[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}
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.