A long sigh answers her back and he tilts further against the ledge, the back of his arms setting upon it. "Ain't that the fucking truth," he admits. He'd perhaps forgotten, figuring all the difficulty to be his own doing, especially since it'd all started when he was still young. Hard to say if life was just easier when he was younger, or if he just remembered it that way. Foolish boy he was hoping to get here as soon as possible and not bothering to soak up all those golden and easy days for what they were.
He watches her while she talks, quietly attentive as the weight of it all sits with them. The confidence in how she says it, the way she breaks it up into something he can reference from—all indicators she's thought about this often, or studied it at least. Maybe lived beside it, even if she hasn’t walked through it the same way. “Yeah,” he says with a quiet agreement as he follows her gaze to Goose. The mutt still has the stick pinned like a trophy, and it makes Iskra’s chest warm in that faint, stupid way dogs, especially Goose, always managed. “Honestly, don’t know if I ever would’ve struck a match without him.” The admission comes out softer than expected, a little raw, but without shame. Put simply, he owes his life to that dog. He probably would have choked on the darkness long ago and been with Mort otherwise.
He looks back to her, a faint frown of thought tugging between his 'brows. “That’s the hardest part though, isn't it? Admitting it. That you’re not alright. That you need help.” He gestures vaguely with one hand. “It’s easier to pretend you're just... tired. Or busy. Or fine.” Or the town drunk, or the town hermit. He's aware he hadn't been doing the best, but he didn't admit it in a way that was helpful. Maybe, finally, to Sunjata and Melita, at their prodding.
A pause, then, a rough half-smile as he regards her. “At least until someone punches you in a hot spring and starts giving you the emotional equivalent of a map.” There’s just a light tease, gratitude disguised behind the grin.
He watches her while she talks, quietly attentive as the weight of it all sits with them. The confidence in how she says it, the way she breaks it up into something he can reference from—all indicators she's thought about this often, or studied it at least. Maybe lived beside it, even if she hasn’t walked through it the same way. “Yeah,” he says with a quiet agreement as he follows her gaze to Goose. The mutt still has the stick pinned like a trophy, and it makes Iskra’s chest warm in that faint, stupid way dogs, especially Goose, always managed. “Honestly, don’t know if I ever would’ve struck a match without him.” The admission comes out softer than expected, a little raw, but without shame. Put simply, he owes his life to that dog. He probably would have choked on the darkness long ago and been with Mort otherwise.
He looks back to her, a faint frown of thought tugging between his 'brows. “That’s the hardest part though, isn't it? Admitting it. That you’re not alright. That you need help.” He gestures vaguely with one hand. “It’s easier to pretend you're just... tired. Or busy. Or fine.” Or the town drunk, or the town hermit. He's aware he hadn't been doing the best, but he didn't admit it in a way that was helpful. Maybe, finally, to Sunjata and Melita, at their prodding.
A pause, then, a rough half-smile as he regards her. “At least until someone punches you in a hot spring and starts giving you the emotional equivalent of a map.” There’s just a light tease, gratitude disguised behind the grin.
Iskra
