I don't know how it is for gods, but ... I know what it's like to carry promises to the people we've lost. [ A humorless hitch of breath. ] The Nothing's not so different from my home's vision of Hell. That still feels like a cruel joke.
Our families ... the people we love ... they're all that truly matter in this world. And if this place allows us to be close to them in ways home wouldn't allow, it's only so losing them is all the more painful.
Together, but in separate rooms. I found them fighting in the halls -- well, as best they could with their legs locked up. Had to bash their heads together to get them focused. [said very fondly]
Oh, that reminds me of some friends of mine. Well -- they're the closest thing to siblings I have, myself ... one of them is [ He grimaces. ] an insatiable skirt-chaser, and it takes the remaining three of us to keep him in check. The other is -- he's a good person at heart, but he can be ... abrasive. And we're all impossibly stubborn.
[ ... frowns. ]
Dedue and I ... I was here for just over three months before he arrived. It gave me a chance to ... think about things. [ Heh. ] And he still had to be the first one to say anything.
That's fucking adorable. [note to self: find dedue, tease mercilessly.]
There's... something about this place. Not intentional, or anything. But it makes you look at things differently than you did at home. Sometimes... that can be a good thing.
Being in any fresh context will do that. But ... being so removed from everything we've ever known exaggerates it, I think.
[ ... ]
I always feared he only cared for me because he had no one else. He'd have sworn that wasn't the case, but it wasn't as if we had anything to compare it to ... until here. Now there are people he knows, friends who care for him -- I think he gets along better with the other passengers our age than I do -- and he still ... [ Dimitri's expression softens. He falters, swallowing around the word. ] ... he still l-loves me.
[ Sniff. Deep breath. ] I don't know if I could ever have truly believed that if we hadn't left home.
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I don't know how it is for gods, but ... I know what it's like to carry promises to the people we've lost. [ A humorless hitch of breath. ] The Nothing's not so different from my home's vision of Hell. That still feels like a cruel joke.
Our families ... the people we love ... they're all that truly matter in this world. And if this place allows us to be close to them in ways home wouldn't allow, it's only so losing them is all the more painful.
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What's their name?
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... Dedue. His name's Dedue.
[ Definitely not changing the subject, ]
Your brothers -- you mentioned Hurakán ... what are the others' names?
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Coatrischie and Guatauva. My rain and my lightning.
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... then scrunches his nose. ] I'm certain I've never heard those names before, but they do sound familiar.
Did you arrive together? Or separately?
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[ ... frowns. ]
Dedue and I ... I was here for just over three months before he arrived. It gave me a chance to ... think about things. [ Heh. ] And he still had to be the first one to say anything.
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There's... something about this place. Not intentional, or anything. But it makes you look at things differently than you did at home. Sometimes... that can be a good thing.
no subject
[ ... ]
I always feared he only cared for me because he had no one else. He'd have sworn that wasn't the case, but it wasn't as if we had anything to compare it to ... until here. Now there are people he knows, friends who care for him -- I think he gets along better with the other passengers our age than I do -- and he still ... [ Dimitri's expression softens. He falters, swallowing around the word. ] ... he still l-loves me.
[ Sniff. Deep breath. ] I don't know if I could ever have truly believed that if we hadn't left home.