[It isn't the blood offer, but it is the blood offer. He just wants to be... reassured, that's all, and he would rather be reassured with Choso in front of him, where he can reach out and touch him and make sure all of his blood is still in the right place. He'll explain- he will.
He's tugged his sleeve back down by the time he answers the door, not to conceal his new tentacles, but to get them used to being in the vague shape of an arm. He still feels lopsided; they're longer than his arm was by just enough to be noticeable, and even with all the other very noticeable differences, that's the one that's bothering him.
Of course it's Choso, he wouldn't double-book, and— oh, this outfit is cute, actually. Very soft; Palamedes reaches for his hand- with his own actual hand, for now- and draws him into the room, shutting the door. The room is much the same as the last time, a few different books in different spots, the same kind of controlled chaos.]
Hi. [.....] Are you really going to learn to use a sword? —Hang on.
[No, let him start over. Not that he doesn't want to know the answer to that, but one more try-]
Tell me you won't be reckless and self-sacrificing for me, because I just couldn't forgive myself if something happened to you. Tell me that, and I'll believe you.
[And then maybe they can talk about the sword, or the blood thing.]
( the door opens, his gaze rises--and then falls, as though taking in the sight of him, careful, and then more careful not to trip over anything as he's pulled inside. his shoes, more deliberately this time, get left by the door, but then they're not going very far to begin with.
his mouth opens, then closes--then opens again, a soft, rumbling sound in his throat, before he snaps his lips shut. so it's this, it's this part that's bothering him; he's not sure how to be reassuring in a way that isn't despairing, doesn't know what's best to say, or what not to say. well, there's at least some of it that's easy-- )
...I'm rarely reckless. ( quietly, matter-of-fact: he thinks things through, weighs the options quickly, acts with definitive purpose, but never without reason. )
It's not reckless to want to protect someone, even in some small way. ( that, he believes is a universal truth, or maybe just his own truth, private as it is. ) But I'm not... It isn't like I would open a vein and pour my life out for you just to prove that I would, it isn't like that. It couldn't be like that, anyway.
( no, now he's getting jumbled--his gaze goes past palamedes, towards all the books, most of them seemingly in the same place as before; that steadies him, somehow. )
Special things should be cherished. I'm not a tool, but I want to be something that...takes care...of you. That doesn't mean I'm throwing myself away for it.
[To his credit, Palamedes listens without interrupting. It's not a bad reassurance at all, it's... very Choso, direct and to the point and honest, in the way Palamedes likes. He doesn't let go of his hand, keeping that small source of warmth and comfort as they just stand in the middle of the room like this.
In the Nine Houses' court of public opinion, he thinks, Choso would make a terrible cavalier; the expectation is to throw oneself away for the necromancer, to open the vein, to be ultimately expendable. He's found it repulsive at best in the general sense, and has never liked it when Camilla goes just that moment too far for his sake, tells him that those things he blames himself for were never his agenda anyway...
Everyone is always running off to play fast and loose with their lives- he is not exempt from this, he knows, a guilty twist in his stomach- and, well.
Well, Choso is not a cavalier, and it's grounding to hear him say that he's not throwing himself away, that he's not a tool. Palamedes considers him for a long moment before he nods.]
Alright. I believe you. I just... had to be sure.
[And he trusts in this moment that Choso wouldn't lie to him, so even if the feelings are too heavy to bear half the time, it's as easy as that to say, I believe you.]
Let me take care of you, too. [It is not a question, and for emphasis he repeats back,] Special things should be cherished.
( the urge is there, to shake his head--to reassure that there's no need to take care of him, that he's not even deserving of it, really. to be considered something special: that's the kind of desire that he would want for his brothers, for them to be someone's special thing, for them to be treasured, and loved, in a way different from the way that he loves them. there's no way to express that in words that won't get him scolded--he can tell that much, at least, by the emphasis.
so his gaze drops down to their hands, and then sidelong, slightly, to the mildly too-long edge of palamedes' other arm, the little tips of tentacles that he can see, and then back up again. )
I'm nothing special. ( he can say, at least, can admit without trouble--calmly, quietly, as reasonable as he thinks he can be. still: ) But I would like it if I could be.
( a sea of fascinating strangers, in a world that doesn't make sense, in a place that will probably be the last place he sees--maybe, or maybe not. he hasn't figured that part out yet. but amongst all of them, he doesn't know if he can be that selfish; he doesn't know if he can consider himself special enough to be the one standing here, receiving those words back.
with a faint squeeze to his hand, and a small, almost pinched smile-- )
I don't understand this feeling, but I like it. I like...wanting to be cherished, by you. It feels good to think I could be, but I don't know if I should be. Do I deserve something good like that? Mm. I don't know.
[He's going to talk either way, though. Whatever the reason Choso feels this way, nothing special, do-I-deserve-something-good— Palamedes doesn't know, but he knows he can't let a question like that go unanswered when it's asked right in front of him.]
I think—two things. [His other 'arm' twitches, an automatic urge to hold up two fingers and count them off, but right—] First, I had to really work at absorbing this one myself, how much other people care about you isn't actually up to you.
[This isn't a scolding; this is an echo of Palamedes agonizing into a tape recorder, into so many letters, uncertain of that same question, Do I deserve this? Camilla- and the letters- had made it abundantly clear that he doesn't need to be the arbiter of his own worth; he'd found comfort in it, eventually.
Maybe he could phrase it more delicately, though. He hums.]
Deserving is... loaded, as a term. So is should. Camilla had to get me out of my own head a few times, remind me that I don't need to make all those decisions alone. Really, we shouldn't.
Second, you can't un-ring a bell. I already care about you. That persists.
[The non-quippy version of "oops, you're stuck with me"— but the sentiment is similar. He swings their hands a little, lingering as he lets go, only to hold both arms out and give Choso an expectant look. Bring it in, get cherished.]
Come here. You look eminently huggable in that outfit, and now is the time.
( he listens, dutifully, and the only real reaction is the slow purse of his lips, a soft 'tch' against his teeth as his tongue clicks there, both embarrassed and playfully grumpy--it's not that he feels like he's being lectured, but more that he doesn't know how to deal with this feeling, either, where things are out of his hands, out of his control. to be hated is easy: he's experienced that well enough, and had hoped that if he lived as a curse among the others, then maybe that hatred could be put onto his shoulders, entirely, like an umbrella in a downpour. but to be cared about is something different: something that feels unfair, something that feels like he should earn it more than just being here, an enigma outside of the few things he's decided to share.
but, apparently a bell can't be un-rung, and probably he can't be un-read, either, despite how he wishes he could have that as a failsafe. nothing that he can do, either, when their hands swing just slightly, fingers slipping from his, and that warm comfort terminates in a feeling that has him stepping forward regardless of the invitation. he doesn't want to sever the contact completely.
he doesn't know about 'huggable', but he does get his arms up around palamedes' waist, dragging him the few scant inches between them to bring them chest to chest; despite the fact that palamedes' is a little taller, he loops his arms tight around him, tight enough to lift him, easily, just slightly off his feet. playful, a little, before he plants him back down again, a firm, squeezing hug. )
It's supposed to be casual, not huggable. ( this is muffled somewhere in against palamedes' shoulder, where he's now decided to bury his face down, tucked near his neck. ) Comfortable western-style clothing. I don't know anything about clothes.
( especially given that the times here--even back home--are far beyond the times when he 'lived', for whatever short time that may have been. )
If I think you're huggable all the time, then it's not a matter of clothing.
[By now Palamedes doesn't expect to have to wheedle for hugs, but he still gets a pleased little flutter in his chest when Choso follows his hand and wraps so snugly around him. He actually doesn't expect to be lifted off the floor, and it catches him in a surprised kind of sputtering noise, too soft to be a full laugh, half-anticipating a spin afterwards, or something.
He slips his arms up over Choso's shoulders and squeezes into him in turn, savoring the fresh rush of warm contentment. The thought of un-ringing this bell is laughable, an impossible task on its face, and so bleak and undesirable compared to the rumble of Choso's voice as he speaks this close, the satisfaction of being wrapped up in each other so tightly. Like this, the bell just keeps ringing and ringing.]
I don't know anything about "western," [he says, laying his cheek against Choso's hair at the same time he winds one, two, three of his new tentacles into the loose strands, ink-dark against red-brown. The motion of leaning into Choso pushed his sleeve up to the... 'elbow'; he doesn't bother reaching for it to adjust it back.] But it looks like it can be two things.
[Casual, huggable, etc. He's never considered himself huggable-all-the-time— people complain about his bony elbows a nonzero amount; he can nitpick about that later. For now he slides his human hand to rest at the back of Choso's neck, mindful of where the Augmenter sits underneath, drawing a loopy, nothing shape with his index finger.
Quietly,] Do you still want me to read you? You can say no.
( perhaps it's a little stark, a little inhuman, to say that he's used to it--that when the tentacles come up, winding through his loose hair, that he doesn't even fully recognize that it isn't the same short pass of fingers; but he's lived long years amongst all kinds of shapes and sizes and curses, of course it wouldn't trigger to him as anything unnatural. it's the first time he's wondering, though, if it should--but then, what was it they said?
'should' is complicated, and maybe not even necessary, here. it feels good to be touched, in any capacity, by palamedes, and he takes comfort in it no matter what it reveals about himself. to breathe him in, press his nose along his shoulder, tuck his mouth in near the crook of his neck: but he can't speak that way, forever, so he reluctantly lifts his chin.
it hooks, above his shoulder, tilted just slightly given the mild disparity of their height--not enough to be bothersome, but enough that his head angles upward. )
...Do you want to read me? ( it feels like the more important question, as his arms stay tight around palamedes' middle, palms pressed gently to the small of his back, now, as though keeping even their hips in tow. )
Is it just age, you'll discover? That's fine. If it's other things, too, I can...explain. It isn't a problem.
( the explaining of it, anyway. what palamedes might feel is a different story, but he can't speak to that. he just doesn't want anything that he senses to tear them apart in this moment, at least; if he can hug and hold him just a little longer, just long enough to be able to remember it fully, then that will have to do. )
[Maybe they could just spend a while like this, in idle comfort; perhaps they will soon, can crawl back into his bed and forget about the rest of the city and the world for a while again, just be... slow, unlike the rest of this place. A corner of Palamedes' brain feels like it's slightly on fire, the way his changed arm processes touch unlike anything he's used to- Choso's hair feels different, new, and his train of thought runs away with the rest; how different would Choso's skin feel, will he let him touch him, and for how long? He'd already mentioned holding his 'hand,' so—
Well, there's so much to think about. The rapid-fire questions about his own new arm run rampant into the simple pleasure of being held like this; the psychometry diverts from both, can maybe clear his head for a moment or two.
And he would like to know. From what little he's picked up from what Choso doesn't say, he could take a guess; but no matter the answer he would like to know, the same way it felt necessary that Choso know about his necromancy. More important than the answer is the element of trust, of connection; outside of an academic context it is a rather intimate and personal thing to know about a person.]
Age, yes. I won't suddenly have visions of all your memories, or anything like that, but I'll know your personal energy signature. Maybe a bit about your insides, that kind of thing; it's actually not dissimilar to an... x-ray, with a bonus. You won't feel it.
[He only needs a second; they're already touching. He turns his head- barely, in this configuration- to press nose and mouth into Choso's hair, affectionate.]
( age, then. a personal energy signature. likely something along the lines of sensing someone's cursed energy, except different, because it is different--he doesn't have a problem with any of that. his insides, which aren't really his insides: this body, which is only his body in the sense that he's made it his body, in the sense that he had been stronger than the original owner, who had been forced to ingest him. a body that's now changed to fit his sense of himself, rather than anything else. maybe he would have truly looked like this, in life, if he had truly lived at all; but for someone like palamedes, maybe he won't mind the inherent circle of death that surrounds him, even while he's technically alive.
one hundred and fifty years trapped as a cursed object, speaking only to his brothers, trapped alongside him; only a few months, maybe half a year, incarnated like this, but still not fully human.
if he can taste the cursed energy inside of him, he'll explain it. if he can tell anything else about him--a stillborn child, an experimented child, a child that had three parents, a child that should have never existed--he'll tell him as much as he knows. palamedes wouldn't be the first to hear of it; but he would be the first person here, and even gojou satoru doesn't know the whole truth of it, and likely doesn't want to. he had been dismissed, at first, as a curse needing exorcism, even here: luckily, that had changed before either of them had engaged in a fight.
he can feel palamedes' mouth, brushed against his hair, and wishes he could kiss him; that's a strange thought, new, warm and a little melancholy. )
Alright. ( an easy agreement, calm and trusting--he doesn't know what palamedes needs, so he only pulls back enough to look at him, to bat tired, rimmed eyes at him, to stay, passive, with his arms around him, holding him close.
patient, as he waits for what might be a terrible thing, or a wonderful thing. funny that this is what he had hoped to have his two brothers avoid: he hadn't wanted them to be judged by humans, and now here he is, submitting himself in their stead. that makes him feel, at least, a little better. he's doing things right this time. )
[Oh, and he could have stayed where he was, the loss of that particular bit of warmth a bit unfortunate; Palamedes' own fault for not specifying that he doesn't need to do anything in particular, outwardly. There aren't incantations to chant or gestures to make, just skin on skin, and the rest is behind the curtain, as it were. There's no visible clue that he's doing anything at all— which is half the reason he prefers to ask first.
Psychometry never gives the full story, only the end- and an ending is so much clearer on a body that's died, the thanergetic bloom of death laying a blanket of trace energy that lasts for years and years and years. Items smeared with thanergy are easy to read, will open at the cracks and let out their unseen secrets for him with a little push. The living are harder, but not impossible; he would know if Camilla had passed through a room by the objects that she'd touched.
Still, it's an imperfect thing, and further under the haze thrown over the full scope of his necromancy, and the difference in worlds. Age, simple enough— multiple ages, which for a moment he assumes is the Natural Soul's influence, but- no.
Huh.
Choso's full past he can't see; only this thing about his age, and his insides, and the vague squirming presence of the Natural Soul- left alone, because he's already learned his lesson about that one. All of that and what he can only think of as a strangeness, the energy he doesn't recognize, like a blind spot; he can stare right at it and see nothing at all but the absence of a thing, here in the psychometric context. Thanergy, no, thalergy, absolutely not— closer to the former, maybe, if he had to guess.
He'll ask. But first he says,] Thank you. [For letting him do it, trusting him to do it. With a tilt of his head he presses a kiss to Choso's forehead, like a punctuation mark; he's finished doing the invisible magic, now.]
Can I ask about the... mystery energy? I've never seen anything like it.
( it really is just--over, quickly, more quickly than he thought. a kiss to his forehead, which stuns him out of his waiting; a few slow blinks, as though realizing that nothing, at all, has changed. is it terrible to think of it as a relief? his arms loosen, just slightly, but mostly to keep from letting them get too worked up from the tension.
it takes a moment to process, despite all the overthinking--a small, narrowed dent of his brows. )
Mystery energy... Ah. ( a little sheepish, but he can't cover his face with his hand, rub over the bridge of his nose, or do much of anything to expend the slightly nervous trickle that starts down his spine, like he wants to fidget away from the question. )
Cursed energy. ( said slowly, but not as though he thinks palamedes won't understand--more like he's trying himself, on his end, to figure out how to explain it. ) It's a kind of spiritual energy. I imagine... Well, energy is not a foreign concept to you, or necromancy in general, as you've said. Cursed energy comes from...humans. Fear, worry, grief, anger, hatred, envy...Human emotions, which create cursed energy, which creates, if there's a significant amount of it...curses.
Sorcerers exorcise curses, as they haunt and harm humans, and human society. Sorcerers use cursed energy like a weapon, to fuel their attacks, their special techniques, their swords and blades...That sort of thing.
( his gaze swims, somewhere over palamedes' shoulder, to focus on a point further in the room; he's trying to figure out a prettier way to say it, but there's never been a pretty way to begin with. )
I'm not human. Not fully. I'm not a sorcerer, either. A curse, but not fully that, either. ( gaze narrowing, like a wince. ) A complication, maybe. It takes...some explaining.
[Well, the phrase alone, cursed energy, explains why Choso had asked him to un-read if he didn't like what he found. Palamedes can only halfway understand living under the shadow of base human fear; necromancers are the enemy everywhere except their own Nine Houses, but for the majority of his life he hadn't had to actually go out and understand that face-to-face. Cursed energy, being a curse in whatever way that means, is beyond his scope.
He nods anyway; at least academically, he's following the concept of cursed energy.]
Thanergy is like that, sticking around in greater quantities when strong emotions are involved, usually negative. Not quite the same.
[And the necromancers use it, although perhaps not as creatively as swords and blades, considering the cavalier. Not important.
Three of his tentacles are still curled into Choso's hair; he slides a fourth over Choso's shoulder, tracing along his jaw, not quite urging him to look Palamedes in the face again. Just a touch, anchoring, as the tension zigzagging through Choso is hard to miss when they're this close. He's still listening; he's not letting go.]
I wondered if that's what it was, when you asked me about attributes earlier. The human part, of course. [Not this brand new curse thing, specifically.] Do you want to explain?
[Even if he doesn't- Palamedes would consider this wildly fair and reasonable- now they should sit; Palamedes tilts his head towards the bed, significantly. Yes?]
( it's something interesting to comprehend: to think that in another world, that negative energy could maybe be utilized differently; could sorcerers someday evolve like that? the eradication of the human race, while perhaps the goal of some sorcerers, some curse users, isn't exactly feasible, at least not in his eyes, so there needs to be something else: some other way, something that works on both ends, something that doesn't create an imbalance. that thought is useless, here, where there's nothing he can do anyway--except keep thinking that he should have found a better way to blend in.
tethered by palamedes' touch, he thinks about apologizing. three tentacles nestled in his hair get flanked by a fourth, which slips over his shoulder, soft and nearly unnoticed; once it rolls along his jaw, the faintest pressure, he realizes that he's still not making eye contact.
briefly, embarrassed, he looks up--his lips jut out, something of a pout, which might be charming in any other situation; his arms loosen, slip away, but it's only so that he can lift a hand to run his fingertips down along that particular tentacle, tracing it until he can't. )
Is it better if I don't? ( he asks it, genuinely: there's a moment where he allows himself to move forward, to artfully sidestep a neat pile of books, to ease towards the bed, but his hand reaches out for palamedes, first, like he's the guide that's just clearing a path for him, instead. once he's got palamedes seated on the bed, only then will he sink down next to him. )
It doesn't bother me, really. It only bothers me if it...bothers you. ( a slow, careful way to say whatever this is, i would hate to ruin it. )
[It's not not charming, the pout— but it's overridden by the distraction of touch ghosting over that tentacle, setting that newly-aware, different part of his senses alight again. The tentacles in Choso's hair curl tighter before withdrawing, trailing after him as they make the brief trek to the bed.
Seated, Palamedes turns to draw one leg up on the bed, facing Choso with his chin resting on his knee. He reaches out with the tentacle again, curling around Choso's wrist, snug and secure.]
It doesn't bother me. Truth over solace, which is to say, I would rather know than turn away. Technically the "solace" refers to lies, but...
[He holds up his hand, stopping himself. No, not the time.]
( the touch has his gaze dropping, but not out of concern--more to let his other hand lift, to adjust himself so that they're sitting more facing each other, than hip to hip; one of his legs bends onto the mattress to allow them space, and his free hand, untethered, moves so that he can gently, methodically, stroke down the length of one particular tentacle--and then the next, acclimating himself just as much as palamedes. there's something soothing about it: being able to touch him in a way that likely no one else has, yet, a secret little way that's just theirs, for now. something repetitive, easy, gentle.
his head tilts, slightly, watching his own touch wander. ) Truth over lies? Mmm. Truth over lies.
( or 'lying by omission' maybe, something that he's learned all the same. )
It...There was a woman, a long time ago. Over a hundred years ago, who somehow gave birth to a strange child. Part curse, part human child. That's not something that's supposed to happen, and I think she...must have been terrified, and took the child to a temple, where sorcerers gathered. Likely asking for help, or for...some kind of support.
This...sorcerer. ( the word comes out harsh, tinged with the edge of anger; his hand stills. ) ...forced her to become his property, and carried out a series of experiments. Nine children, he forced her to bear, terminating them at a different point, a different month, each time. A mix of his sorcerer blood, her human blood, and...a curse. Children with...mm, children who became cursed objects, in their death. Full of cursed energy. Alive, but not alive. Aware, but not aware.
These...objects. ( him. his siblings. one hundred and fifty years, just like that. ) ...were stored, protected, at the sorcery school. But cursed objects are...quite powerful, especially when incarnated. A curse user, someone against sorcerers, took these...cursed wombs, from the school.
( a soft swallow, like he doesn't like the feeling--can feel all of his calm, all of his careful explaining welling up in his throat. ) And I am one of them. They incarnated me, and two of my younger brothers, into new flesh bodies. Part human, part curse. That is the...That is how I came to be.
[It's a challenge almost immediately to hold still, when Choso touches him like that. The only thing he wants to do is curl up around Choso's fingers, but he holds back save for the one already around Choso's wrist- wrapping an extra ring around and then going loose again, slipping up under his sleeve.
Just a bit; just curious. The rest is listening, brow knit in silent dread as the story gets, well, worse and worse. Eight siblings—nine children. Somehow becoming objects- a function of this sorcery?- as if the fate of that poor woman and nine dead children wasn't grim enough for one story. Palamedes knows death, of course, but until recently he has been largely sheltered from cruelty, except in the conceptual; distant, war machine cruelty, impersonal cruelty.
This is a personal cruelty. He thinks, if he could meet this sorcerer, that he would squeeze his heart until it burst. No wonder Choso has leaned into bubbles and board games and playgrounds - what else could there be, besides some yawning chasm of despair?
He shakes his head.]
You really are an excellent big brother. I'm sorry— you and your family deserved better.
[He wants to ask what happened to the others, the ones that weren't incarnated, but if there even is an answer to that, it might just be too much cruelty to listen to at once. Instead, because he thinks it bears saying properly,]
I'm grateful, you know, that you told me. It's devastating in ways I didn't think possible. Still, knowing that about you, my feelings haven't changed.
[So no un-reading, no pretending to forget. He reaches out to cup Choso's cheek in his hand. It's so much to share at once, despite Choso's little asides that sharing it doesn't bother him. It sounds like it does, so-]
( there's a faint shake of his head--not that he isn't alright, not that he isn't able to endure this kind of thing, this kind of truth. but more that as much as he tries, as much as he wants to be, he still has so much to atone for; he still has a long way to go to being the sort of big brother that he's always wanted to be, and even such gentle, kind praise feels like it's something he should refute, something he shouldn't receive.
that faint touch, the cup of palamedes' human hand, does make his gaze lift again to look at him; he considers it for a moment, as though trying to decide carefully what to say. )
...It isn't a problem, for me. The truth of the matter is something that I've known for a long time, longer than the rest of them. And I can be strong for the rest of them. I'm honored to be their brother. It's more...
( his fingertips brush, carefully, over one tapered end of one tentacle--gently tracing over one of the suckers there, idly, like it still brings him some measure of comfort. )
...I worry that you, of all people, would want someone human...beside them. And I don't know if I've earned that. I don't know if I've learned enough, to be human.
( his eyes close, briefly, a rueful sort of half-smile, a little twisted; when his eyes open again, it's to look down at the small space between them. )
It's a little ridiculous. I don't know where my head is. You make it...When I'm around you, it feels... like I'm not thinking with my head. ( the breath that escapes sounds near a laugh. ) Is that normal?
[It sounds like there's a step or two missing, Palamedes thinks, between knowing one's part in this story and being strong for the rest. It doesn't sit entirely right with him, but if Choso insists it isn't a problem, then alright - he'll trust in that. Someone ought to give Choso some grace, even if it's in something as simple as not needling him about his past right this second.
So, alright. That can be what it is. He says,] Oh, [to the other thing, and does take a few seconds to think about it, if only because he'd never had to consider anyone's humanity in a literal sense before.
The answer is still the same. He hums, catching Choso's finger with that tentacle and wrapping around his hand with a slight squeeze.
With a one-shoulder shrug,] It isn't not normal. Feelings are complicated. So are people.
[It's a very human thing, isn't it, to not know where one's head is. He brushes his thumb over Choso's cheekbone before dropping his hand away, reaching for Choso's other, less occupied one, to hold in turn.]
Do you want to be more human? Apart from the rest. You already have me, and I don't want to be beside you any less than I did, what, an hour ago? You're more than your... human percentage. "Someone human" is a checklist— I prefer you.
[The question stands, though, with an inquiring tilt of his head: does Choso want to be more human, actively, for himself? Palamedes is committed either way, in the end.]
( human percentage--it makes him want to laugh, a little, a concept he's never thought of, but that's essentially what it comes down to, isn't it? what percentage of himself will he accept, or will others accept, or does it matter? when it comes down to it, he chose to live one way, once: and he wants to choose to live another way, this time, in honor of everything that he messed up. that thought, that determination, doesn't change, no matter how much he might think he's not allowed.
so there's a considering tilt of his head, a soft shake of it, loose hair brushed against his face. )
I'd like to be able to be. I'd like to learn. I'd like to try living like a human, more, instead of...instead of other things.
( but that doesn't necessarily translate to everything else--and living like a human, being a human, doesn't necessarily mean he's entitled to things that he might want, anyway. conflating the ideas together doesn't feel right; palamedes is kind, and has been a kind friend--or whatever the word might be, there, some hazy in-between--but that doesn't necessarily mean that he feels that same fuzzy-headed heat.
politely, reluctantly, he lets both hands rest in his lap: the heat from the tentacles, wrapped around him, feels comforting still, and he doesn't want to break away entirely. better to stay here, until he's encouraged not to. )
...In any case, I took up a lot of your time. You were worrying about your own changes, and I don't think I've made anything better. I'm sorry.
[Alright, an answer, which can be a process, which can be a goal. Palamedes nods; he's not so presumptuous as to insert himself into that process as, like, the foremost expert on the human experience, but he would like to... be there, as it were. To offer support in whatever way he can, if it weren't already obvious.
Which he has to wonder if it isn't, actually, after this other thing. He shakes his head, shifting to put his knee down and out of the way to draw Choso in closer- one of the newly acquired benefits of having so many arms, he doesn't even have to let go of his hands before he runs out of tentacles.]
You don't think so? You listened. You came. [That on its own means a lot to Palamedes, the simple fact that he would try so readily to make him feel better. Maybe coming to the room had been for other reasons, true, but walking in the door and picking Palamedes right up off the floor to hug him is also not insignificant.]
I like being with you, I want you to take up my time. You can have more of it, if you want. [Anytime, like he'd said; not an exaggeration.] Don't you—
[—also want that? Not in the literal, attached-at-the-hip kind of way, so impractical; but in the metaphorical, swimmy, feelings kind of way.]
( it's the only moment that he's considered where all these extra limbs may be a problem, because now palamedes has so many opportunities to keep him tethered, and while he doesn't mind it on principle--doesn't mind it, either, when he's thinking of it in other ways, less polite ways, ways that he shouldn't encourage with his thoughts--it does mean that it's much harder for him to close up like a clam in its shell. it means that his shoulders slide forward, a little clumsy, and one of his hands lands on palamedes' thigh, keeping himself from sliding just too close, or abruptly into his lap.
there's a soft chuckle, fond and wryly amused, under his breath--but it feels like he might just sink himself into his sweatshirt and melt away, at the words. harder to do it when he's not in his robes, with all the extra material to sink inside: all he can do here is purse his lips and angle his gaze down.
he considers the question, thoroughly serious, and his mouth opens--then closes, a slow sigh of breath. )
I want... I want you. No, that-- ( his eyes narrow, staring down at where his hand is squeezing around palamedes' thigh, and loosens his grip. ) --is what I mean, but that is not. ...Gentleman...ly.
( so he tries again, slowly. ) I like all of it, too. I want more of it. I just don't...Mmnn, I don't know if... Does it also feel like that, when you're around...me? Like it's... All warm, like your head isn't on right, like...wanting...like that.
( his eyes narrow, lidded and rimmed with their usual exhaustion; but he does, at least, look back up at palamedes, because this deserves his calm intent, his patient observation. )
[In due time Palamedes may learn to be less clingy with his tentacles - but also possibly not at all, not unless Choso tells him it's a real problem. He was like this even before the arm and before the Augmenter, so it's hard to say how much of his urge to touch and to hold on is the Natural Soul's push or his own habit, but having all the spare limbs has made it so much easier all of a sudden.
Perhaps he could pull less, he thinks, although he isn't upset when Choso slips forward, grips his thigh. He could have pitched all the way forward and knocked them both over, with all the leeway Palamedes is willing to give him; this, and the return of gentlemanly, is its own kind of charming. The kind of charming that nonetheless sets his chest fluttering, earning a small but warm smile. Palamedes is a sucker for an endearing vulnerability, which is this in spades; add in the electric sizzle that goes through him at hearing 'I want you,' and he's just gone.
Insistently, he says,] Yes. I like the feeling.
[He likes to be a little flustered, which feels like a key aspect. The surprised lurch of being lifted off the floor and the comfort of being held anyway, that contradiction; exploring a new thing and wanting more of it, all the time. Looking at Choso and studying the way he moves his hands and the shape of his mouth— yes, it's good.]
I do want you, too, you know. Gentlemanly and otherwise. Being around you is... [he considers, lips pursed, then nods,] warm, like you said. So warm that I don't even care if my head is on upside down or backwards.
[Aha. Slightly sheepish,] That is to say, it's nice. Even when it's overwhelming.
( he wants to take it in the way that he takes in most things: earnestly, silently, letting the words wash over him to sink in deeper, committed to memory. but there's something so strange about the way his body seems to react, hearing all those words; it feels like his stomach flips, lifts and plummets back down again, and his lips curl up towards a smile before he can even realize it himself. there's relief there, too, sinking through him, because if palamedes feels the same, then this isn't some kind of odd reaction to their souls, or something else that this place has forced upon them, is it? this is just something usual, something human, something that can be wanted and desired without it being taken all wrong.
and that feels good. that feels like it makes it even more special, because it's genuine--because it's permitted, because he isn't troubling palamedes, or burdening him with something strange.
the warm tilt of his mouth edges just slightly, just the faintest, tiniest little hint of smug pleasure: that the person he wants to be close to, like this, also wants to be close to him. it gives him a little more confidence, at least, to feel comfortable in the situation; it means that his hand lifts, wraps itself instead up along palamedes' waist, smoothing his fingers out to his back to use him as a tether to lean himself even closer. )
When is it overwhelming? ( this, he feels, is the right thread to tug on: palamedes left him so many, but this one feels particularly--good, like he might be able to tell where it's going to go. )
...When we kissed. Was it overwhelming? ( the warm way his gaze flickers over palamedes' features is both appreciative and wanting; maybe he's hoping for an answer that he likes. and there it is, that calm, matter-of-fact cheekiness: ) It may be helpful to practice, in that case.
[It's hard not to watch him- often is, when they're together, but in this specific moment even more so, while he waits to see how Choso reacts. And there, the first hint of a smile that warms him, starting in his chest and spilling over, overflowing with affection and fond satisfaction. Palamedes likes all of Choso's different smiles, and this one is no exception; the cat that got the cream, pleased with himself, and Palamedes is pleased with himself in turn for being the one to put it there.
He huffs, amused, human hand raised to splay fingers over the back of Choso's neck as he leans in closer. A firm hand on his waist, when is it overwhelming, oh, he's got moves, has he.]
Yes, absolutely. [Wry, but not untrue; Palamedes doesn't lie, after all. He inches toward Choso, letting their legs bump and overlap a bit, the tentacles that have since claimed his other hand giving it a squeeze, for the teasing.] Definitely worth trying again.
[And he leans in to be overwhelmed, kissing him once, twice as swift, short things, no less fond. They've got a bit going, and he can't refuse a bit, so after the second kiss he hums, not pulling away.]
Interesting, [he says, in the 'my hypothesis was not in error' voice that all studious necromancers possess. Not that this makes him terribly smooth, because the next thing he says is an earnest,] My pulse is going haywire. Good thing.
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He's tugged his sleeve back down by the time he answers the door, not to conceal his new tentacles, but to get them used to being in the vague shape of an arm. He still feels lopsided; they're longer than his arm was by just enough to be noticeable, and even with all the other very noticeable differences, that's the one that's bothering him.
Of course it's Choso, he wouldn't double-book, and— oh, this outfit is cute, actually. Very soft; Palamedes reaches for his hand- with his own actual hand, for now- and draws him into the room, shutting the door. The room is much the same as the last time, a few different books in different spots, the same kind of controlled chaos.]
Hi. [.....] Are you really going to learn to use a sword? —Hang on.
[No, let him start over. Not that he doesn't want to know the answer to that, but one more try-]
Tell me you won't be reckless and self-sacrificing for me, because I just couldn't forgive myself if something happened to you. Tell me that, and I'll believe you.
[And then maybe they can talk about the sword, or the blood thing.]
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his mouth opens, then closes--then opens again, a soft, rumbling sound in his throat, before he snaps his lips shut. so it's this, it's this part that's bothering him; he's not sure how to be reassuring in a way that isn't despairing, doesn't know what's best to say, or what not to say. well, there's at least some of it that's easy-- )
...I'm rarely reckless. ( quietly, matter-of-fact: he thinks things through, weighs the options quickly, acts with definitive purpose, but never without reason. )
It's not reckless to want to protect someone, even in some small way. ( that, he believes is a universal truth, or maybe just his own truth, private as it is. ) But I'm not... It isn't like I would open a vein and pour my life out for you just to prove that I would, it isn't like that. It couldn't be like that, anyway.
( no, now he's getting jumbled--his gaze goes past palamedes, towards all the books, most of them seemingly in the same place as before; that steadies him, somehow. )
Special things should be cherished. I'm not a tool, but I want to be something that...takes care...of you. That doesn't mean I'm throwing myself away for it.
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In the Nine Houses' court of public opinion, he thinks, Choso would make a terrible cavalier; the expectation is to throw oneself away for the necromancer, to open the vein, to be ultimately expendable. He's found it repulsive at best in the general sense, and has never liked it when Camilla goes just that moment too far for his sake, tells him that those things he blames himself for were never his agenda anyway...
Everyone is always running off to play fast and loose with their lives- he is not exempt from this, he knows, a guilty twist in his stomach- and, well.
Well, Choso is not a cavalier, and it's grounding to hear him say that he's not throwing himself away, that he's not a tool. Palamedes considers him for a long moment before he nods.]
Alright. I believe you. I just... had to be sure.
[And he trusts in this moment that Choso wouldn't lie to him, so even if the feelings are too heavy to bear half the time, it's as easy as that to say, I believe you.]
Let me take care of you, too. [It is not a question, and for emphasis he repeats back,] Special things should be cherished.
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so his gaze drops down to their hands, and then sidelong, slightly, to the mildly too-long edge of palamedes' other arm, the little tips of tentacles that he can see, and then back up again. )
I'm nothing special. ( he can say, at least, can admit without trouble--calmly, quietly, as reasonable as he thinks he can be. still: ) But I would like it if I could be.
( a sea of fascinating strangers, in a world that doesn't make sense, in a place that will probably be the last place he sees--maybe, or maybe not. he hasn't figured that part out yet. but amongst all of them, he doesn't know if he can be that selfish; he doesn't know if he can consider himself special enough to be the one standing here, receiving those words back.
with a faint squeeze to his hand, and a small, almost pinched smile-- )
I don't understand this feeling, but I like it. I like...wanting to be cherished, by you. It feels good to think I could be, but I don't know if I should be. Do I deserve something good like that? Mm. I don't know.
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[He's going to talk either way, though. Whatever the reason Choso feels this way, nothing special, do-I-deserve-something-good— Palamedes doesn't know, but he knows he can't let a question like that go unanswered when it's asked right in front of him.]
I think—two things. [His other 'arm' twitches, an automatic urge to hold up two fingers and count them off, but right—] First, I had to really work at absorbing this one myself, how much other people care about you isn't actually up to you.
[This isn't a scolding; this is an echo of Palamedes agonizing into a tape recorder, into so many letters, uncertain of that same question, Do I deserve this? Camilla- and the letters- had made it abundantly clear that he doesn't need to be the arbiter of his own worth; he'd found comfort in it, eventually.
Maybe he could phrase it more delicately, though. He hums.]
Deserving is... loaded, as a term. So is should. Camilla had to get me out of my own head a few times, remind me that I don't need to make all those decisions alone. Really, we shouldn't.
Second, you can't un-ring a bell. I already care about you. That persists.
[The non-quippy version of "oops, you're stuck with me"— but the sentiment is similar. He swings their hands a little, lingering as he lets go, only to hold both arms out and give Choso an expectant look. Bring it in, get cherished.]
Come here. You look eminently huggable in that outfit, and now is the time.
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but, apparently a bell can't be un-rung, and probably he can't be un-read, either, despite how he wishes he could have that as a failsafe. nothing that he can do, either, when their hands swing just slightly, fingers slipping from his, and that warm comfort terminates in a feeling that has him stepping forward regardless of the invitation. he doesn't want to sever the contact completely.
he doesn't know about 'huggable', but he does get his arms up around palamedes' waist, dragging him the few scant inches between them to bring them chest to chest; despite the fact that palamedes' is a little taller, he loops his arms tight around him, tight enough to lift him, easily, just slightly off his feet. playful, a little, before he plants him back down again, a firm, squeezing hug. )
It's supposed to be casual, not huggable. ( this is muffled somewhere in against palamedes' shoulder, where he's now decided to bury his face down, tucked near his neck. ) Comfortable western-style clothing. I don't know anything about clothes.
( especially given that the times here--even back home--are far beyond the times when he 'lived', for whatever short time that may have been. )
If I think you're huggable all the time, then it's not a matter of clothing.
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He slips his arms up over Choso's shoulders and squeezes into him in turn, savoring the fresh rush of warm contentment. The thought of un-ringing this bell is laughable, an impossible task on its face, and so bleak and undesirable compared to the rumble of Choso's voice as he speaks this close, the satisfaction of being wrapped up in each other so tightly. Like this, the bell just keeps ringing and ringing.]
I don't know anything about "western," [he says, laying his cheek against Choso's hair at the same time he winds one, two, three of his new tentacles into the loose strands, ink-dark against red-brown. The motion of leaning into Choso pushed his sleeve up to the... 'elbow'; he doesn't bother reaching for it to adjust it back.] But it looks like it can be two things.
[Casual, huggable, etc. He's never considered himself huggable-all-the-time— people complain about his bony elbows a nonzero amount; he can nitpick about that later. For now he slides his human hand to rest at the back of Choso's neck, mindful of where the Augmenter sits underneath, drawing a loopy, nothing shape with his index finger.
Quietly,] Do you still want me to read you? You can say no.
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'should' is complicated, and maybe not even necessary, here. it feels good to be touched, in any capacity, by palamedes, and he takes comfort in it no matter what it reveals about himself. to breathe him in, press his nose along his shoulder, tuck his mouth in near the crook of his neck: but he can't speak that way, forever, so he reluctantly lifts his chin.
it hooks, above his shoulder, tilted just slightly given the mild disparity of their height--not enough to be bothersome, but enough that his head angles upward. )
...Do you want to read me? ( it feels like the more important question, as his arms stay tight around palamedes' middle, palms pressed gently to the small of his back, now, as though keeping even their hips in tow. )
Is it just age, you'll discover? That's fine. If it's other things, too, I can...explain. It isn't a problem.
( the explaining of it, anyway. what palamedes might feel is a different story, but he can't speak to that. he just doesn't want anything that he senses to tear them apart in this moment, at least; if he can hug and hold him just a little longer, just long enough to be able to remember it fully, then that will have to do. )
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Well, there's so much to think about. The rapid-fire questions about his own new arm run rampant into the simple pleasure of being held like this; the psychometry diverts from both, can maybe clear his head for a moment or two.
And he would like to know. From what little he's picked up from what Choso doesn't say, he could take a guess; but no matter the answer he would like to know, the same way it felt necessary that Choso know about his necromancy. More important than the answer is the element of trust, of connection; outside of an academic context it is a rather intimate and personal thing to know about a person.]
Age, yes. I won't suddenly have visions of all your memories, or anything like that, but I'll know your personal energy signature. Maybe a bit about your insides, that kind of thing; it's actually not dissimilar to an... x-ray, with a bonus. You won't feel it.
[He only needs a second; they're already touching. He turns his head- barely, in this configuration- to press nose and mouth into Choso's hair, affectionate.]
I would like to; I'll do it now?
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one hundred and fifty years trapped as a cursed object, speaking only to his brothers, trapped alongside him; only a few months, maybe half a year, incarnated like this, but still not fully human.
if he can taste the cursed energy inside of him, he'll explain it. if he can tell anything else about him--a stillborn child, an experimented child, a child that had three parents, a child that should have never existed--he'll tell him as much as he knows. palamedes wouldn't be the first to hear of it; but he would be the first person here, and even gojou satoru doesn't know the whole truth of it, and likely doesn't want to. he had been dismissed, at first, as a curse needing exorcism, even here: luckily, that had changed before either of them had engaged in a fight.
he can feel palamedes' mouth, brushed against his hair, and wishes he could kiss him; that's a strange thought, new, warm and a little melancholy. )
Alright. ( an easy agreement, calm and trusting--he doesn't know what palamedes needs, so he only pulls back enough to look at him, to bat tired, rimmed eyes at him, to stay, passive, with his arms around him, holding him close.
patient, as he waits for what might be a terrible thing, or a wonderful thing. funny that this is what he had hoped to have his two brothers avoid: he hadn't wanted them to be judged by humans, and now here he is, submitting himself in their stead. that makes him feel, at least, a little better. he's doing things right this time. )
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Psychometry never gives the full story, only the end- and an ending is so much clearer on a body that's died, the thanergetic bloom of death laying a blanket of trace energy that lasts for years and years and years. Items smeared with thanergy are easy to read, will open at the cracks and let out their unseen secrets for him with a little push. The living are harder, but not impossible; he would know if Camilla had passed through a room by the objects that she'd touched.
Still, it's an imperfect thing, and further under the haze thrown over the full scope of his necromancy, and the difference in worlds. Age, simple enough— multiple ages, which for a moment he assumes is the Natural Soul's influence, but- no.
Huh.
Choso's full past he can't see; only this thing about his age, and his insides, and the vague squirming presence of the Natural Soul- left alone, because he's already learned his lesson about that one. All of that and what he can only think of as a strangeness, the energy he doesn't recognize, like a blind spot; he can stare right at it and see nothing at all but the absence of a thing, here in the psychometric context. Thanergy, no, thalergy, absolutely not— closer to the former, maybe, if he had to guess.
He'll ask. But first he says,] Thank you. [For letting him do it, trusting him to do it. With a tilt of his head he presses a kiss to Choso's forehead, like a punctuation mark; he's finished doing the invisible magic, now.]
Can I ask about the... mystery energy? I've never seen anything like it.
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it takes a moment to process, despite all the overthinking--a small, narrowed dent of his brows. )
Mystery energy... Ah. ( a little sheepish, but he can't cover his face with his hand, rub over the bridge of his nose, or do much of anything to expend the slightly nervous trickle that starts down his spine, like he wants to fidget away from the question. )
Cursed energy. ( said slowly, but not as though he thinks palamedes won't understand--more like he's trying himself, on his end, to figure out how to explain it. ) It's a kind of spiritual energy. I imagine... Well, energy is not a foreign concept to you, or necromancy in general, as you've said. Cursed energy comes from...humans. Fear, worry, grief, anger, hatred, envy...Human emotions, which create cursed energy, which creates, if there's a significant amount of it...curses.
Sorcerers exorcise curses, as they haunt and harm humans, and human society. Sorcerers use cursed energy like a weapon, to fuel their attacks, their special techniques, their swords and blades...That sort of thing.
( his gaze swims, somewhere over palamedes' shoulder, to focus on a point further in the room; he's trying to figure out a prettier way to say it, but there's never been a pretty way to begin with. )
I'm not human. Not fully. I'm not a sorcerer, either. A curse, but not fully that, either. ( gaze narrowing, like a wince. ) A complication, maybe. It takes...some explaining.
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He nods anyway; at least academically, he's following the concept of cursed energy.]
Thanergy is like that, sticking around in greater quantities when strong emotions are involved, usually negative. Not quite the same.
[And the necromancers use it, although perhaps not as creatively as swords and blades, considering the cavalier. Not important.
Three of his tentacles are still curled into Choso's hair; he slides a fourth over Choso's shoulder, tracing along his jaw, not quite urging him to look Palamedes in the face again. Just a touch, anchoring, as the tension zigzagging through Choso is hard to miss when they're this close. He's still listening; he's not letting go.]
I wondered if that's what it was, when you asked me about attributes earlier. The human part, of course. [Not this brand new curse thing, specifically.] Do you want to explain?
[Even if he doesn't- Palamedes would consider this wildly fair and reasonable- now they should sit; Palamedes tilts his head towards the bed, significantly. Yes?]
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tethered by palamedes' touch, he thinks about apologizing. three tentacles nestled in his hair get flanked by a fourth, which slips over his shoulder, soft and nearly unnoticed; once it rolls along his jaw, the faintest pressure, he realizes that he's still not making eye contact.
briefly, embarrassed, he looks up--his lips jut out, something of a pout, which might be charming in any other situation; his arms loosen, slip away, but it's only so that he can lift a hand to run his fingertips down along that particular tentacle, tracing it until he can't. )
Is it better if I don't? ( he asks it, genuinely: there's a moment where he allows himself to move forward, to artfully sidestep a neat pile of books, to ease towards the bed, but his hand reaches out for palamedes, first, like he's the guide that's just clearing a path for him, instead. once he's got palamedes seated on the bed, only then will he sink down next to him. )
It doesn't bother me, really. It only bothers me if it...bothers you. ( a slow, careful way to say whatever this is, i would hate to ruin it. )
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Seated, Palamedes turns to draw one leg up on the bed, facing Choso with his chin resting on his knee. He reaches out with the tentacle again, curling around Choso's wrist, snug and secure.]
It doesn't bother me. Truth over solace, which is to say, I would rather know than turn away. Technically the "solace" refers to lies, but...
[He holds up his hand, stopping himself. No, not the time.]
Never mind. Tell me.
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his head tilts, slightly, watching his own touch wander. ) Truth over lies? Mmm. Truth over lies.
( or 'lying by omission' maybe, something that he's learned all the same. )
It...There was a woman, a long time ago. Over a hundred years ago, who somehow gave birth to a strange child. Part curse, part human child. That's not something that's supposed to happen, and I think she...must have been terrified, and took the child to a temple, where sorcerers gathered. Likely asking for help, or for...some kind of support.
This...sorcerer. ( the word comes out harsh, tinged with the edge of anger; his hand stills. ) ...forced her to become his property, and carried out a series of experiments. Nine children, he forced her to bear, terminating them at a different point, a different month, each time. A mix of his sorcerer blood, her human blood, and...a curse. Children with...mm, children who became cursed objects, in their death. Full of cursed energy. Alive, but not alive. Aware, but not aware.
These...objects. ( him. his siblings. one hundred and fifty years, just like that. ) ...were stored, protected, at the sorcery school. But cursed objects are...quite powerful, especially when incarnated. A curse user, someone against sorcerers, took these...cursed wombs, from the school.
( a soft swallow, like he doesn't like the feeling--can feel all of his calm, all of his careful explaining welling up in his throat. ) And I am one of them. They incarnated me, and two of my younger brothers, into new flesh bodies. Part human, part curse. That is the...That is how I came to be.
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Just a bit; just curious. The rest is listening, brow knit in silent dread as the story gets, well, worse and worse. Eight siblings—nine children. Somehow becoming objects- a function of this sorcery?- as if the fate of that poor woman and nine dead children wasn't grim enough for one story. Palamedes knows death, of course, but until recently he has been largely sheltered from cruelty, except in the conceptual; distant, war machine cruelty, impersonal cruelty.
This is a personal cruelty. He thinks, if he could meet this sorcerer, that he would squeeze his heart until it burst. No wonder Choso has leaned into bubbles and board games and playgrounds - what else could there be, besides some yawning chasm of despair?
He shakes his head.]
You really are an excellent big brother. I'm sorry— you and your family deserved better.
[He wants to ask what happened to the others, the ones that weren't incarnated, but if there even is an answer to that, it might just be too much cruelty to listen to at once. Instead, because he thinks it bears saying properly,]
I'm grateful, you know, that you told me. It's devastating in ways I didn't think possible. Still, knowing that about you, my feelings haven't changed.
[So no un-reading, no pretending to forget. He reaches out to cup Choso's cheek in his hand. It's so much to share at once, despite Choso's little asides that sharing it doesn't bother him. It sounds like it does, so-]
Are you alright?
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that faint touch, the cup of palamedes' human hand, does make his gaze lift again to look at him; he considers it for a moment, as though trying to decide carefully what to say. )
...It isn't a problem, for me. The truth of the matter is something that I've known for a long time, longer than the rest of them. And I can be strong for the rest of them. I'm honored to be their brother. It's more...
( his fingertips brush, carefully, over one tapered end of one tentacle--gently tracing over one of the suckers there, idly, like it still brings him some measure of comfort. )
...I worry that you, of all people, would want someone human...beside them. And I don't know if I've earned that. I don't know if I've learned enough, to be human.
( his eyes close, briefly, a rueful sort of half-smile, a little twisted; when his eyes open again, it's to look down at the small space between them. )
It's a little ridiculous. I don't know where my head is. You make it...When I'm around you, it feels... like I'm not thinking with my head. ( the breath that escapes sounds near a laugh. ) Is that normal?
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So, alright. That can be what it is. He says,] Oh, [to the other thing, and does take a few seconds to think about it, if only because he'd never had to consider anyone's humanity in a literal sense before.
The answer is still the same. He hums, catching Choso's finger with that tentacle and wrapping around his hand with a slight squeeze.
With a one-shoulder shrug,] It isn't not normal. Feelings are complicated. So are people.
[It's a very human thing, isn't it, to not know where one's head is. He brushes his thumb over Choso's cheekbone before dropping his hand away, reaching for Choso's other, less occupied one, to hold in turn.]
Do you want to be more human? Apart from the rest. You already have me, and I don't want to be beside you any less than I did, what, an hour ago? You're more than your... human percentage. "Someone human" is a checklist— I prefer you.
[The question stands, though, with an inquiring tilt of his head: does Choso want to be more human, actively, for himself? Palamedes is committed either way, in the end.]
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so there's a considering tilt of his head, a soft shake of it, loose hair brushed against his face. )
I'd like to be able to be. I'd like to learn. I'd like to try living like a human, more, instead of...instead of other things.
( but that doesn't necessarily translate to everything else--and living like a human, being a human, doesn't necessarily mean he's entitled to things that he might want, anyway. conflating the ideas together doesn't feel right; palamedes is kind, and has been a kind friend--or whatever the word might be, there, some hazy in-between--but that doesn't necessarily mean that he feels that same fuzzy-headed heat.
politely, reluctantly, he lets both hands rest in his lap: the heat from the tentacles, wrapped around him, feels comforting still, and he doesn't want to break away entirely. better to stay here, until he's encouraged not to. )
...In any case, I took up a lot of your time. You were worrying about your own changes, and I don't think I've made anything better. I'm sorry.
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Which he has to wonder if it isn't, actually, after this other thing. He shakes his head, shifting to put his knee down and out of the way to draw Choso in closer- one of the newly acquired benefits of having so many arms, he doesn't even have to let go of his hands before he runs out of tentacles.]
You don't think so? You listened. You came. [That on its own means a lot to Palamedes, the simple fact that he would try so readily to make him feel better. Maybe coming to the room had been for other reasons, true, but walking in the door and picking Palamedes right up off the floor to hug him is also not insignificant.]
I like being with you, I want you to take up my time. You can have more of it, if you want. [Anytime, like he'd said; not an exaggeration.] Don't you—
[—also want that? Not in the literal, attached-at-the-hip kind of way, so impractical; but in the metaphorical, swimmy, feelings kind of way.]
Hmm. What do you want?
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there's a soft chuckle, fond and wryly amused, under his breath--but it feels like he might just sink himself into his sweatshirt and melt away, at the words. harder to do it when he's not in his robes, with all the extra material to sink inside: all he can do here is purse his lips and angle his gaze down.
he considers the question, thoroughly serious, and his mouth opens--then closes, a slow sigh of breath. )
I want... I want you. No, that-- ( his eyes narrow, staring down at where his hand is squeezing around palamedes' thigh, and loosens his grip. ) --is what I mean, but that is not. ...Gentleman...ly.
( so he tries again, slowly. ) I like all of it, too. I want more of it. I just don't...Mmnn, I don't know if... Does it also feel like that, when you're around...me? Like it's... All warm, like your head isn't on right, like...wanting...like that.
( his eyes narrow, lidded and rimmed with their usual exhaustion; but he does, at least, look back up at palamedes, because this deserves his calm intent, his patient observation. )
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Perhaps he could pull less, he thinks, although he isn't upset when Choso slips forward, grips his thigh. He could have pitched all the way forward and knocked them both over, with all the leeway Palamedes is willing to give him; this, and the return of gentlemanly, is its own kind of charming. The kind of charming that nonetheless sets his chest fluttering, earning a small but warm smile. Palamedes is a sucker for an endearing vulnerability, which is this in spades; add in the electric sizzle that goes through him at hearing 'I want you,' and he's just gone.
Insistently, he says,] Yes. I like the feeling.
[He likes to be a little flustered, which feels like a key aspect. The surprised lurch of being lifted off the floor and the comfort of being held anyway, that contradiction; exploring a new thing and wanting more of it, all the time. Looking at Choso and studying the way he moves his hands and the shape of his mouth— yes, it's good.]
I do want you, too, you know. Gentlemanly and otherwise. Being around you is... [he considers, lips pursed, then nods,] warm, like you said. So warm that I don't even care if my head is on upside down or backwards.
[Aha. Slightly sheepish,] That is to say, it's nice. Even when it's overwhelming.
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and that feels good. that feels like it makes it even more special, because it's genuine--because it's permitted, because he isn't troubling palamedes, or burdening him with something strange.
the warm tilt of his mouth edges just slightly, just the faintest, tiniest little hint of smug pleasure: that the person he wants to be close to, like this, also wants to be close to him. it gives him a little more confidence, at least, to feel comfortable in the situation; it means that his hand lifts, wraps itself instead up along palamedes' waist, smoothing his fingers out to his back to use him as a tether to lean himself even closer. )
When is it overwhelming? ( this, he feels, is the right thread to tug on: palamedes left him so many, but this one feels particularly--good, like he might be able to tell where it's going to go. )
...When we kissed. Was it overwhelming? ( the warm way his gaze flickers over palamedes' features is both appreciative and wanting; maybe he's hoping for an answer that he likes. and there it is, that calm, matter-of-fact cheekiness: ) It may be helpful to practice, in that case.
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He huffs, amused, human hand raised to splay fingers over the back of Choso's neck as he leans in closer. A firm hand on his waist, when is it overwhelming, oh, he's got moves, has he.]
Yes, absolutely. [Wry, but not untrue; Palamedes doesn't lie, after all. He inches toward Choso, letting their legs bump and overlap a bit, the tentacles that have since claimed his other hand giving it a squeeze, for the teasing.] Definitely worth trying again.
[And he leans in to be overwhelmed, kissing him once, twice as swift, short things, no less fond. They've got a bit going, and he can't refuse a bit, so after the second kiss he hums, not pulling away.]
Interesting, [he says, in the 'my hypothesis was not in error' voice that all studious necromancers possess. Not that this makes him terribly smooth, because the next thing he says is an earnest,] My pulse is going haywire. Good thing.
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