[ it is a big elephant. he can see that there are answers in Dante's eyes, every time he hesitates after a flicker of something rises in his head. something that he's not sure he should ask about. not sure he'd understand, even if the man with his face gave him a straight answer.
with more free time with Dante watching the shop, he'd made a habit of going on long, aimless walks through the city to try to clear his head, and somehow, it never worked. he came home feeling something behind his teeth, clawing its way out. he'd had tea with zhongli and was taking time to learn of other peoples' experiences with remembering their past selves, and somehow it still felt out of reach.
Maybe it was fine, he'd found himself thinking today, as he used a large, beautifully sharp knife to cut little rolled up bits of potato pasta. Living with a 'brother' hadn't actually been that bad. Dante was nothing like him--loud and playful, always grinning or joking around. He made fun of his music and used too much of his hair products when he showered.
He could get used to it. Maybe if he didn't fully understand things, maybe it'd be fine like this. Would the man, who was clearly missing his brother from back home, be satisfied with one that didn't remember him, except in broken up flashes and half-recalled words? He doesn't know, and he's deep, deep in those thoughts when Dante slides into the room.
He isn't even aware of him up until the moment the man lies across his shoulders, chin against him. Oddly affectionate, sure, but. If it were just that, it'd be fine. ]
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with more free time with Dante watching the shop, he'd made a habit of going on long, aimless walks through the city to try to clear his head, and somehow, it never worked. he came home feeling something behind his teeth, clawing its way out.
he'd had tea with zhongli and was taking time to learn of other peoples' experiences with remembering their past selves, and somehow it still felt out of reach.
Maybe it was fine, he'd found himself thinking today, as he used a large, beautifully sharp knife to cut little rolled up bits of potato pasta. Living with a 'brother' hadn't actually been that bad. Dante was nothing like him--loud and playful, always grinning or joking around.
He made fun of his music and used too much of his hair products when he showered.
He could get used to it. Maybe if he didn't fully understand things, maybe it'd be fine like this. Would the man, who was clearly missing his brother from back home, be satisfied with one that didn't remember him, except in broken up flashes and half-recalled words?
He doesn't know, and he's deep, deep in those thoughts when Dante slides into the room.
He isn't even aware of him up until the moment the man lies across his shoulders, chin against him. Oddly affectionate, sure, but. If it were just that, it'd be fine. ]