[ Well. Well, at least Treavor seems to have drawn back from whatever precipice was calling him. That's good.
(Still. Still, Alice looks down and away, his smile not a smile at all, but something lost and stranded. And Alice thinks of this familiar sense of reaching out and meeting nothing at all. Of the imploring words of a sober man to a drunken one. Rationality speaking to inanity, sobriety to intoxication, waking to dreaming.
Why is it so easy to speak this way, openly, vulnerably, to a drunk man, when he knows the words will pass away, forgotten? When he knows there will be no spark of connection, no meeting or reception or comprehension? And why can't he speak this way to someone sober?
What would it feel like to talk of snow and starlight and roller coasters and all things bright and beautiful to someone whose eyes light with presence of mind?
What would it feel like to be found, and known?)
A moment passes, silence and his stillness not a condemnation; only calming, only restful. And he considers the question very seriously before answering. ]
I suppose that depends. Can I be any kind of fish, or can I only be a kind of fish based on my personality?
If I can pick anything, I'd like to be something pretty and interesting. A jellyfish, maybe.
[ He turns his attention back to Treavor and raises his hand briefly from its place of rest, fingers downward to imitate the dangling tentacles of the creature in question. ]
Floating without a care in the world, and stinging anyone who tried to do me harm? Or maybe a pufferfish.
[ Here, he gestures again, balling his hand and then splaying it suddenly, mimicking the POOF of the fish in question. ]
But if we're going off personality - [ A little, unhappy noise, and his gaze is back out on the water. ]
Something hiding in the sand. Camouflaged. What are they, mm - flatfish. The boring ones. The cowards. Keep your head low and ambush your meal.
no subject
(Still. Still, Alice looks down and away, his smile not a smile at all, but something lost and stranded. And Alice thinks of this familiar sense of reaching out and meeting nothing at all. Of the imploring words of a sober man to a drunken one. Rationality speaking to inanity, sobriety to intoxication, waking to dreaming.
Why is it so easy to speak this way, openly, vulnerably, to a drunk man, when he knows the words will pass away, forgotten? When he knows there will be no spark of connection, no meeting or reception or comprehension? And why can't he speak this way to someone sober?
What would it feel like to talk of snow and starlight and roller coasters and all things bright and beautiful to someone whose eyes light with presence of mind?
What would it feel like to be found, and known?)
A moment passes, silence and his stillness not a condemnation; only calming, only restful. And he considers the question very seriously before answering. ]
I suppose that depends. Can I be any kind of fish, or can I only be a kind of fish based on my personality?
If I can pick anything, I'd like to be something pretty and interesting. A jellyfish, maybe.
[ He turns his attention back to Treavor and raises his hand briefly from its place of rest, fingers downward to imitate the dangling tentacles of the creature in question. ]
Floating without a care in the world, and stinging anyone who tried to do me harm? Or maybe a pufferfish.
[ Here, he gestures again, balling his hand and then splaying it suddenly, mimicking the POOF of the fish in question. ]
But if we're going off personality - [ A little, unhappy noise, and his gaze is back out on the water. ]
Something hiding in the sand. Camouflaged. What are they, mm - flatfish. The boring ones. The cowards. Keep your head low and ambush your meal.