whatever "gone" means here, because no one knows, not really. I've learned that when someone you've imprinted with "goes away," it knocks your emotions around even worse than usual, so I still haven't sent this letter.
Again, sorry about that. I've been terrible company; besides sulking under Silver's ship, I've barely been out of the house.
Did you know it's been six months? Since we first arrived here. That shook me out of my own head, I think, so: here I am.
Yours,
Palamedes
P.S. Literally, depending on the time.
[—Whether Choso decides to read it while Palamedes loiters on his doorstep or not, Palamedes greets him with:]
Hi. I thought about getting one of those little mailman hats, but... [shrug!] Doesn't matter now. I hope I'm not interrupting anything. I wanted to see you.
no subject
there have been a few visitors here, but for the most part, he's been left to his own devices, hands deep in the overwhelming spiral of plants around the front yard--which is why he's dubious about answering, his mouth fitting into a faint frown. still, it could be someone come looking for satoru, and he doesn't want anyone else to be left with the sharp cliff of questioning that he'd been faced with once he'd disappeared for good.
his white t-shirt is still caked with dust and dirt from the yard, and his black pants show the same sort of mess--his hair's clawed up into something of a ponytail, wisps hanging down around his ears, framed around his cheeks. he opens the door with the purse of his lips, steeling himself for the polite refusal--
--and standing there, on his doorstep, is palamedes. framed by the dying light of the early evening, framed by the vining, flowering plants hanging over the top of the door: his chest clenches, his breath pads out of hi in relief, and it takes all of his self-restraint not to lock his arms in and drag him in for a hug.
the sight of the letter, offered neatly in an envelope, makes his breath crash into a husky, throaty sort of chuckle: he reaches out to accept it with both hands, clean, and hold it there between his fingers. )
...I wanted to see you, too. ( he says, because it's the truth, because there's really no moment where he doesn't want to see palamedes; he does at least have the manners to look bashful at how messy he looks, taking a step back to hold the door open wider, and offer palamedes the room to come inside. )
There's a table near the kitchen, just to the right here. You can sit. I'll make tea.
( it doesn't feel right to rip right into the letter now, no matter how much he wants to read it. he needs to take care of his very special guest, first. )
no subject
It all gathers into a fondness that breaks over Palamedes' face in a smile, almost giddy, when Choso is at the door. He reaches for him as he steps inside, a few of his tentacle "fingers" brushing Choso's shoulder, the side of his neck, his jaw, curling into a loose wisp of his hair—all an affectionate patter between looking at Choso and then the room beyond and then back again.]
Tea would be perfect. Hang on.
[One extra moment for Palamedes to lean in and catch him in a kiss, lips and friendly little tentacle suckers alike, the latter pulling away with a series of tiny pops. He moves to sit, leaning on his bony elbow and propping his chin in his hand.
It's been a strange handful of weeks, dismal in ways he'd not yet known and wishes he still didn't, but already sitting in Choso's house he can feel the grime and unpleasantness of those weeks starting to ebb away. He wonders if his letter half-drowned in those feelings is going to seem odd when Choso sits down to read it, the way he's already apparently unable to stop himself from smiling. If he were shorter he would swing his feet in delight, sitting here, liberated from his sulking by the simple sight of Choso in a dusty t-shirt. The dire details aren't important right this second, he supposes.]
I like your hair like that, by the way. It looks nice. As did the garden, for the record, you'll have to give me the grand tour. That's in my letter.
[He's getting ahead of himself. He clears his throat.]
How are you? It's quieter here than I thought it would be.
no subject
when palamedes moves to sit at the table, only then does he stumble back into motion. carefully, he sets the letter at the table in front of one of the other chairs, across from where palamedes is, so that he can move to fill up the kettle and place it on the small stove. if he were being incredibly particular--which he often is, at least alone--he would work on warming the teapot with hot water, but he's more eager to have it all plated and be seated, to be able to look at palamedes across from him and breathe some relief.
of course, it's as he's filling the teapot with leaves that the comment about his hair comes--self-consciously, one of his hands lifts, covering the awkward ponytail with a rough chuckle, his back turned. )
It's a mess. ( he says mildly, teasing, but he leaves it at that. true, he'll have to show palamedes the backyard, as well, and the plants in his bedroom upstairs--even the kitchen has a few, small ones, tucked onto a shelf stretching towards the window.
the mention of the quiet has him working steadily to place tea cups and a plate of sweet raspberry cookies and finally, the tea pot, onto a tray, as the water works up to a bubble behind him. )
Everyone is-- ( he starts, stops, decides it's too callous even if it's true; he sets the cups down, the pot down, nudges the cookie plate pointedly towards palamedes, and with the empty tray under his arm, twists back towards the stove. a watched pot never boils, so they say, but he doesn't know what to do with his face, doesn't how to fix his expression. )
Satoru is gone. He disappeared. And L-- Felwinter, is... ( he doesn't have an answer for that one, really, as the kettle starts to hiss; he waits another moment, returning back towards the table so that he can pour the hot water into the teapot carefully. ) ...I think it's too painful for him to be here.
( that's the best way, he thinks, he can put it, as he returns the kettle and finally sinks himself down into his seat; there's nothing more for him to do with his hands except twist them into his lap, waiting as the tea brews. he glances up, briefly, at palamedes, almost apologetic, before looking down again. )
So it's just been me, here, for awhile. I'm sorry to have you here under these strange circumstances, but I'm...happy, when you're close. ( one of his hands finally lifts, then the other, but it's so that he can take the letter and start to carefully slip open the flap of the envelope. ) So I feel happier just having you here.
no subject
Satoru is gone is like a sudden drop of water in the otherwise peaceful pond of this kitchen; it takes him a split-second, blinking, to catch up name-wise—he and Gojo were not that close—and then the only thing he can think of to say in the immediate moment is,] Oh.
[Oh, he hadn't noticed, busy with his own abrupt disappearance incident; oh, and it's strange to think about, Gojo not being around, one of them here from the very start. They'd known each other barely at all, something like professionally he'd say, but to know someone is there the way their first group has been there and then to imagine Gojo's spot suddenly empty still feels... strange. A community loss, from this side of the table, not a personal one.
(He picks up a cookie, as an afterthought, to be polite.)
And he wonders for another split-second about the community loss, the many things Gojo was bankrolling and what will happen now, but—that's for later. All that matters now is how Choso is doing, which Palamedes thinks is not too well, even as he doesn't say it and circles around to apologize about the circumstances. Palamedes frowns and reaches out—tentacles, they can reach further—to curl around Choso's wrist as he lifts the envelope.]
Choso, dear one, I never mind the circumstances. But I understand—it's... [he nods down at the letter,] Well, it's in there, as well. Lilias has disappeared, too.
[So he knows, quite literally, the feeling. The rest is nuance, but the abrupt absence he knows well, now. He rubs two tentacles affectionately over Choso's wrist, shrugging his actual shoulder.]
I was going to wait until later to ask, but I'd like to stay over, if you'll have me. This is hardly the time to be alone in this big house.
[To turn the afternoon into the evening and stay the night had been the plan, half-formed, when he'd left his own house in a fit of yearning and mail-delivering hubris; to wriggle into Choso's bed and re-familiarize himself with all the little details of skin and scent and warmth was on the agenda, of course. Even now, with this extra layer of sadness, the mental image of Choso by himself in the quiet of the house—well, Palamedes' intentions are many and varied.
He tilts his head a bit, smiling again, a touch more, well, morose than before. With a vague wave of the cookie,]
I was tired of walking by an empty room, personally—let's keep each other company. Yours is some of the best.
no subject
those are troubled thoughts that he can't quite put to words, yet. if anyone would understand them, he thinks it would be palamedes, but, as he starts to read the start of the letter, he hears it plainly--lilias. he can remember the name from his dutiful bid to recall all of those that are close to palamedes, as though hoping to work up the courage to introduce himself, and it makes his lips twist into a forlorn sort of frown.
not just him, then. there have been others--robbed from this life, from this chance, and gone to where? he can't begin to understand it.
there's a swallow, but the hand that's caught up with palamedes' touch twists, mostly so that he can stroke his fingers along the tentacles, gently, reassuring, as he continues reading along the letter. he can tell, immediately, the abrupt change; the way the words go from relatively cheerful to carefully morose.
as he folds the letter back up, one-handed, he reaches for the teapot: to lift it and neatly pour them each a cup, setting it back down again. )
Are you sure it's alright? ( not his immediate reaction, which would be to climb over the table and squeeze palamedes in like a reassuring plush toy--he tempers himself, hopeful but calm. ) You should let your others know, so they know where to find you, at the very least.
( but there's a faint, bashful sort of smile, a nod, as he works to pick up his teacup with his free hand. )
I would be honored to share my bed with you. ( matter-of-fact, over the lip of his cup. ) I've already--
( a rough swallow, as though realizing he's just bumbling through his thoughts without thinking; his throat clears, a little stubborn. )
I may have imagined it, from time to time, already.