#empiriical

Normal people don't just say things like that!

He's lucky enough not to let that little comment slip, but it's definitely thought with the utmost sincerity. If his face weren't already red before, it definitely would be now.

"Normally, you ask a guy about that sorta thing before takin' him on dates, Claire." He has to say this through a clenched jaw, tight with embarrassment. Honestly, it's bad enough that Claire had handled this whole thing the way he did in the first place, but even when he's just blatantly saying stupid things like this---

---I still like him, for some reason!

It's the kind of frustrating dilemma that makes Firo really want to shove his head into the nearest cushion and scream.

"Wouldja just---you'd think with how observant you are sometimes you'd be able to tell that sorta thing," Firo complains, using his grumbling as a convenient excuse to not have to answer right away. "...Look, I don't not wanna be l--- t... together, alright? I mean---augh, listen, I wouldn't... mind... that sorta thing, just..."

But here Arawn was in a tavern, trying to negotiate Rhiannon into eating something other than sweets, and trying not to chug an ale in front of his six year old. She'd been so much easier to deal with before she'd formed opinions. Not that he didn't love her opinions, but still. To him she'd remained three years old for the past three years and then had suddenly skipped forward.

Then suddenly there was another figure at his side, talking to Rhia in a disarming voice. And there was Rhia actually lifting a green bean to her mouth. Arawn's mouth dropped open.

"Now, how the fuck did you do that?"

She still doesn't understand the boy her father is so interested in.

Claire Stanfield, he'd told her once. A genius child Huey intended to cultivate in order to have someone powerful who was also capable of carrying out his experiments, or at the very least being an annoying diversion for the authorities.

Chané had wanted to protest that she was capable of doing both of these things, but she wouldn't ever speak against her father like that, and even if she wanted to, she couldn't. Not very effectively, anyway. And she wouldn't have even been correct. She works hard every day to be able to be strong for her father---just as hard as Claire works when he's pushed to be better and stronger---but Claire always seems to be ten steps ahead of her.

So she doesn't understand Claire, but she'd like to. If she doesn't understand him, she'll never be able to reach his level, and then she'll be practically useless to her father.

That's why she finds herself, notebook and pen in one hand, holding out a torn-out paper to him with the other. For anyone else who couldn't speak, Chané assumes it would be natural to communicate in this way from time to time, provided sign language wasn't an option. But she's never done anything like that before. Never, to anyone. In some ways, it's the first time she's 'said' anything to anyone other than her father since being silenced.

"---Huh?"

The noise comes out just a little too choked, and Niccolo's sure at the moment that he must look like someone pretty pathetic with how shocked he is by the request that had been given to him.

It's not that he's never met an "odd" person before; actually, he's almost constantly surrounded by them. It's just that aside from Ildio, nobody else has ever been quite so blunt with him.

Just smile, huh?

Well, it's not as if I don't already throw my cares away pretty similarly.

Because of the ridiculousness of the request, Niccolo's actually able to laugh a little.

﹙ -`♡´-   ﹚   › @empiriical has bought a ticket for the circus :

❛ it's been a long time since i met anyone this interesting. / Claire this time

𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐘 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒𝐐𝐔𝐄 [ … ] 𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐘 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐇𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐄. and yet, he is entirely antithetic when compared to the countless people who have spoken of her horrendous performances in whispers and sighs ever since she was naught but a lost child with neither name nor crown, neither home nor dreams to call her own: the time spent watching her and her snakes solely served the selfish purpose of embellishing their own lives, of discoloring their struggles and their nightmares, of allowing them to feel better and superior over this wretched girl whose inexplicable abilities reminded them of fictional characters in movies and novels. the lure was there, the lure was powerful enough to compel them to open their wallets and surrender their credit cards but there was no love in their actions, there was no appreciation nor affection for a jester who was ready to commit the unspeakable in pursuance of trying to conquer their favor, their smiles, their happiness ... serpent was their car accident, she was their all - devouring wildfire, she was the mangled corpse that made their stomach churn with its agony even whilst their eyes stubbornly remained fixed 'pon spilled innards and butchered limbs. SHE WAS THEIR LITTLE MONSTER, she was theirs to use and break and mend.

The words he grumbles are unintelligible, but they're probably some kind of muttered annoyance in Spanish.

It's far from the first time someone has not recognized Puss in Boots, but he's never gotten a reaction quite like this one---surprised in an almost infuriated way, near condescension, like Puss is some revolting creature, and that... Well, that, he just won't stand for.

"I am not just some cat! I am Puss in Boots!" To accentuate his title, he draws his rapier, pointing it triumphantly towards the sky. "The legendary outlaw! Hero of the people! The most handsome cat around!"

Shaking his head in mild disbelief, he tucks his blade back into his belt.

"I wonder whose dream that was, in the first place."

He only remembers the words, of course. Not even Monica's face could stand the test of time; only the bright blond of her hair has lasted as an image in Huey's mind. But even if he had remembered, he's so far removed from that past that he doesn't feel like any part of him is the same.

Are the hands that once held Monica's the same as the hands he has today? Functionally, they must be; Huey is near-incapable of physical change, and the part of his mind that still tries to divorce itself from any sort of emotion agrees that they were the same. But it doesn't stop him from feeling the intrinsic difference.

His smile that isn't quite fake but isn't quite real doesn't even twitch.

"Am I still grieving, or am I just upset that I've lost the ability to grieve her? I don't know the answer. I don't think I ever will find out." His voice---surely not the same voice that had once spoken to Monica---is steady, despite what should be tumultuous feelings welling up inside him. "I'm a little tired, I think."

There's a flash of emotion in his smile, but it's not a happy emotion.

"You're so absentminded already; you should forget about that person's dream. Ask me to smile, Elmer."

I might only be able to if it's you.