Honey, these arms that once held you are ready to fight
In contrast, not only does Hotaru not eat nearly as much with her stature, she doesn’t feel inclined to eat much in the moment with so much still on her mind even if not actively at the forefront of her thoughts. She’s happy to indulge him, to shove more to his side of the plate and watch him eat instead. A very basic, primordial sort of pleasure over providing for a loved one in such a base way warming her bones.
As he stands she does so as well, more out of concern that he might simply topple over sideways, but it at least gets her in the same vicinity regardless. Watching the change is always both intriguing and slightly disturbing, but any words simply leave her as she watches his new form come to be whole in their living room. It’s a figure and coloration that she recognizes. Barely, of course, as it had been in the time directly before Kisamoa, but her job had been to commit to memory all faces she’d ever encountered. It’s a miracle she doesn’t fall on her ass right there as she watches him move about, as natural as you please, while wearing the ghost of another.
His head comes to push into her, and she wraps her arms instinctually around him, hands caressing silky ears and combing through his forelock out of habit. Does she tell him? Surely he doesn’t remember, she thinks, mind a torrent of cascading thoughts. So why burden him with the knowledge that they’d known each other in another life? “Gods,” she whispers instead, overcome and hoping to pass it off as awe. “You're magnificent.” Lest she come off as unappreciative, and hoping to keep him off the scent of her discordant thoughts.
As he stands she does so as well, more out of concern that he might simply topple over sideways, but it at least gets her in the same vicinity regardless. Watching the change is always both intriguing and slightly disturbing, but any words simply leave her as she watches his new form come to be whole in their living room. It’s a figure and coloration that she recognizes. Barely, of course, as it had been in the time directly before Kisamoa, but her job had been to commit to memory all faces she’d ever encountered. It’s a miracle she doesn’t fall on her ass right there as she watches him move about, as natural as you please, while wearing the ghost of another.
His head comes to push into her, and she wraps her arms instinctually around him, hands caressing silky ears and combing through his forelock out of habit. Does she tell him? Surely he doesn’t remember, she thinks, mind a torrent of cascading thoughts. So why burden him with the knowledge that they’d known each other in another life? “Gods,” she whispers instead, overcome and hoping to pass it off as awe. “You're magnificent.” Lest she come off as unappreciative, and hoping to keep him off the scent of her discordant thoughts.
HOTARU
