Got a bag full of clothes, a bottle of wine. Only say how I feel From the back of my mind
Everest hesitates, his fingers tapping once—twice—against the stem of his wine glass. "It’s a beaver," he says at last, voice quiet and measured, as though still not entirely convinced he should be sharing it aloud. "The instincts are... strong." His brow furrows faintly, then he exhales and sips his wine as if that might press the urge to dam up the shoreline back into dormancy.
Isla’s note about the variability of picnics draws his gaze back to her, and for a moment he only blinks at her, processing. "Ah," he says eventually. "You’re right." But there’s a flicker behind his eyes—something unfinished.
He looks toward the sea, his wine glass poised just so in his hand. "Maybe I should have chosen somewhere more controlled," he murmurs, more to himself than her. "Somewhere interior. Sound-dampened. Temperature-stable. Where external interruptions could be minimized and consistency maintained." He glances at her again, his expression flickering between embarrassment and reconsideration. "Like your home," he adds after a beat, his voice quiet, though he's sure she'd know why that might not be the best idea.
And yet..
But then she calls them the constants, and Ever’s mouth opens slightly, just enough to begin a counterpoint. Constants, after all, require baseline definitions and the entire premise of these...experiments...is to determine whether they still align. He closes his mouth and instead he takes a sip of wine. Then, after a long pause, he nods. "Then I’ll work on adapting to the variables," he says simply. "It'll be good practice for me, and...if you’re my constant...that will help."
Isla’s note about the variability of picnics draws his gaze back to her, and for a moment he only blinks at her, processing. "Ah," he says eventually. "You’re right." But there’s a flicker behind his eyes—something unfinished.
He looks toward the sea, his wine glass poised just so in his hand. "Maybe I should have chosen somewhere more controlled," he murmurs, more to himself than her. "Somewhere interior. Sound-dampened. Temperature-stable. Where external interruptions could be minimized and consistency maintained." He glances at her again, his expression flickering between embarrassment and reconsideration. "Like your home," he adds after a beat, his voice quiet, though he's sure she'd know why that might not be the best idea.
And yet..
But then she calls them the constants, and Ever’s mouth opens slightly, just enough to begin a counterpoint. Constants, after all, require baseline definitions and the entire premise of these...experiments...is to determine whether they still align. He closes his mouth and instead he takes a sip of wine. Then, after a long pause, he nods. "Then I’ll work on adapting to the variables," he says simply. "It'll be good practice for me, and...if you’re my constant...that will help."
