[the rooms are quiet. Dantes looks at her, and the firelight reflects off those golden eyes. the rest of him is colorless, black and white, save for where scars speak to long healed agonies that he does not think upon, and even then, they appear like strange shadows. he does not speak until the full weight of the silence settles around him, the pressure of depths that demands his bones fracture under the weight. breaks something in a space without anything to support it.
he doesn't want to say it aloud. he wanted to deny it with everything he was. but he knows - they know, that it happens. oh, he had been so gloriously confident and in control, the world at his fingertips. he had known words, how to play them, and now here they were in tatters.
(you can keep being my friend, I suppose.)]
Andersen is not here.
[it wouldn't be like this if it was business. if he had stuck to his principles and kept it an arrangement, not gone off and tried to accept it as something that mattered more than a contract. it would have been regret, and he would not be feeling what he knows as grief, the salt of the sea rising in the back of his throat to consume and break down.
it wouldn't agitate him. it would be the passing of the tides. this is something else.]
[ She never saw a man like Avenger before. Oh, one who resembles him, sure. Sometimes it's hard to see the white of his hair and the gold in his eyes together, their strange pupils that could pass for slits from across the room— and Paloma will remember falling asleep with hair like that tickling her cheek, waking up hours later to sunlight and not burning because the window was enchanted just for her—
She's seen men suffering. Not like this. Not at a loss for themselves. ]
Oh.
[ As difficult as it is for Dantes to express when grief demands it, it takes nothing at all for tears to blur the colorless monochrome of him. Her lips compress, and she nods and does not say I'm sorry because that might be too insulting, too pathetic. ]
[it had been muted before. almost quieted, but still there - a presence, a tangibility that he had poured all of his stubborn survival into to try and give out hope. now there is nothing, and he has never wished for hellfire more, that he might break apart and lash out and rip out the foundations of this place. how easy it is for an Avenger to hate, to let that hate consume them from the core outwards.
Dantes hates this city down to its origins, its air and water, in this moment.
he remembers to breathe.]
...today is his birthday.
[the cosmic irony of fate does not escape him. he knows the value of timing - and can only watch the universe use it against him.]
[ Paloma flinches then, since it isn't because of but for him. There are still no quick or easy words to present him with that could soften the blow. All of them would only salt his wounds or, at best, muddle into background debris.
When he'd opened his home to her after... after, it wasn't condolences or replacements that went a long way toward letting the grief have its place. It wasn't perfect. There's one thing Paloma recalls desperately needing and having forgotten to ask for.
Not so abruptly that it would unsettle Ignatz, she unfolds her body and sways upright. Her feet take her to Dantes, to his couch-bed, half-falling into the cushion next to him and reaching to gently, firmly draw this bedraggled man into the traditional hug. ]
[he goes still, the same way he did when she touched him before, tension flooding through his body and keeping him that way for a moment, two. and then finally, finally, he begins to relax some, his hands slowly coming up to touch. not exactly embracing back, but acknowledging it - and the next deep breath he takes, if it shakes some, he trusts she will not mention it.
physical touch creeps in as a foreign thing, making him hyperaware of everything - where they touch, her scent, where they are, all that he feels, the twin discomforts of his headache and his body - but he cannot find the strength to pull away. so much has consumed him, and the tiny shred of himself that remains cannot be yielded as well.
it wasn't always like this. once, he bathed in the sun's light, and the world embraced him freely.
but here he is now, while the fire burns and it is too, too silent without someone else here. how easily they become usual, part of the routine.]
Everywhere, across Aefenglom, across Dorchacht...
[his voice is even softer, but a whisper that could be lost.]
A useless search. And I knew its folly.
[call him senseless. laugh at him. be cruel, for he knows it far, far better than kindness. something to allow him to be stern with himself and wash his hands of the affair. foolish, foolish to consider showing so much as a glimpse of his own heart.]
[ The smaller false breaths Paloma takes habitually, part of the facade of life, catch and stop. Her chin can't quite reach his shoulder, so half of her face is buried in his shirt while black tendrils of hair try to sneak up Avenger's nose. From the noise she's just made, his front will soon be damp. ]
Is it stupid? Could you live with yourself if you hadn't tried?
[ Attached to the hem of her skirt are two tiny, inconspicuous pouches of dried flowers. The smell he picks up comes from those, from the garden her old friend had saved from drowning, and blood, faintly; now saline. Her hand smooths up his back in slow and circular motions as the other bunches into shirt fabric. ]
[the touches are a key in a lock riddled with rust, slow to turn and yet yielding with consistency, bit by bit. for once, propriety is not a concern on his mind, not when he turns his head down, partly hiding his face in her hair. he's stepped outside of himself for a short while, leaving pieces behind that simply tried to reassemble themselves into the shape of a man. tried to remember how to work.]
...No. If I had not exhausted every avenue there was, I could not bring myself to cease at all.
[not until there was nothing and no way to lie to himself anymore. oh, he'd rip the city up by its foundations if it meant the end of this feeling inside of him, the solid truth that to trust anyone, to reveal more than needed, simply led to new scars formed inside one's ribcage.]
But I am more the fool for not considering that this could happen at all.
[he had plans for everything else, except this. it had felt too much like a certain constant.]
[ Any violence she had felt after the tearing of loss was turned inward, only ever devastating herself. It hadn't occurred to her to take it out on the world or the city, but she would probably understand the bloody wound that impulse stems from.
Paloma won't let up stroking his (markedly less rigid) back, not until she believes he has no need for it. ]
I don't think that being foolish is the worst thing either of us could be.
[ A frenzied animal. An indiscriminate murderer. ]
[he was supposed to be capable of so much more. a man who could outmaneuver everyone by moving in ways they did not see. better than this, more controlled than this. not cracked at the seams by the removal of one piece. dear God, what was he becoming?]
The heart, what a wretched thing it is. At least yours does not seek to torment you with every beat.
[ She closes her burning eyes against that and swallows. The flat of her palm hovers for a second, just a second.
Here, now, twisted and wrapping around a man feeling his most hollow, is not the time to share or compare their hurts. She suffocates the pain of every blunt reminder that her heart will not and cannot beat, although its constant aching and leaping from person to person could fool anyone. Let him think she’s stronger than she is. ]
It’ll lead you down places you’ll wish it hadn’t. Sometimes.
[he doesn't want it, doesn't want that reminder that he's alive, that he's been brought down from the vengeful demon he was - that he is at heart, but not in form, and that fuels his rage all the more. even his body wasn't his own anymore.
even now, he feels like he needs to be clawing, tearing, lighting himself up in order to get anywhere.]
Decry it, if you truly wish. I shall not dispute you.
[ Pressing the issue seems pointless and unhelpful. She doesn't feel that it's inherently kind to want to do away with somebody's suffering, or to reduce it, but since arguing with him isn't likely to be the sort of help he needs, Paloma lets that rest as well.
It's wonderfully warm already between two bodies, one living and one wearing enchanted jewelry to simulate a piece of it. A few delicate tugs flicks the ends of her shawl over his shoulders, along with the readjustment of her arms, encircling him higher. ]
[he doesn't move back from her, though. doesn't reject the shawl encircling him, the comfort offered. the fire crackles softly, and he feels a burning that has nothing to do with sparks in his chest. childish, he knows - so much of what he is saying is useless, combative, unproductive, but it all chokes up his throat and forces its way out. as if in his absence he cannot cease the venom that wants to burn a hole in him.]
[ Like this, she can’t disguise the wounded shiver of her abdomen as anything else. A liar, yes, she is, too—lies to herself for peace of mind. But lying to another... ]
Not to my friend. Not to you.
[ The wrong secret kept nearly lost her so much. ]
[his spins a web of lies as needed to dazzle and pull the world into the right shape so he can light it up with a single stroke. and it lied to him earlier, saying he should look anyway.]
[ A strange little moment comes and goes, and so so so carefully, the vampire slips a hand to the side of his white head and encourages it to lift, that she can pull back some inches to search his eyes. Alien, glittering, fire lit eyes. Hers aren’t quite that brilliant a gold in the light, a warmer amber glassy from the weeping she’s done for his loss. ]
[he used to be stronger than this. but then, he had a life to avenge, the world to save - a driven goal, nightmares at his heels and fire in his hands, a higher purpose always. here, it's all absent. he hasn't had to try to be anything other than a weapon pointed in the right direction for so long, and even now, it would be easier than muddlign through these days as an imitation of a man.
Paloma...she doesn't know this, cannot help but to see him as a human from his shape, to treat him as one and it is unbearable. strain mingles with the anger, the grief, the exhaustion. he feels, though he is an Avenger, his emotion is the reason why he is one at all- he feels in excess, so much that it reaches into his bones to grip him soundly.
Dantes sees her eyes and something in him breaks inwards, cutting so deep that it releases not the blood he'd expect, but tears that begin to sear his eyes, that come out and cannot stop flowing. each inhale of breath something violent, wrenched up from where it was kept, and he does not even try to speak, lest he end up making a sound.]
[ They aren't and never will be human ever, ever again, but they haven't had the mercy of unfeeling hearts to go with their curses. Paloma expects that every single other being capable of thought can suffer; they shouldn't need to, but they do. And he's fracturing the way most suffering things do, given the safety to do so. ]
Ohh...
[ She tugs on his head and cranes her neck to frantically press dry lips where his cheek sits highest, and again over his forehead, and when she's not ready to let him go just yet holds Avenger's face to the base of her throat. Like that, like this. ]
[he cannot cry out - it is the last line of defense he has - but he can close his eyes and weep, tears a bitter warmth down his cheeks. her affection does not dam the flow but releases it, and for a time, all he can do is let it happen. every time he tries to say enough to himself, it's not enough, his grip slips and he falls further.
he doesn't know how long it is, only that at a point, he's no longer trembling, and breathing is coming easier. slowly, slowly, as time begins to creep back into his senses. he doesn't move away just yet, just breathes - there's no choice, if he wants to still be safe.]
[ Avenger smears damp trails across her neck and in retaliation, the careful hand she'd taken him to herself with transfers to the thickest part of his hair. She threads through it unthinkingly and does not stop for even a minute, stroking him well after the trembling has subsided, crying along with him.
Her cheek is on his head, has been for a while. That means his hair'll be almost as salty from the weeping as it was when he sailed regularly. ]
D'you want me to let you go? Nothing has to change.
[it's like behind his ribcage and inside his head has been scrubbed with a wire brush, left back in his body, and things feel so heavy. Dantes hears the question, but can only bring himself to make a soft, noncommittal sound. not truly a word, not a complete yes or a no. he doesn't know entirely what he wants, and can't even say that.
he wants to sleep, and also to never sleep again. he wants to slap himself for crying, and to simply bleed out everything he feels. once the emotions cracked through the dam, he could not stop them from flowing, in all their tangled up complicated mess that they always were.]
[ Paloma has some fluency in weak, grief-raw noise. It says that she could do almost anything and little would earn a pronounced reaction, short of biting or throwing him off. ]
Ignacito, pspspspss, c'mere. [ As she cajoles the kitten into lifting its pink nose from a croissant-shaped nap, a gentle strength draws Avenger and herself to the couch cushions. While her body is fairly smaller, he could weigh three times as much without becoming a problem to support. ] Come see your daddy. Ignacito...
[the kitten blinks sleepily, but understands sweet talk enough to stand up and stretch his little back. he sniffs the air before thinking it's odd that Dantes is like this on the couch, with someone else, and pads on over to investigate with sniffing and curious eyes. tail low, flicking occasionally, he's not the most sure, but he's near now, next to the couch and gazing up at them.
the father in question simply accepts the movement, feeling the aftermath of his emotion dry in tracks on his face. it won't kill him to leave it be for now, when he's enough of a mess otherwise that more doesn't matter. instead, he hears her words as if through a windowpane, and for once trusts himself to be simply supported.
(how he'd have some barbed comment about it, if he saw. laughing at the absurdity, some sly remark about the Count being a man after all, and no statue. not to mock him, but to crack open that new facet of the self for his own perusal.)]
[ One of those out-of-body moments numbs her to the present. She remembers a café without intense foot traffic and a table with an aloof, nearly monochromatic man sitting at it. The distance between then and now makes everything unreal for a confusing minute.
Ignatz’s furry face refocuses. From a few inches above Dantes’ leaden head, she tries to put on the sort of expression that might reassure a cat. Or entice one. ]
Up-up, pretty baby?
[ With or without a purring friend, the furnace from her enchanted ring feels as if the fireplace is much closer. Napping, should they fall asleep, is perfectly understandable. ]
[the little one seems to be considering the prospect, before he gets up, pausing on Dantes's back before he steps forward, seeking out the gap between Dantes's shoulder and Paloma's body. it's a small, warm spot. it cannot hold a full kitten, and it definitely has just been awkwardly filled by half of one that's purring away, completely content at this turn of events.
Dantes was going to simply soak in his grief. but now his face is full of vibrating fur, and he does have to shift a little to breathe. the words that leave his mouth are French, dredged up from the back of his mind as he's been teaching the little one to respond to it.]
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no subject
he doesn't want to say it aloud. he wanted to deny it with everything he was. but he knows - they know, that it happens. oh, he had been so gloriously confident and in control, the world at his fingertips. he had known words, how to play them, and now here they were in tatters.
(you can keep being my friend, I suppose.)]
Andersen is not here.
[it wouldn't be like this if it was business. if he had stuck to his principles and kept it an arrangement, not gone off and tried to accept it as something that mattered more than a contract. it would have been regret, and he would not be feeling what he knows as grief, the salt of the sea rising in the back of his throat to consume and break down.
it wouldn't agitate him. it would be the passing of the tides. this is something else.]
no subject
She's seen men suffering. Not like this. Not at a loss for themselves. ]
Oh.
[ As difficult as it is for Dantes to express when grief demands it, it takes nothing at all for tears to blur the colorless monochrome of him. Her lips compress, and she nods and does not say I'm sorry because that might be too insulting, too pathetic. ]
no subject
Dantes hates this city down to its origins, its air and water, in this moment.
he remembers to breathe.]
...today is his birthday.
[the cosmic irony of fate does not escape him. he knows the value of timing - and can only watch the universe use it against him.]
no subject
When he'd opened his home to her after... after, it wasn't condolences or replacements that went a long way toward letting the grief have its place. It wasn't perfect. There's one thing Paloma recalls desperately needing and having forgotten to ask for.
Not so abruptly that it would unsettle Ignatz, she unfolds her body and sways upright. Her feet take her to Dantes, to his couch-bed, half-falling into the cushion next to him and reaching to gently, firmly draw this bedraggled man into the traditional hug. ]
no subject
physical touch creeps in as a foreign thing, making him hyperaware of everything - where they touch, her scent, where they are, all that he feels, the twin discomforts of his headache and his body - but he cannot find the strength to pull away. so much has consumed him, and the tiny shred of himself that remains cannot be yielded as well.
it wasn't always like this. once, he bathed in the sun's light, and the world embraced him freely.
but here he is now, while the fire burns and it is too, too silent without someone else here. how easily they become usual, part of the routine.]
Everywhere, across Aefenglom, across Dorchacht...
[his voice is even softer, but a whisper that could be lost.]
A useless search. And I knew its folly.
[call him senseless. laugh at him. be cruel, for he knows it far, far better than kindness. something to allow him to be stern with himself and wash his hands of the affair. foolish, foolish to consider showing so much as a glimpse of his own heart.]
no subject
Is it stupid? Could you live with yourself if you hadn't tried?
[ Attached to the hem of her skirt are two tiny, inconspicuous pouches of dried flowers. The smell he picks up comes from those, from the garden her old friend had saved from drowning, and blood, faintly; now saline. Her hand smooths up his back in slow and circular motions as the other bunches into shirt fabric. ]
no subject
...No. If I had not exhausted every avenue there was, I could not bring myself to cease at all.
[not until there was nothing and no way to lie to himself anymore. oh, he'd rip the city up by its foundations if it meant the end of this feeling inside of him, the solid truth that to trust anyone, to reveal more than needed, simply led to new scars formed inside one's ribcage.]
But I am more the fool for not considering that this could happen at all.
[he had plans for everything else, except this. it had felt too much like a certain constant.]
no subject
Paloma won't let up stroking his (markedly less rigid) back, not until she believes he has no need for it. ]
I don't think that being foolish is the worst thing either of us could be.
[ A frenzied animal. An indiscriminate murderer. ]
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[he was supposed to be capable of so much more. a man who could outmaneuver everyone by moving in ways they did not see. better than this, more controlled than this. not cracked at the seams by the removal of one piece. dear God, what was he becoming?]
The heart, what a wretched thing it is. At least yours does not seek to torment you with every beat.
no subject
Here, now, twisted and wrapping around a man feeling his most hollow, is not the time to share or compare their hurts. She suffocates the pain of every blunt reminder that her heart will not and cannot beat, although its constant aching and leaping from person to person could fool anyone. Let him think she’s stronger than she is. ]
It’ll lead you down places you’ll wish it hadn’t. Sometimes.
no subject
[he doesn't want it, doesn't want that reminder that he's alive, that he's been brought down from the vengeful demon he was - that he is at heart, but not in form, and that fuels his rage all the more. even his body wasn't his own anymore.
even now, he feels like he needs to be clawing, tearing, lighting himself up in order to get anywhere.]
Decry it, if you truly wish. I shall not dispute you.
no subject
[ Pressing the issue seems pointless and unhelpful. She doesn't feel that it's inherently kind to want to do away with somebody's suffering, or to reduce it, but since arguing with him isn't likely to be the sort of help he needs, Paloma lets that rest as well.
It's wonderfully warm already between two bodies, one living and one wearing enchanted jewelry to simulate a piece of it. A few delicate tugs flicks the ends of her shawl over his shoulders, along with the readjustment of her arms, encircling him higher. ]
You're capable of it, too. I haven't forgotten.
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[he doesn't move back from her, though. doesn't reject the shawl encircling him, the comfort offered. the fire crackles softly, and he feels a burning that has nothing to do with sparks in his chest. childish, he knows - so much of what he is saying is useless, combative, unproductive, but it all chokes up his throat and forces its way out. as if in his absence he cannot cease the venom that wants to burn a hole in him.]
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Not to my friend. Not to you.
[ The wrong secret kept nearly lost her so much. ]
no subject
[his spins a web of lies as needed to dazzle and pull the world into the right shape so he can light it up with a single stroke. and it lied to him earlier, saying he should look anyway.]
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Yes, my heart. Yours, too?
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Paloma...she doesn't know this, cannot help but to see him as a human from his shape, to treat him as one and it is unbearable. strain mingles with the anger, the grief, the exhaustion. he feels, though he is an Avenger,
his emotion is the reason why he is one at all- he feels in excess, so much that it reaches into his bones to grip him soundly.
Dantes sees her eyes and something in him breaks inwards, cutting so deep that it releases not the blood he'd expect, but tears that begin to sear his eyes, that come out and cannot stop flowing. each inhale of breath something violent, wrenched up from where it was kept, and he does not even try to speak, lest he end up making a sound.]
no subject
Ohh...
[ She tugs on his head and cranes her neck to frantically press dry lips where his cheek sits highest, and again over his forehead, and when she's not ready to let him go just yet holds Avenger's face to the base of her throat. Like that, like this. ]
no subject
he doesn't know how long it is, only that at a point, he's no longer trembling, and breathing is coming easier. slowly, slowly, as time begins to creep back into his senses. he doesn't move away just yet, just breathes - there's no choice, if he wants to still be safe.]
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Her cheek is on his head, has been for a while. That means his hair'll be almost as salty from the weeping as it was when he sailed regularly. ]
D'you want me to let you go? Nothing has to change.
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he wants to sleep, and also to never sleep again. he wants to slap himself for crying, and to simply bleed out everything he feels. once the emotions cracked through the dam, he could not stop them from flowing, in all their tangled up complicated mess that they always were.]
no subject
Ignacito, pspspspss, c'mere. [ As she cajoles the kitten into lifting its pink nose from a croissant-shaped nap, a gentle strength draws Avenger and herself to the couch cushions. While her body is fairly smaller, he could weigh three times as much without becoming a problem to support. ] Come see your daddy. Ignacito...
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the father in question simply accepts the movement, feeling the aftermath of his emotion dry in tracks on his face. it won't kill him to leave it be for now, when he's enough of a mess otherwise that more doesn't matter. instead, he hears her words as if through a windowpane, and for once trusts himself to be simply supported.
(how he'd have some barbed comment about it, if he saw. laughing at the absurdity, some sly remark about the Count being a man after all, and no statue. not to mock him, but to crack open that new facet of the self for his own perusal.)]
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Ignatz’s furry face refocuses. From a few inches above Dantes’ leaden head, she tries to put on the sort of expression that might reassure a cat. Or entice one. ]
Up-up, pretty baby?
[ With or without a purring friend, the furnace from her enchanted ring feels as if the fireplace is much closer. Napping, should they fall asleep, is perfectly understandable. ]
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Dantes was going to simply soak in his grief. but now his face is full of vibrating fur, and he does have to shift a little to breathe. the words that leave his mouth are French, dredged up from the back of his mind as he's been teaching the little one to respond to it.]
You have no shame, do you.
(no subject)