( 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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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.
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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. ]