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+---- Thread: bottom of the deep blue sea (/showthread.php?tid=2446)
RE: bottom of the deep blue sea - Sunjata - 01-03-2020
She begins to go down further paths, and he wonders if he should ever tell her what his favorite is — keep something of himself hidden away. To hide and hide, curl up, bury that small soft part of him that he doesn’t dare acknowledge any further. Eventually though, he decides that telling her what fruit he likes doesn’t matter in the end. “[say]Blackberry.[/say]” It’s almost flatly offered, especially as the conversation shifts and his arms tighten around his chest.
Like what? He looks away from her then, focusing outside the window once more for a brief moment. “[say]I already have the diagnosis, I’m on a treatment plan. Don’t worry about it.[/say]” He tells her, rubbing his wrist against his torso before he glances back at her. Let her worry, let her suffer in the unknown for a time.
That makes two of them.
RE: bottom of the deep blue sea - Phoebe - 01-03-2020
Blackberry. Very different from lemon indeed. But she made a note to forage for them when they came in season and make preserves from them. She didn’t plan to go out of her way to make Jata miserable after all - he did a fine job of that all on his own for the most part. So she simply nodded, storing that bit of information away for later.
Of course though, he continued to be snide and evasive, and her expression fell, pulling back behind her shield of nothingness. [say]”Fine. Don’t tell me then. I guess you can go unless you need something else, and I’ll see you in three days.”[/say] she said dryly, picking up the plate of lemon bars that he clearly didn’t want.
RE: bottom of the deep blue sea - Sunjata - 01-03-2020
Oh course he’d remain snide. He’s giving up everything to call this bluff, giving her everything he doesn’t want. But she grows withdrawn again and his chest roils, his heart curls in on itself, souring and darkening with the events. “[say]Three days.[/say]” He agrees coldly, turning to leave, briefly eyeing the box on the table, empty now as the ring sits on her finger.
He moves for the door, opening it and letting his hand still edged in dark talons, claws of a sort tap against the wood. He looks over his shoulder to her then. “[say]It’s a form of respiratory distress.[/say]” He tells her, so at least she knows what she’s getting into, before he slips through the door and closes it shut tight behind him.
— FIN