Welcome to Gaia! ::

He hesitated before deciding that no, he didn't care, or that at least he could convince himself he didn't: "I'm going to remind you of this conversation next time you accuse me of being an emotional prevaricator."

If she'd expected him to return the grin, to keep up the tone, he didn't. He just gently touched the wrinkled corner of a page, smoothing it down ineffectually.

To my daughter.

And lines that alluded to loss and mourning and regret without touching them, outlining the shapes of grief without filling in the details, whether out of a self-aware need for artistry or because it hurt or because it was impossible. He'd read them understanding, and the snobby literary critic that permanently camped in some corner of Taym's head had gone quiet and had muffled thoughts like trite and sentimental because he knew.

"I know," he said finally. "You're not meant to read your own eulogies. Feels a little..." he felt out for a word, and no obscure bit of long-stored vocabulary offered itself. "Sacreligious, I guess." He hesitated over the next sentence but said it anyway: "At least it's a nice eulogy."

He wanted to ask her a dozen things. He wanted to ask her whether she'd appreciated it or if she'd been happier not knowing. Whether they'd gotten along. Whether, if all the distance alluded to in the pages he'd read was real, she'd resented him for it. If the absence was real and not a literary device, whether it had been a factor in her coming here.

He closed the book, abruptly feeling as though he'd been caught out reading someone else's diary, but he didn't hand it back to her. It was hers, she'd said it and it was true, but he was reluctant to part with it just yet. Give him a few more seconds as if he could absorb some sort of closure by osmosis through the cover.

To my daughter.

He retrieved his hot chocolate as though taking a drink could replace the apology he wasn't making.

He didn't even look. His jaw tightened, and he didn't roll his eyes but he might as well have. He ignored the offer pointedly, finally reaching to put the book down next to her and looking as reluctant as he felt to do it.

"Sorry I woke you up." He didn't sound particularly sorry.

"If I don't put on fifteen pounds in two months," he said suddenly and without inflection, "they're gonna dump me in the Sahara or find some other way to make their point. So, like... way to go, I guess." It was not the most gracious way to respond to an apology, and perhaps he was cognizant of this, because he added: "Don't ******** make this more awkward than it already is," which was as close as he came to saying he forgave anyone. "At least you didn't actually try to beat me up over it," he finished grimly.

"Well it's damn sure not my life expectancy," he reiterated with an irrational flare of irritation. He almost asked what the story was, and decided against it midsentence: "What's the deal with the ******** mind, you know what? I'll keep my nose out of your business even if you can't be bothered to do the same for mine."

He closed his eyes in the universal attitude of a man summoning up the last reserves of his patience, and he remained motionless for a few careful seconds.

Wordlessly, he rose from his seat, and the book nearly fell to the floor but he was quick to catch it in his free hand as though it would be some sin to let it touch the floor. He replaced it next to her just as silently, and left his cup on the end table for her to deal with. He was clearly planning on leaving without saying goodbye, a petty snub or maybe an attempt to keep himself from opening his mouth lest he be unable to stem the tide of things he wanted to say and shouldn't.

He answered without turning around or hesitating, barely bothering to lift his voice. "Good ******** luck," he said.