@steorrans liked.
his hand has not stopped cramping. the very human sensation of it acts as more of a comfort than a hindrance in the days following the publication of As I’ve Written. when caelus thought about the sacrifices not only the chrysos heirs, but his two most beloved companions had made, such a trivial thing like muscle discomfort felt like nothing. but he played it up though, when he made himself at home among the plush familiarity of march’s room ( swept of lingering six shards and the cold wisps of death, ) more than willing to play as if things were now under control. that he didn’t compulsively check on their rooms in the night, that he didn’t reach for their pulses when they were nearby, that he didn’t check the last remaining teleslate messages from their friends, wishing the messages he sent back would reach them beyond the void of existence.
“ do you think you’re ever going to see her again ? ” he was glad to be back in their rooms and out of the medical bay. what had been a year in amphoreus ( and thousands in their minds ) had still resulted in muscle atrophy, made even worse by growing pains, by mental anguish, by caelus’ insistence to get As I’ve Written down with pen and paper ( like the gods intended ! ) so he tried to hide the scent of menthol and muscle cream with one of march’s many moisturisers, the scent of peaches rubbed into base of his palm, trying to keep his tone nonchalant. even if evernight had been a looming presence for much of their time in amphoreus, he hadn’t gotten the chance to know the enigma, the chance to understand march, with her memories, a march who was not march at all. he was still curious about her, regretful even. dying to know what march was thinking in the aftermath of all this.
“ though, that would probably be a bad thing, right ? she only comes out when things are kind of ... fucked ? ”
