S E I J I
If he finds the lack of attention unpleasant, Seiji shows no sign of it. Truthfully, the idea of company wearies his usually bright soul. Perhaps because so often, company in Caido ends with meetings like this: survivors, mourning, memories hanging in the air like smoke. Seiji hates the taste of good bye in his mouth. The sorrow mixing with fear.
So he takes no offense if Deimos offers him little more than a nod. If Weaver offers him nothing at all. Amalia's bright greeting is enough - a flash of color in a dull room. Amalia has weathered more years in this place than he, but she - she is resilient - like a sapling. He is… something else. Something light and fallible as wings over cold water.
"Thank you," Seiji murmurs. He doesn't mean the words for her alone. He doesn't mean to be this wispy creature in the corner, but lately his whole being is unusually tired. As if his soul can't bear another Deepfrost. Another Longnight. Perhaps he is simply weak. "Better together," he says, and something of the previous Seiji shines through in his smile.
The smile fades as he blinks down at the glass lantern. Seiji doesn't know why, but he imagines raindrops on the glass panels as he lifts them in his hands. Turns it over. His dark eyes are quiet, his gaze turned inward, as he reaches for a cloth and begins slowly to polish. Inch by inch, corner to corner. Every now and then, Seiji's eyes turn up, flicker toward the others. He thinks, he ought to speak. Some past version of him would have done so effortlessly. But here he is, weary, his fingers working and hardly any feeling in the gesture, at all. He is glad for their company, nonetheless.
If he finds the lack of attention unpleasant, Seiji shows no sign of it. Truthfully, the idea of company wearies his usually bright soul. Perhaps because so often, company in Caido ends with meetings like this: survivors, mourning, memories hanging in the air like smoke. Seiji hates the taste of good bye in his mouth. The sorrow mixing with fear.
So he takes no offense if Deimos offers him little more than a nod. If Weaver offers him nothing at all. Amalia's bright greeting is enough - a flash of color in a dull room. Amalia has weathered more years in this place than he, but she - she is resilient - like a sapling. He is… something else. Something light and fallible as wings over cold water.
"Thank you," Seiji murmurs. He doesn't mean the words for her alone. He doesn't mean to be this wispy creature in the corner, but lately his whole being is unusually tired. As if his soul can't bear another Deepfrost. Another Longnight. Perhaps he is simply weak. "Better together," he says, and something of the previous Seiji shines through in his smile.
The smile fades as he blinks down at the glass lantern. Seiji doesn't know why, but he imagines raindrops on the glass panels as he lifts them in his hands. Turns it over. His dark eyes are quiet, his gaze turned inward, as he reaches for a cloth and begins slowly to polish. Inch by inch, corner to corner. Every now and then, Seiji's eyes turn up, flicker toward the others. He thinks, he ought to speak. Some past version of him would have done so effortlessly. But here he is, weary, his fingers working and hardly any feeling in the gesture, at all. He is glad for their company, nonetheless.
The rain is full
of ghosts tonight
of ghosts tonight
