[ Albedo would like to think all the helplessness and chagrin humming around in the back of his mind isn't his own. It may not be. After all, he's always known Rubedo was hopeless and loved him in spite of it. Maybe even, in its way, a little because of it. No one in the world has ever been so stubborn.
He wants to reply to that. In fact, his rebuttal blossoms like vapor in the bridge of their shared thoughts as an overlapping melange of possible snarky responses. None of them make it into his throat, which doesn't even exist but is paralyzed. It's just that it feels like every wound is open again, or at least aching: every hand Rubedo ever pulled away. Every drop of blood, every explosion of anger. Every moment of loneliness. Every regret.
Because he doesn't think he can say anything convincingly right now that isn't raw truth, he doesn't say anything, but his hand has grasped Rubedo's at the wrist without his conscious awareness. He sort of just. Looks at it for a second, bemused. ]
nyoooo it's good you're so good we're so good
He wants to reply to that. In fact, his rebuttal blossoms like vapor in the bridge of their shared thoughts as an overlapping melange of possible snarky responses. None of them make it into his throat, which doesn't even exist but is paralyzed. It's just that it feels like every wound is open again, or at least aching: every hand Rubedo ever pulled away. Every drop of blood, every explosion of anger. Every moment of loneliness. Every regret.
Because he doesn't think he can say anything convincingly right now that isn't raw truth, he doesn't say anything, but his hand has grasped Rubedo's at the wrist without his conscious awareness. He sort of just. Looks at it for a second, bemused. ]
You'll just have to show me again.
[ It's soft. Distracted. ]