[Yes, the ideal scenario would be the ghosts politely excuse themselves for an hour or forever, and they can go to town on this lumpy couch and not have to think about making peace with trauma just this once. Just one time!
Alas. Viktor's hands are another instant relief of that tension Palamedes has been studiously ignoring while on his own, the comfort and (comparative, since there are ghosts in the room) safety of physical contact, like this. 'I have a thing,' he'd said ages ago, sobbing on the floor, and it feels great to have it confirmed that the thing has not, in fact, conveniently gone away. At least he isn't crying this time, exhausted as he is by Cytherea's presence.
So. The much-welcomed cuddle is a pretty big deciding factor in how he handles the rest of this ghost evening, thanks.]
No, I know; I'm not asking you to go anywhere. But.
[But. Cytherea is the 'but,' of course. Not that he expects her to have a particular grudge against him, despite all odds; she didn't care enough about any of their lives to single them out personally in the first place. They were simply in the way, and so why should the afterimage of her loitering in Viktor's new study give a damn about either of them now?
Said ghost studies her nails for a moment, scoffing - audibly! - as if she's fully aware of Palamedes' thoughts, which considering she's most certainly a creation of his own psyche, she must be. Then she looks at them both, and when she speaks, her voice comes out as some unholy mix of Palamedes' and her own, soft and whimsical in the exact tones of someone putting on an act:
'You're going to die spewing your own lungs out of your nostrils, having failed at the finish line because you couldn't help but prattle about why you killed innocent people, as though your reasons were interesting...'
And that makes Palamedes' exhaustion sharpen to a much more furious point, although he makes no immediate move to pick himself up off Viktor's shoulder. He's not feeling very peaceful, as it happens.]
no subject
Alas. Viktor's hands are another instant relief of that tension Palamedes has been studiously ignoring while on his own, the comfort and (comparative, since there are ghosts in the room) safety of physical contact, like this. 'I have a thing,' he'd said ages ago, sobbing on the floor, and it feels great to have it confirmed that the thing has not, in fact, conveniently gone away. At least he isn't crying this time, exhausted as he is by Cytherea's presence.
So. The much-welcomed cuddle is a pretty big deciding factor in how he handles the rest of this ghost evening, thanks.]
No, I know; I'm not asking you to go anywhere. But.
[But. Cytherea is the 'but,' of course. Not that he expects her to have a particular grudge against him, despite all odds; she didn't care enough about any of their lives to single them out personally in the first place. They were simply in the way, and so why should the afterimage of her loitering in Viktor's new study give a damn about either of them now?
Said ghost studies her nails for a moment, scoffing - audibly! - as if she's fully aware of Palamedes' thoughts, which considering she's most certainly a creation of his own psyche, she must be. Then she looks at them both, and when she speaks, her voice comes out as some unholy mix of Palamedes' and her own, soft and whimsical in the exact tones of someone putting on an act:
'You're going to die spewing your own lungs out of your nostrils, having failed at the finish line because you couldn't help but prattle about why you killed innocent people, as though your reasons were interesting...'
And that makes Palamedes' exhaustion sharpen to a much more furious point, although he makes no immediate move to pick himself up off Viktor's shoulder. He's not feeling very peaceful, as it happens.]