[L stares at Paul like someone who isn't sure where on Maslow's hierarchy of needs this particular boon falls. His has always been top-heavy, everything else following, and the result is a man who places his higher purpose above esteem, love and belonging, safety, and his most basic physical needs.
It's a missing piece; he's figured that much out so far, and after getting by for so long with its absence, there's a new existential ache now that he hopes isn't a harbinger of some other absence that's load-bearing, and suddenly direly needed.]
Yes, I'm alright.
[Just like someone who has no reason to believe there's a tumor until they've seen the x-ray, only to then inhabit the strange reality of nothing actually having changed between not seeing and seeing, except for awareness.
He watches Paul's hand over the protruding, sharp bone of his wrist, connecting the sight to something far less typical for him. He's been touch-starved from infancy, trained by experience to think of intentional touching in any context as for other humans.
He wants to like the strange warmth and connection of it; he's also very afraid of liking it enough to miss it when the fluke dissipates.
In his peripheral vision, he sees Lycka bumping against a particularly smooth and reflective portion of bloodstone, whistling low and plaintively, seeming to seek contact with a creature that moves and looks like her even if the illusion is understood.]
Could you--
[Keep touching his wrist? Stop touching his wrist? They're conflicting and cancel each other out. Fortunately, he has another request to sweep in and fill the void.]
Tell me why you learned this. Either it was customary, or necessity.
[Paul keeps his hand still, but not rigid, holds its weight such that it applies only the lightest of pressure on Lazarus. He doesn't look at Lycka, in her mournful striving to connect, but Sophia does as she emerges on Paul's shoulder from his collar and hops to the floor. She approaches the orca with curiosity, her ears swept up and whiskers outstretched.]
The second. [His tone is mild and factual.] I've been learning how to do that since before I was born. The nerve conditioning is easier that way.
[There's a rise and fall of a lullaby in his thoughts, one that reveals itself to follow the same pattern of the ripples, and Paul feels the soft, sweet sting of the poison of nostalgia. He lets the waters carry it away, too, with a faint half-smile.]
You can imagine some of the things control of so-called autonomic nerves make possible. Under extremes, the mind tends to either unconsciousness or hyperconsciousness - this is the basis of ensuring the latter. I thought you might already be conditioned in that direction. It seems like I was right.
[Lycka stills when she notices Sophia in her line of sight, seeming to deflate with a gentle sigh. The two alert omens regard each other with curiosity that is not entirely unfamiliar, something akin to mutual respect.]
If we've all been learning before we were born... and I know that to be true... some lessons are so much more valuable than others.
[Before a birth into light and comprehension, a way to understand a centered safety is very valuable, indeed... but certainly not available to every new human. Far from it; L knows this to be true, as well. There's a sort of warmth near him, now, like a hearth with a cheerful fire blazing as a family clusters to enjoy each other's company, but he can only really get as close as the glass window glazed in frost. Only for a moment; it drifts away, one more oddity lost and largely incomprehensible.]
Under extremes, unconsciousness is a luxury. A blessing, probably, to those who can afford it.
[Or force it, he doesn't say aloud. His mother, a scarcely remembered shadow, sang no lullabies, but she gave herself often to oblivion, shoved or dragged that way after imbibing too much for her small body. She didn't rouse easily; sometimes there was a question of if it would happen at all.]
It's like fight or flight... there's one that most people would prefer, and another that's far more dangerous and difficult, but often necessary. Even when you know that it isn't always necessary, why risk failing when the stakes are high and the potential losses catastrophic?
[The proper answer, and the one that works for most, is that each individual controls relatively little and cannot rely on their hypervigilance changing any outcome. It does not work for L, who has historically controlled a great deal and had much riding on his ability to force his will onto a fraught circumstance.]
[Paul lingers another moment, observing Lazarus with an absence of judgment and a keenness of focus born of the fading after image of his calmed nerves. Sophia settles on her haunches and grooms her face with tiny paws as Paul lifts his hand and sits back, drawing away from the physical connection while holding, at least inside himself, to the other kind he thinks they're forming.
He thinks briefly of date palms and thirst, the allocation of water away from human throats to human dreams at the price of human lives. There's a logic to it he understands, but always has found difficult to accept up close. Another shortcoming he has to work on.]
...you understand. [Paul nods, letting out a little breath of - something, some qualm or compunction or otherwise extraneous friction in the way of their mutual goals.] Not everyone does.
[The people who crack and falter, who allow themselves to risk failing and so ensure their failure in the first instant of their plans' conception.]
It seems like we know what we're doing next, then. Reciprocation.
[And on that, Paul turns to his bag and fishes out a small bag full of hard candies that he's taken to thinking of (for his own private amusement only) as wizard fuel. Lazarus is sorcerous enough to count, and is thus offered the saccharine relief of an immediate blood sugars boost.]
Come on. At least one, so I can stop feeling like a bad host.
[Said heavily, in spite of his voice's low volume. He hates that he does, really, most days, but he can't be jealous of the ones who don't. Their ignorance is a burden of its own, however oblivious they are to it.
He watches, curiously, as Paul goes for the bag of candy, and years seem to fall away from his features when he sees what it contains.]
I'll never say no to at least seven. As a rule; indefinitely.
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no subject
It's a missing piece; he's figured that much out so far, and after getting by for so long with its absence, there's a new existential ache now that he hopes isn't a harbinger of some other absence that's load-bearing, and suddenly direly needed.]
Yes, I'm alright.
[Just like someone who has no reason to believe there's a tumor until they've seen the x-ray, only to then inhabit the strange reality of nothing actually having changed between not seeing and seeing, except for awareness.
He watches Paul's hand over the protruding, sharp bone of his wrist, connecting the sight to something far less typical for him. He's been touch-starved from infancy, trained by experience to think of intentional touching in any context as for other humans.
He wants to like the strange warmth and connection of it; he's also very afraid of liking it enough to miss it when the fluke dissipates.
In his peripheral vision, he sees Lycka bumping against a particularly smooth and reflective portion of bloodstone, whistling low and plaintively, seeming to seek contact with a creature that moves and looks like her even if the illusion is understood.]
Could you--
[Keep touching his wrist? Stop touching his wrist? They're conflicting and cancel each other out. Fortunately, he has another request to sweep in and fill the void.]
Tell me why you learned this. Either it was customary, or necessity.
no subject
The second. [His tone is mild and factual.] I've been learning how to do that since before I was born. The nerve conditioning is easier that way.
[There's a rise and fall of a lullaby in his thoughts, one that reveals itself to follow the same pattern of the ripples, and Paul feels the soft, sweet sting of the poison of nostalgia. He lets the waters carry it away, too, with a faint half-smile.]
You can imagine some of the things control of so-called autonomic nerves make possible. Under extremes, the mind tends to either unconsciousness or hyperconsciousness - this is the basis of ensuring the latter. I thought you might already be conditioned in that direction. It seems like I was right.
no subject
If we've all been learning before we were born... and I know that to be true... some lessons are so much more valuable than others.
[Before a birth into light and comprehension, a way to understand a centered safety is very valuable, indeed... but certainly not available to every new human. Far from it; L knows this to be true, as well. There's a sort of warmth near him, now, like a hearth with a cheerful fire blazing as a family clusters to enjoy each other's company, but he can only really get as close as the glass window glazed in frost. Only for a moment; it drifts away, one more oddity lost and largely incomprehensible.]
Under extremes, unconsciousness is a luxury. A blessing, probably, to those who can afford it.
[Or force it, he doesn't say aloud. His mother, a scarcely remembered shadow, sang no lullabies, but she gave herself often to oblivion, shoved or dragged that way after imbibing too much for her small body. She didn't rouse easily; sometimes there was a question of if it would happen at all.]
It's like fight or flight... there's one that most people would prefer, and another that's far more dangerous and difficult, but often necessary. Even when you know that it isn't always necessary, why risk failing when the stakes are high and the potential losses catastrophic?
[The proper answer, and the one that works for most, is that each individual controls relatively little and cannot rely on their hypervigilance changing any outcome. It does not work for L, who has historically controlled a great deal and had much riding on his ability to force his will onto a fraught circumstance.]
no subject
He thinks briefly of date palms and thirst, the allocation of water away from human throats to human dreams at the price of human lives. There's a logic to it he understands, but always has found difficult to accept up close. Another shortcoming he has to work on.]
...you understand. [Paul nods, letting out a little breath of - something, some qualm or compunction or otherwise extraneous friction in the way of their mutual goals.] Not everyone does.
[The people who crack and falter, who allow themselves to risk failing and so ensure their failure in the first instant of their plans' conception.]
It seems like we know what we're doing next, then. Reciprocation.
[And on that, Paul turns to his bag and fishes out a small bag full of hard candies that he's taken to thinking of (for his own private amusement only) as wizard fuel. Lazarus is sorcerous enough to count, and is thus offered the saccharine relief of an immediate blood sugars boost.]
Come on. At least one, so I can stop feeling like a bad host.
no subject
[Said heavily, in spite of his voice's low volume. He hates that he does, really, most days, but he can't be jealous of the ones who don't. Their ignorance is a burden of its own, however oblivious they are to it.
He watches, curiously, as Paul goes for the bag of candy, and years seem to fall away from his features when he sees what it contains.]
I'll never say no to at least seven. As a rule; indefinitely.