( ...because she decided to be Sharon da Silva. Now, now. That's not something someone without options and a myriad of cookie-cutter PVC licenses might say. Is this the woman who learned to architect sewer dreg goop and package it as a would-be Italian meal derivative, light on the nutrients? Or was it her shadow?
He finds himself at once attracted to the knowledge and hesitant to approach it, a man before a bear, circling. She won't go for his hand, he supposes; he still withdraws it, turning the long even stretch of his back as he starts the chase for two passable bowls in their quaint little cupboards.
Sharing pestilence is caring. )
Who's the other girl? ( 'Sharon.' No. That's her choice. The best and final proposition. But there's at least one discarded draft. ) The one on the other side of the bottle blonde.
( Brassy, stiff, horrible little aesthetic torture to which her hair has succumbed with dutiful consternation. Not that Seishirou would ever presume to make the point. ) Why didn't she win out?
[ Sharon gestures toward the right cabinet, guessing what he's looking for, while keeping her focus on the pasta—easier to watch the slow swirl of it than risk looking at him and second-guessing herself. ]
It's not that she didn't win. [ She says after a careful moment of consideration. ] It's that we were never meant to be separate in the first place. Two pieces of the same whole. [ Her grip on the spoon steadies, voice quiet but certain. ] I'll always be Sharon, because that's who I chose to be—but Alessa didn't disappear because of that. She's still here. I'm her, too.
[ Too many years packed into a life that hasn't held nearly as many. Sometimes it presses in on her—the weight of it, the anger, the horror, the things she's seen and felt and done. Other times... it settles into place, like something finally aligned the way it was always supposed to be.
She finally glances his way. ] I'm whole, Seishirou. No one loses in that race.
( There are lines and crumbs between them, letters and drawl. He reads better than most.
We were never meant to be separate. This isn't the idle talk of a young woman bemoaning the loss of multiple identities or the splendour of their reunion. No pretty special ops package. No FBI bow. What, then? Multiple personality disorder? Exorcism? A consumed twin? )
Did anyone win?
( He crushes the twilight remains of his cigarette and turns his back to her, and it's a more strained gesture than before, tender and pallid. It's Seishirou recalling pretty palms and dainty fingertips still kill.
The bowls, rescued, clink and clank neatly in a two-part tower. He shows them off for her review, an obedient schoolboy recognising the authority of his better. Is the abstract floral print the right pick for the job? )
You'll forgive me for saying so. ( Because he won't stop. ) But Alessa isn't a name that suits you. I like Sharon better.
[ Did anyone win, he asks, and Sharon can't help the faint grimace that pulls at her expression. No, no one did. There wasn't a version of that situation where anyone walked away with a win, though the Order tried their very damndest. They didn't win, but they still managed to take everyone she'd loved from her.
Seishirou holds up the bowls like he's picking out fine china, and she gives a small nod, gesturing toward the drawer with the silverware. Spoons, forks—everything inside is heavy, well-made, the handles etched with delicate florals like someone once cared enough to choose them carefully. ]
Cool—me too. My adoptive mom picked it. [ She stops the timer just before it goes off, scooping out a bit of the starchy pasta water before draining the rest. The noodles go back into the pan, and she works quickly from there—powdered cheese, a splash of the reserved water, a shake of seasoning. ] I think it fits the blonde. [ She glances back toward him briefly. ] Sharon just... feels blonde, you know?
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He finds himself at once attracted to the knowledge and hesitant to approach it, a man before a bear, circling. She won't go for his hand, he supposes; he still withdraws it, turning the long even stretch of his back as he starts the chase for two passable bowls in their quaint little cupboards.
Sharing pestilence is caring. )
Who's the other girl? ( 'Sharon.' No. That's her choice. The best and final proposition. But there's at least one discarded draft. ) The one on the other side of the bottle blonde.
( Brassy, stiff, horrible little aesthetic torture to which her hair has succumbed with dutiful consternation. Not that Seishirou would ever presume to make the point. ) Why didn't she win out?
no subject
It's not that she didn't win. [ She says after a careful moment of consideration. ] It's that we were never meant to be separate in the first place. Two pieces of the same whole. [ Her grip on the spoon steadies, voice quiet but certain. ] I'll always be Sharon, because that's who I chose to be—but Alessa didn't disappear because of that. She's still here. I'm her, too.
[ Too many years packed into a life that hasn't held nearly as many. Sometimes it presses in on her—the weight of it, the anger, the horror, the things she's seen and felt and done. Other times... it settles into place, like something finally aligned the way it was always supposed to be.
She finally glances his way. ] I'm whole, Seishirou. No one loses in that race.
no subject
We were never meant to be separate. This isn't the idle talk of a young woman bemoaning the loss of multiple identities or the splendour of their reunion. No pretty special ops package. No FBI bow. What, then? Multiple personality disorder? Exorcism? A consumed twin? )
Did anyone win?
( He crushes the twilight remains of his cigarette and turns his back to her, and it's a more strained gesture than before, tender and pallid. It's Seishirou recalling pretty palms and dainty fingertips still kill.
The bowls, rescued, clink and clank neatly in a two-part tower. He shows them off for her review, an obedient schoolboy recognising the authority of his better. Is the abstract floral print the right pick for the job? )
You'll forgive me for saying so. ( Because he won't stop. ) But Alessa isn't a name that suits you. I like Sharon better.
no subject
Seishirou holds up the bowls like he's picking out fine china, and she gives a small nod, gesturing toward the drawer with the silverware. Spoons, forks—everything inside is heavy, well-made, the handles etched with delicate florals like someone once cared enough to choose them carefully. ]
Cool—me too. My adoptive mom picked it. [ She stops the timer just before it goes off, scooping out a bit of the starchy pasta water before draining the rest. The noodles go back into the pan, and she works quickly from there—powdered cheese, a splash of the reserved water, a shake of seasoning. ] I think it fits the blonde. [ She glances back toward him briefly. ] Sharon just... feels blonde, you know?
[ Rose had the same blonde hair. ]