[A single nod, thank you. He begins with a full breath, and a sigh through his nose, and a courtesy:]
I read one of your letters.
[No sense of restraint, no tension in his voice; merely a fact.]
Until I read it, I couldn't have cared if you'd lived or died, any more than someone might miss... [a quick facial shrug,] a new piece of furniture, or a particularly nice shirt. I liked you. I liked meeting you. After the spirits came, when you started avoiding me, I wanted to chase after you and at least get you to admit why. But you were irrelevant.
[Isaac might track his gaze by the movement of his eyelids, his lashes; vague, unfocused, moving occasionally through memory.]
I liked to sit where he sat, sometimes, just to feel it, to... see the things he saw, where he saw them. I saw a piece of paper that seemed new, [wherever it was left, slipped, or tucked; he'd been scavenging for the barest scraps of insight,] and I opened it.
[Slouching in Ilias's chair, the click of candy on his teeth, swallowing his own sugary spit, just another trivial moment among many—and there, under the negligible weight of Isaac's pen, on the page's very ordinary surface, the universe shifted. The incredible power of a few humble strokes left unsigned. Leander thought what had opened was a wound, or a mouth full of teeth; it felt keen and greedy and it bled for a while. In nursing it, he discovered it was more like another eye. It surprised him. He wasn't sure what he should do with it, or about it, so he did nothing. But now...]
And I put it back. I don't think he knew—he'd have said something to me if he did. He never shied away from that. [The ghost of a smile; his head tilts again; he's watching his own hands, moving vaguely on his lap.] But I knew, then, that it could never be like it was again. He doesn't— [Frustration, briefly and softly sighed.] He didn't stop loving people, not completely, so there'd always be... you. You'd always be there, even if you weren't.
[More blood—if only he knew. (He may, soon enough.)]
no subject
I read one of your letters.
[No sense of restraint, no tension in his voice; merely a fact.]
Until I read it, I couldn't have cared if you'd lived or died, any more than someone might miss... [a quick facial shrug,] a new piece of furniture, or a particularly nice shirt. I liked you. I liked meeting you. After the spirits came, when you started avoiding me, I wanted to chase after you and at least get you to admit why. But you were irrelevant.
[Isaac might track his gaze by the movement of his eyelids, his lashes; vague, unfocused, moving occasionally through memory.]
I liked to sit where he sat, sometimes, just to feel it, to... see the things he saw, where he saw them. I saw a piece of paper that seemed new, [wherever it was left, slipped, or tucked; he'd been scavenging for the barest scraps of insight,] and I opened it.
[Slouching in Ilias's chair, the click of candy on his teeth, swallowing his own sugary spit, just another trivial moment among many—and there, under the negligible weight of Isaac's pen, on the page's very ordinary surface, the universe shifted. The incredible power of a few humble strokes left unsigned. Leander thought what had opened was a wound, or a mouth full of teeth; it felt keen and greedy and it bled for a while. In nursing it, he discovered it was more like another eye.
It surprised him. He wasn't sure what he should do with it, or about it, so he did nothing.
But now...]
And I put it back. I don't think he knew—he'd have said something to me if he did. He never shied away from that. [The ghost of a smile; his head tilts again; he's watching his own hands, moving vaguely on his lap.] But I knew, then, that it could never be like it was again. He doesn't— [Frustration, briefly and softly sighed.] He didn't stop loving people, not completely, so there'd always be... you. You'd always be there, even if you weren't.
[More blood—if only he knew. (He may, soon enough.)]