( 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
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.