#synaptic-net-dive

“…Should I be worried, Valentine?”

"It's just a joke." Oh my god, for the sake of my own sanity, let it be so.

Synaptic-Net-Dive:

“She still has a lot to learn…” Allowing my gaze to drift toward the horizon, a drop of tonality finds Kavalierbariton continues. “…I still have a lot to learn.” I shake my head. “A compromise…perhaps.”

agrotera-thanatos :

“…Who?”

Out of character:

<3

"…--Do you wish for one?"

The first time the query was voiced, this man had to repeat himself once more as in the story told in fluttered auburn lashes is that of someone who has yet to realize what this is, and why should the inquirer had asked her so. A man of few words, Vincent Valentine has always been, Shelke Rui hasn't fared much differ. Yet, it is within this moment, among the busy bustling life of W.R.O.'s cafeteria as we are waiting for a certain Commissioner to come adjoin that those rarity are shared, proceeding so with a gesture from gauntlet hand toward the soft ice-cream stall.

Yes. Vincent Valentine is asking Shelke Rui if she might want to have that. Mayhaps it has been in the heat of the moment; mayhaps it has been for how the weather has been-- humid, with rarely a breeze for that wistful relief-- mayhaps it has been the sadden gleam in a pair of blue that was never shown, and yet this man could recognize whenever the girl's straying thought comes glancing upon another auburn still in her catatonic sleep. While crimson form has never revealed the purpose behind his words, it hasn't changed the fact that he has asked. With one foot braced to the side, more allowance is granted for lithe form to fully holds the Tsievt girl beneath carmine regard as its owner awaits.

Mayhaps she doesn't know. Regardless of the spanning silence where question is voiced and reply is to be granted, within azure depth, there still haunts multitude of queries and doubt. "…--Just…wait here." The ex-Turk purses his lips. Deep timbre softly exhales as its owner take a step aside, leaving only a trialling of crimson to remind my companion of a taller form that once was. A second, a minute, perhaps as long as the span of time I have spent awaiting for her to decide and I find myself back to the Tsievt's front, two cone of man-made ice in invaginated grip where one is extended to her.

 "…What is it?", Placidly, she asked. While there is doubt, the Transparent rarely exhibits so. "…--Ice-cream." Crimson form responses, raising the hand that currently extends toward the other in another gesture for her to accept the milky sweetness in his hand. "…Don't worry. It's editable." As if to demonstrate, I take a nip at the tip of one that's intended to be mine as I take a step away. Having found a seclude position where we can have our treat in peace without being in the others' way, a hand is pat upon the space to my side, beckoned.

Crimson form has expected for the other to join, though he can spare with the stumbling. Claret optics widened a fraction, the hand that holds the sweet treat ascends out of the way whereas the other settle upon slender shoulder in a secured grip intended for support. Two hearts, one drums upon the other's as garnet irises peer past ebony veils toward the smaller form in my arm. There is no savaging the other half of my purchase, as there is no saving the dark patch in crimson cape. Noticing that the young Tsievt has alas secured her footing, lithe form quiet detaches himself. A swift apology from the girl is met with a mild shake of head.

While one is lost, the other is not, and it is the one still safe in my hand that is then offered. "…--Do you not seek to have it anymore, Chaos bearer?" Inquisitive, the tone is, or as much as it could sound for someone of her past. "…I believe I have had enough." Turks' humour being what it is, this man gestures at his tainted cape as head is tilted from side to side, finding himself amused at the situation he finds himself in. With the napkin she has fetched for, I proceed to clean the smear of my attire while twin pools of burgundy remains upon the auburn as tentatively, she takes her first taste-- a look of wonder, surprise, quiet delight that ends with a sense of loss rolled into one solitary crystal bead trickling down delicate curve of face.

Canting her neck, she raises her digit to tentatively touches upon the lingered salt.Wonder. She wonders why she is crying. Midnight enclosed hand falls upon soft auburn tresses. Crimson form has let it stays. A minute pause before deep tenor finally sounds from beneath tattered maroon shroud-- almost apologetic..

"…--Perhaps, Miss Rui."

Curious. Carmine optics have always spoken a tale so whenever in light of the auburn haired Tsievt’s presence. A shifting of observation drifts from each approaching steps toward youthful face. While crimson form could draw away, I remain where I am. She could be trusted— a realization this man’s came to gain; though if the gunner, himself, could be in her company or not, remains another tale entirely.