( these devices are fascinating, but they seem to function just like the phones back home--he's just never used one, really, himself--so it takes him a minute to figure out how to answer with voice, too. )
Six of them. ( thoughtfully, like he's considering. ) I see.
So you'll think of them like fingers, maybe, except that the one extra should likely go along with your ring finger, since ring fingers shouldn't be alone to begin with.
( yes, he's rather proud of himself for that deduction. )
I've...worried, about things like this in the past. You're strong, and I'm fast enough to catch anything that might come your way. ( a small pause, but mostly thoughtful. ) I think the people here have seen strange things before. Maybe it will be more of a novelty. Exciting, to them. ( a breathy laugh, just barely captured. ) You may have your tentacles full, by the time I get to them. I'll wait patiently.
Six! [He says it again, because,] I'm choosing to think of it as thematic.
[The Sixth House, and so on. He's lining up his strategies for coping, now that this soul has changed him in a more complicated way than his skull-shells.
There's a rustling noise as he settles down just to talk - no more pictures - and a thoughtful silence. Six fingers, or five-and-an-extra-ring, that's cute- it's been his instinct already to wind them together in a facsimile of a regular hand- he hums.]
Salient point. I hope you're right, and I won't become a grim reminder of their dead friends. [The people love their Peacock, but do they love the Augmented who simply changed and died? He doesn't want to think about it too much.] And don't be silly, I'll make time for you. You've already promised me anywhere, so for you, I'll add "anytime."
( unfortunately, it's easier to mask embarrassment when he's typing, rather than talking--an audible breath, a silent swallow. )
Don't make promises like that. I'll have to find bigger ones.
( somewhat a joke, somewhat earnest--reciprocal, not because he wants to be of use, or because it's necessary, but because it doesn't feel right to take more than he gives. )
I think...there is something about you that wouldn't remind anyone of anything grim. I don't think it's possible. Do y...Mmm. Where you're from, everyone looks like...most others, here?
Or do people look different? Have different...attributes?
[Anywhere and anytime, and he means it, soft; his voice carries the echo of a smile. Part of him wants to say it's too late, anyway - he's already promised, and one simply cannot go back on something as sacred as a promise, so there, but the quiet vulnerability of this conversation asks him to keep his little quips down.
For now. He's thoughtful and quiet for another beat, then first:] You're sweet.
[And then with another shifting rustle, like he needs to lock in to remember every face he's ever seen really quickly,] People look different from each other, of course, in the expected ways. Generally you can tell an adept apart from a non-adept— we've all got the vaguely wasted build. But by attributes, you mean like my arm? Not human?
( a slight wince, like he's not sure what's worse: bad to be sweet, or bad to be 'not human'? maybe he's already fumbled this, a little...he wants to know if it would be a good thing, or a bad thing, to be sweet. appealing, to be sweet. silly to be so focused on it, so he tries not to be.
'an adept' -- 'a non-adept' --
he notes that down to ask about. continues, first, methodically: ) Mm. Like your arm. Not human...parts. Faces, arms, bodies, eyes...
If you are an 'adept', what does that mean you can do? Is it like... ( he starts, stops, decides to not continue that. ) What is it like?
Not that I'm aware of, no. It's a fairly large galaxy, though, so maybe somewhere out there.
[And the obvious next question is there, about Choso's own experience with this kind of thing, but—hold on.]
Well, it's what we call... [ah-] God, did I actually not tell you? You, of all people! [This is a grievous error on his part, he thinks, because Choso should know these things- anything he would like to know about Palamedes, really- in the exact opposite way that he's been trying to keep it to a minimum with other people lately.] I'm a necromancer. An adept. It's nothing like the stories, for the record.
( he sounds it out carefully--thoughtfully, though he isn't proud of where his thoughts immediately go; to someone he would rather not think about, who did horrible things with his techniques. it's not like that at all: couldn't be like that, at all. )
Death, and...is it magic? 'Mancy'... Mmm. I've never read any stories about necromancers. I'm not sure we have such a thing, in our world.
( a considering sound. ) You are an 'adept' because you can do these things, then, and a 'non-adept' cannot... I see.
( sorcerer, non-sorcerer. that makes sense. )
What does one do, as a necromancer? If you are the Master Warden, do you...guide others, who do it? ( at least he sounds genuinely curious--because he is, and because it feels good to learn new things about palamedes. )
Yes— that's it. I'm the adept; Camilla, the cavalier, is not. In the Nine Houses we consider necromancers human, but outside of it, not so much. Technically, we've got a few otherwise vestigial organs that act, you know, less vestigial, but the parts are the same.
[Necromancer 101.]
As for what I do... functionally, I'm just a wizard with a different medium- the body. Sixth psychometry is my specialty, but we all learn the basics of spirit, flesh, and bone.
[A beat; he very clearly likes to talk about this, it's a massive part of his, hm, entire life, but people have been unsettled by the flesh and bone.]
We don't run around desecrating the dead for fun and imprisoning souls. But I could lock a door with the proper blood ward, for example. Not explicitly connected to "Master Warden," which refers to the guardianship of the Sixth Library, broadly, along with the day-to-day leadership role.
No resurrections. Necromancy uses thanergy- death energy- which you can get anywhere. Cell death in an individual necromancer powers the basics. My friend Harrowhawk can generate a full skeleton from a single chunk of osseo— totally original construct.
Like I said, though, my specialty is psychometry. It's like reading energy signatures; I could tell how old something is, things like that.
And you can do the... the blood locks. ( a quick breath. ) Blood wards. I mean.
Does that mean you can... Have you read the energy of some of the other arrivals, here? Does... No, that's not... Mmmnngh. ( a little grumbly sound, like all his thoughts are getting in the way of his other thoughts. )
So then Camilla protects you, so that you can perform your abilities. Or something like that. Without her here, then...Are you still able to?
I could read people here, but I don't. General rule. Well- personal rule, I suppose. I think it's rude to do it without asking.
[It's already been floated, as an option for how to identify any further missing people from East Sophia, but he would feel too dishonest if he didn't explain the entire thing to every person. Kind of time-consuming.]
Camilla doesn't impact my necromancy, though. This place has given me a hard time, but it still functions.
Mm. ( in agreement, and then, a little teasing: ) Sweet.
( to hold back like that, when technically it could be easier to just do it all the time--well, maybe not, given that this place seems to be giving him a hard time. )
If you wanted to read me, I wouldn't mind. But then if you don't like what you learn, I'd like you to un-read me.
( it's not possible, but: easier to make a gentle joke, like that, than admit that it would be hard on him. )
If I can help, any time...Please tell me. I don't have a lot I can offer, except copious amounts of blood, but that may not be helpful to you. At best, I can make a good shield when necessary. And I'll learn a sword. ( oh, now he sounds determined. )
[That is an interesting way of putting it, he thinks, and he pauses to turn that over in his thoughts a few times. He could guess, but he'd rather ask—he'll get there, soon.]
Ask me next time you see me, but I don't think I could dislike it, if it's you.
[He's attached; even if he wasn't, who is he to be the arbiter of- good-things-to-learn. Secrets.]
Please don't open a vein for my sake. [That's- all of it, really, it brings him right back to being of use, and as enamored as he is with these declarations of dedication, he wonders if he isn't allowing Choso to give too much. To want to give too much.] Can I see you?
[He doesn't want to go anywhere with his ridiculous arm, not yet. But it feels significant to talk to Choso about these things without the Syntrofos and the distance in between.]
( so he doesn't answer, instead leaving the device behind--it's not important, really, not something that he needs to have with him, as he takes to the stairs, carefully climbing them up to palamedes' room. soon, none of them will likely live in this place, so he should enjoy what he can while he can: the close proximity, the relief of being able to check up on someone without traversing the whole city, or beyond. still, a part of him feels like he's being summoned for something he won't like--something that makes him feel a little nervous, a little uncertain. something that he's said wrong? well, the blood offer is easily explained, it's nothing to him, but--
he stands there for a moment, staring at the door, before he lifts a hand to knock. he's not the type to simply open the door and barge in, not when it's like this; rather than wearing his usual garb from home, it's a pair of black sweatpants and an equally casual, deep purple sweatshirt that he's sunken into, the sleeves long enough to hide under, his hair loose around his neck. now that he thinks about it, maybe he should have arrived more...presentable, but it's too late to go back now.
instead, he waits, patient, staring down at his untied shoes: he'd just pushed his feet into them as a means to an end, really. )
Ah. ( his chin lifts, sudden, cranes himself closer to the door. ) It's Choso.
( should have lead with that, instead of just ominous knocking. )
[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. )
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Six of them. ( thoughtfully, like he's considering. ) I see.
So you'll think of them like fingers, maybe, except that the one extra should likely go along with your ring finger, since ring fingers shouldn't be alone to begin with.
( yes, he's rather proud of himself for that deduction. )
I've...worried, about things like this in the past. You're strong, and I'm fast enough to catch anything that might come your way. ( a small pause, but mostly thoughtful. ) I think the people here have seen strange things before. Maybe it will be more of a novelty. Exciting, to them. ( a breathy laugh, just barely captured. ) You may have your tentacles full, by the time I get to them. I'll wait patiently.
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[The Sixth House, and so on. He's lining up his strategies for coping, now that this soul has changed him in a more complicated way than his skull-shells.
There's a rustling noise as he settles down just to talk - no more pictures - and a thoughtful silence. Six fingers, or five-and-an-extra-ring, that's cute- it's been his instinct already to wind them together in a facsimile of a regular hand- he hums.]
Salient point. I hope you're right, and I won't become a grim reminder of their dead friends. [The people love their Peacock, but do they love the Augmented who simply changed and died? He doesn't want to think about it too much.] And don't be silly, I'll make time for you. You've already promised me anywhere, so for you, I'll add "anytime."
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Don't make promises like that. I'll have to find bigger ones.
( somewhat a joke, somewhat earnest--reciprocal, not because he wants to be of use, or because it's necessary, but because it doesn't feel right to take more than he gives. )
I think...there is something about you that wouldn't remind anyone of anything grim. I don't think it's possible. Do y...Mmm. Where you're from, everyone looks like...most others, here?
Or do people look different? Have different...attributes?
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[Anywhere and anytime, and he means it, soft; his voice carries the echo of a smile. Part of him wants to say it's too late, anyway - he's already promised, and one simply cannot go back on something as sacred as a promise, so there, but the quiet vulnerability of this conversation asks him to keep his little quips down.
For now. He's thoughtful and quiet for another beat, then first:] You're sweet.
[And then with another shifting rustle, like he needs to lock in to remember every face he's ever seen really quickly,] People look different from each other, of course, in the expected ways. Generally you can tell an adept apart from a non-adept— we've all got the vaguely wasted build. But by attributes, you mean like my arm? Not human?
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'an adept' -- 'a non-adept' --
he notes that down to ask about. continues, first, methodically: ) Mm. Like your arm. Not human...parts. Faces, arms, bodies, eyes...
If you are an 'adept', what does that mean you can do? Is it like... ( he starts, stops, decides to not continue that. ) What is it like?
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[And the obvious next question is there, about Choso's own experience with this kind of thing, but—hold on.]
Well, it's what we call... [ah-] God, did I actually not tell you? You, of all people! [This is a grievous error on his part, he thinks, because Choso should know these things- anything he would like to know about Palamedes, really- in the exact opposite way that he's been trying to keep it to a minimum with other people lately.] I'm a necromancer. An adept. It's nothing like the stories, for the record.
I'm sorry, it completely slipped my mind.
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( he sounds it out carefully--thoughtfully, though he isn't proud of where his thoughts immediately go; to someone he would rather not think about, who did horrible things with his techniques. it's not like that at all: couldn't be like that, at all. )
Death, and...is it magic? 'Mancy'... Mmm. I've never read any stories about necromancers. I'm not sure we have such a thing, in our world.
( a considering sound. ) You are an 'adept' because you can do these things, then, and a 'non-adept' cannot... I see.
( sorcerer, non-sorcerer. that makes sense. )
What does one do, as a necromancer? If you are the Master Warden, do you...guide others, who do it? ( at least he sounds genuinely curious--because he is, and because it feels good to learn new things about palamedes. )
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[Necromancer 101.]
As for what I do... functionally, I'm just a wizard with a different medium- the body. Sixth psychometry is my specialty, but we all learn the basics of spirit, flesh, and bone.
[A beat; he very clearly likes to talk about this, it's a massive part of his, hm, entire life, but people have been unsettled by the flesh and bone.]
We don't run around desecrating the dead for fun and imprisoning souls. But I could lock a door with the proper blood ward, for example. Not explicitly connected to "Master Warden," which refers to the guardianship of the Sixth Library, broadly, along with the day-to-day leadership role.
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( the rest, though, takes a little studying and thought, since it's like trying to understand a completely different universe. )
So then... You use bodies, for magic? Or just blood? Or just the...dead? Can you bring them back, or is it just animating...the flesh?
...This is a lot of questions, I'm sorry. We don't have wizards, or...magic, really, back home. Just other things. I'm studying.
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[Hmm, yes— but focus, Palamedes.]
No resurrections. Necromancy uses thanergy- death energy- which you can get anywhere. Cell death in an individual necromancer powers the basics. My friend Harrowhawk can generate a full skeleton from a single chunk of osseo— totally original construct.
Like I said, though, my specialty is psychometry. It's like reading energy signatures; I could tell how old something is, things like that.
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Does that mean you can... Have you read the energy of some of the other arrivals, here? Does... No, that's not... Mmmnngh. ( a little grumbly sound, like all his thoughts are getting in the way of his other thoughts. )
So then Camilla protects you, so that you can perform your abilities. Or something like that. Without her here, then...Are you still able to?
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[It's already been floated, as an option for how to identify any further missing people from East Sophia, but he would feel too dishonest if he didn't explain the entire thing to every person. Kind of time-consuming.]
Camilla doesn't impact my necromancy, though. This place has given me a hard time, but it still functions.
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( to hold back like that, when technically it could be easier to just do it all the time--well, maybe not, given that this place seems to be giving him a hard time. )
If you wanted to read me, I wouldn't mind. But then if you don't like what you learn, I'd like you to un-read me.
( it's not possible, but: easier to make a gentle joke, like that, than admit that it would be hard on him. )
If I can help, any time...Please tell me. I don't have a lot I can offer, except copious amounts of blood, but that may not be helpful to you. At best, I can make a good shield when necessary. And I'll learn a sword. ( oh, now he sounds determined. )
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Ask me next time you see me, but I don't think I could dislike it, if it's you.
[He's attached; even if he wasn't, who is he to be the arbiter of- good-things-to-learn. Secrets.]
Please don't open a vein for my sake. [That's- all of it, really, it brings him right back to being of use, and as enamored as he is with these declarations of dedication, he wonders if he isn't allowing Choso to give too much. To want to give too much.] Can I see you?
[Hmm,] Reading optional.
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Now? ( a considering pause. ) You can. Where?
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[He doesn't want to go anywhere with his ridiculous arm, not yet. But it feels significant to talk to Choso about these things without the Syntrofos and the distance in between.]
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he stands there for a moment, staring at the door, before he lifts a hand to knock. he's not the type to simply open the door and barge in, not when it's like this; rather than wearing his usual garb from home, it's a pair of black sweatpants and an equally casual, deep purple sweatshirt that he's sunken into, the sleeves long enough to hide under, his hair loose around his neck. now that he thinks about it, maybe he should have arrived more...presentable, but it's too late to go back now.
instead, he waits, patient, staring down at his untied shoes: he'd just pushed his feet into them as a means to an end, really. )
Ah. ( his chin lifts, sudden, cranes himself closer to the door. ) It's Choso.
( should have lead with that, instead of just ominous knocking. )
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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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