[closed] if I could put it back, fill in all the cracks, nothing there I wouldn't change

[libratus]

WHO: Ilias, Kostos, other threads later.
WHAT: This will be a catch-all, starting with Nevarrans being sad-mad about Agathe.
WHEN: Bloomingtide, the night Agathe's assassination is announced, and then continuing through the month.
WHERE: The Gallows, mostly.
NOTES: They might fight

Comments

[libratus]

[ It isn't genuine, nor meant to earn him any affection; more the opposite, in some reckless, haphazard sort of way, and it occurs to Ilias he might get what he wants out of Kostos's temper all the same if he just keeps pushing -- but this hardly seems to be helping Kostos the way it's helping him. And it's barely helping him.

So he takes one last stubborn sip of his own bottle, then moves to push himself from the bench.

Pauses, before he quite leaves. ]

It's not a mystery, Kostos. The people I love are just as fucking likely to live to see the inside of a Circle as the ones you do.

[ Which is to say: not very. He sounds tired. They might not have a lot in common, but neither of them is out here mourning their own fate. ]

[exequy]

[ Maybe Ilias is a better person than he is—a thought he doesn’t entertain explicitly, half-informed and half-drunk, but one that wouldn’t surprise him exactly, like finding a bruise in the morning where he fully expected a bruise to be, just maybe not so startlingly dark. Of course Ilias is a better person than he is, fuck.

Because he is mourning his own fate, among a dozen other things. They aren’t going back to the Circle, they’re going back to war, and after five years of it, the only kind of freedom he’s known, he still can’t watch a man die without feeling like the Maker has broken His silence just to reach down a great, invisible fist to try to press his soul out of his lungs in recompense and let it run through His fingers into the void, and he’d only wanted to go home.

—anyway, that stokes a flare-up, an old anger for anyone who didn’t show up, who had their own plan, where the fuck were you when they were running us through in the desert. It’s half-hearted and blunted with misery but still severe enough that he throws his quarter-full bottle sideways to clunk against the edge of the bench and slosh uselessly near Ilias’s feet. ]

Then do something about it.

[ He never swears in Nevarran. What would his grandfather say. But you fucking asshole is implied by the tone. ]