[ Ah,

It has occurred to him to think what Ilias knows. Whether, and when he knew. It's seemed a fruitless point of inquiry: A wound to unearth, or nothing of note, and difficult to say which would be worse. The warmth in his voice rankles.

He reaches (again) for the absent packet. Rolls eyes at himself when a palm closes (again) upon empty air. There are things he could say — that he doesn't like gifts, even those little corpses left prone upon his desk, or the knife he carries wherever he goes. He could say that he doesn't like surprises, that those have never ceased, that they'd only begun to see each other. That he wouldn't have, if he'd known.

But he might have. He might have, just to make a point. ]

I don't know what he likes. [ Flattery. Leverage. That can't be all there is — an unfair cast, from a familiar mold. ] I'd say art, but artists always seem to hate it.

[ He stretches, hooks a finger around the edge of his jacket at last, tugs its drapery from the chair to dig in a pocket. Maybe they aren't all on the other side of the ocean, maybe he remembered to bring a few, ]

I don't think he knew, Ilias. I was just there.

[ He's thought about that, too. ]