[ Like it had always been there, Albedo shifts back and his heel makes a tok sound against the phantom bedframe. He descends without looking, pretending as well as he can that the grip of one hand hasn't slid from Rubedo's back to his sleeve, incorrigibly tugging. Though he knows the puff of clean scent that billows from the linens is purely a product of their shared imagination, memory thunders through his senses: he can see the Institute ceiling in their mind's eye as vividly as if it were real as he lets himself fall back with a plush thump into the mattress.
He knows he's taken them back to a time when nothing was ever as right as he wanted it to seem—all that time, they were never anything but tools to be used in the achievement of the old man's arrogant designs, but the sights and smells and emotions in their old room have lingered in the most primal parts of his mind even after he'd supposedly enlightened beyond them. Funny how that is. ]
Heh... what a joke.
[ Albedo is lying half off a bed that he's inclined to think was always meant to be Rubedo's, safe and free of the nightmares that always used to find him in his own, the back of Rubedo's hand a spot of sorely-missed heat under his fingers—and as much as he'd like, he can't shake this thread of rueful feeling running underneath everything. Righteous anger, maybe. A wish that things could've been different.
He's not used to feeling that way. ]
It's just an illusion. Haven't you had enough of revisiting the past?
[ But Albedo's the one who's resurrected this place, this sensation. He knows it. Rubedo must know it, too. ]
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He knows he's taken them back to a time when nothing was ever as right as he wanted it to seem—all that time, they were never anything but tools to be used in the achievement of the old man's arrogant designs, but the sights and smells and emotions in their old room have lingered in the most primal parts of his mind even after he'd supposedly enlightened beyond them. Funny how that is. ]
Heh... what a joke.
[ Albedo is lying half off a bed that he's inclined to think was always meant to be Rubedo's, safe and free of the nightmares that always used to find him in his own, the back of Rubedo's hand a spot of sorely-missed heat under his fingers—and as much as he'd like, he can't shake this thread of rueful feeling running underneath everything. Righteous anger, maybe. A wish that things could've been different.
He's not used to feeling that way. ]
It's just an illusion. Haven't you had enough of revisiting the past?
[ But Albedo's the one who's resurrected this place, this sensation. He knows it. Rubedo must know it, too. ]