KAISEL
So, you wanna start a war?
Bang, shots fired
Bang, shots fired
He frowns at the paper, tilting it this way and that for a moment before setting his pen back to it anew.
I don’t know if you even want to read this. I wouldn't blame you if you didn't. But I have to try, because not saying anything feels worse than saying the wrong thing. And I’ve said a lot of wrong things lately, haven’t I? I’m sorry. Not just for what happened on your birthday, even though that’s a big one, but for all the ways I’ve made things harder for you when I was supposed to make them better.
He's nodding along as Sohalia speaks, catching snippets—demi-god names, the void, short work—but they drift through the thick fog of Calypso that's wreathed around his brain, muffling everything else. So when she says she lost Tarak, he hums a polite "Mhmm," a reflexive note telling her that he's here, to keep going, even if the words haven’t fully landed.
Then they do.
His pen jerks violently to the side, cutting a sharp line into the paper. All of him goes still. His head snaps up like he's been doused in cold water, and his eyes search hers, suddenly and devastatingly clear. "Wait—what?!" His voice cracks with it, his chair creaking faintly as he leans toward her, one hand sliding urgently across the table. It’s not demanding, just there, something solid and steady, offered up as a show of support if she wants it. Maybe they’ve never been the kind to be close enough to comfort each other this way, but that hardly matters to him if she's in need. He’s always been the sort to reach for someone falling, whether or not he knows how to catch them, whether or not they need him to.
"Soh. Gods, I’m so sorry," his voice is low, aching for her with a pain he can't even pretend to understand. His 'brows pinch together, concern bleeding into every word now that the weight of it has really settled. "I thought... I just assumed when I didn’t see him..." He trails off, horrified by the blind optimism, by how easy it had been to miss something so heavy, how she'd let him just ramble on about his love life. "That’s—fuck, Soh, that’s awful. Are you okay? What happened?" His fingers flex slightly against the table, a silent tell of his helplessness. None of what he could do for her is enough. None of them could do much for her at all.
I don’t know if you even want to read this. I wouldn't blame you if you didn't. But I have to try, because not saying anything feels worse than saying the wrong thing. And I’ve said a lot of wrong things lately, haven’t I? I’m sorry. Not just for what happened on your birthday, even though that’s a big one, but for all the ways I’ve made things harder for you when I was supposed to make them better.
He's nodding along as Sohalia speaks, catching snippets—demi-god names, the void, short work—but they drift through the thick fog of Calypso that's wreathed around his brain, muffling everything else. So when she says she lost Tarak, he hums a polite "Mhmm," a reflexive note telling her that he's here, to keep going, even if the words haven’t fully landed.
Then they do.
His pen jerks violently to the side, cutting a sharp line into the paper. All of him goes still. His head snaps up like he's been doused in cold water, and his eyes search hers, suddenly and devastatingly clear. "Wait—what?!" His voice cracks with it, his chair creaking faintly as he leans toward her, one hand sliding urgently across the table. It’s not demanding, just there, something solid and steady, offered up as a show of support if she wants it. Maybe they’ve never been the kind to be close enough to comfort each other this way, but that hardly matters to him if she's in need. He’s always been the sort to reach for someone falling, whether or not he knows how to catch them, whether or not they need him to.
"Soh. Gods, I’m so sorry," his voice is low, aching for her with a pain he can't even pretend to understand. His 'brows pinch together, concern bleeding into every word now that the weight of it has really settled. "I thought... I just assumed when I didn’t see him..." He trails off, horrified by the blind optimism, by how easy it had been to miss something so heavy, how she'd let him just ramble on about his love life. "That’s—fuck, Soh, that’s awful. Are you okay? What happened?" His fingers flex slightly against the table, a silent tell of his helplessness. None of what he could do for her is enough. None of them could do much for her at all.
Pain is what you desire
So, you wanna be immortal?
So, you wanna be immortal?
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
