meanwhile at your local campus starbucks....[open log]

[eternallybored]

[ Ah, Starbucks. Open until about 1AM, it's a great place to work and be fueled on caffeine while working. Maybe you're here for a study group, maybe you just want to be out of the dorm while working, maybe there was a fire alarm and instead of standing out in the cold you decided to go here, maybe you want to annoy your friends while they try to study, or maybe you just want to try the latest holiday blend! Whatever you're here for, this is a nice place to look smart and productive while indulging in your favorite hot drink. ]

[ooc: this is an open log for all characters who would find themselves in Starbucks for one reason or another! feel free to make your own threads. ]

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[ex_apocryphas39]

[ Home.

What comes to him is the warmer smells of mornings - the pale sound of food upon the stove. What comes to him is the notes of Shinji's voice - Misato's. What comes to him is not the dank surroundings of a basement. What comes to him is not the lower chant of hymns within the dark. The soft pull of what he thought once was benefit --

He eases it back. Smiles around the maw of memory, reassured: ]

Man cannot always be made to endure; however, despite what pain we might come to experience, time may help us to mend. [ And though he does not look up, not yet, his words are directed. Quiet. ] To seek such space is not weakness, Diarmuid. [ A beat, and his eyes flicker up: ] You will come to greet what it is that awaits you on your own.

[croibhristeoir]

[Silence, the attentive and patient kind. There was rarely any other kind when it came to Diarmuid, really.]

...Yes, of course. Forgive me for troubling you, but I find few others quite comprehend nearly as well.

[ex_apocryphas39]

[ There's almost a pause - almost. There's almost a flicker of something at the corners of his expression, before he allows it to illuminate - a rarer warmth, and it steals at the corners of his lips. It curves them up, softly. And there is nothing that reads as artificial or automatic - nothing, at all. ]

It is not a trouble, truly.

[croibhristeoir]

If you are certain of that.

[A quiet laugh, lighthearted and gentle in nature. Perhaps even more so than his usual ones, for that matter.]

Still, I can not possibly begin to articulate how highly I value your friendship. I'm not afraid to admit there are few others that understand me at all.

[ex_apocryphas39]

[ And though there is only the soft sound of confirmation that rises in response - there is something in him that shifts - that moves. That wakes or yawns - curls or retreats. There is something in him that does not find voice, but finds it in the instinctual stillness of hands and palms. There is something in him that rolls the sentiment over, that finds himself unable to grasp upon the scope of it as gently as he might have - as gently as he could. As gently as he ever could - and his eyes flicker, down. A little. Take in the careful placement of all things within and around. And smiles, a little muter. A little softer, still. A little -- ]

... Thank you.

[ And the words sound foreign to his own ears. Sound foreign, even as he finds he cannot hold to it. Not entirely, though --

It fits. ]

[croibhristeoir]

Somehow I feel I should be the one thanking you here. But if that's what you prefer, very well.

[ex_apocryphas39]

[ The laugh is somehow too soft or too quiet - a murmured sound, washed up upon the shore of hearing. Buried beneath the weight of sand or time, across expanses - fathomless. But, there is warmth there. There is the hum of light. It curves its body as though one would cup hands around mouths. Speaking, across something else. Somewhere else. Untranslatable, but --

His fingers gently drum against the cooling ceramic mug. ]

[croibhristeoir]

[Oftentimes Diarmuid found the two of them didn't need to speak much at all; there was a finer layer below that of verbal communication, a strange sort of empathy that led to comprehension without a word. It was expression in the slight movement of hands, in the redirecting of red or gold eyes. It wasn't easy for anyone to read them properly, but oftentimes they knew the other well enough to understand.]

...Kaworu? What is it?

[ex_apocryphas39]

[ There is the cycling of memories beneath the soft tapping of fingertips. The endless rise and fall of thought, beneath the ball of thumbs as he stilled them - lifted, after a moment, the mug to lips with the quiet movement of arms.

Diarmuid, too, was observant. Diarmuid, too, knew the conversation of bodies. Knew the words of understanding, even as he smiled. Even as he smiled, if silent and self-humored, around the lip. Drank in, even in the wash of pause. Even in the slow flood of sound - of the memory of a face in the darkness, his voice swelling with the shape of their name.

He couldn't. He mustn't.

And there is softness and stillness, with the lowering of it. The faint tilt of his head: ]

It is all right, Diarmuid. [ A reassurance. A beat. You need not worry so. ]

[ His hands held their weight. He could not let it go. ]

[croibhristeoir]

...If I could but say one thing...

[Hesitantly; the voice of someone who didn't want to push an issue but did so merely out of concern. The formal words of one who kept everyone at arm's length even as he wished for them to be closer than that.]

...it would be alright, should you ever wish to confide anything to me. It would be only fair, as you've been kind enough to listen to me more times than I could count.

[ex_apocryphas39]

[ It would be all right.

He hears him faintly over the roll of oceans in his ears. The soft hum of voices, further and further away. He hears him distantly, here, under the warmed glow of lights. The way the tea seems to dry upon his tongue, before it ever reaches him. The way he does not force or fumble the weights he balances upon his shoulders. Does not lift them without asking. But, extends the offer to. Extends more than anyone else has ever. Extends with hesitance and softness - and it sets him to blinking, hard. Hard, against the light of it. Hard, against the sudden loosing of shoulders. The almost clumsy way his mug settles against the table. With uncharacteristic rattling. Amends, vaguely, the sound with the start of words. Finds they all jam, stick fast, within his throat.

There is too much. There is too much set to motion or set to stillness. And he cannot tell whether it is water or warmth that flickers at the corners of his lips as he curves them up, absently. With honesty and automation, both.

He does not know what else to say.

He smiles, instead. ]

[croibhristeoir]

[It was strange to see Kaworu thrown off his game, as the saying went. To see the eternally composed shaken in such a way was entirely foreign. But he said nothing in response, whether to express concern or to wonder aloud why such a simple offer was startling.]

[Diarmuid didn't speak one way or another; he merely waited for Kaworu to do so. And when no verbal response came he smiled as well, serene and calm.]