#& PATTERN FINDER. ( IC / CZESLAW )

[empiriical]

@inrovina / starter call.

there's a backpack too large for his tiny body on his shoulders, though his grimly set expression is the only indication that it's weighing him down. dressed in a threadbare jacket, traveling cap pulled down almost to his eyes, czes avoids eye contact with the only other person at the train stop. still, it's cold, && his legs ache ; immortality does little to combat exhaustion && fatigue. reluctantly, as if his own body is betraying him, czes sits, perched on the edge of the bench, && stares straight ahead at the tracks.

"......."

a few moments pass. he sneaks a glance at the other.

"...d'you know how far this train goes?"

[empiriical]

stupid. why are you crying? those are the only words in czes' mind as he silently chastises himself for his weakness. even now, he can't stop the tears from falling ; unable to look away with mulcahy's hand on his face, he simply steels himself, attempting to look as grown-up as his actual age reflects, even if his emotions don't match.

slowly, as if expressing his disdain at his current situation in every inch of movement, czes plucks a tissues from the box. he clutches it tight in his hand, like a stress ball, && wipes his eyes with his sleeve instead.

"you don't understand," czes murmurs, because it's true, but the words reach his icy little heart anyway. just a bit.

"it doesn't matter," he continues. "he's dead." even if he lives on inside czes' mind, every single day. the conversation has yet to return to the rail tracer, which is probably for the best. he hasn't told anyone about that, until tonight. he knows firo is close with him. firo probably wouldn't believe him, even if he did tell him. or maybe it would be worse if he did, && if he did nothing.

czes shudders, drawing in a breath, && takes a step back, composing himself. "he's dead && i killed him, && then i was gonna kill maiza, too. but..." but he showed me mercy. he showed me kindness. "so again — what does god think about that?"

a soft matter of oh falls from his lips at the confession. he's quick to remedy what might be misconstrued as confusion or disapproval by tugging his lips into an imperfect, but nonetheless real and gently toothless, smile. " that's a handsome name. " he's heard it before, in his years spent studying the word of god and those who had done the same in the centuries before him, or some similar sounding name, a branching-off or an origin. blessed ceslaus, the saint.

he wonders if the boy knows what it means. to await. glory.

in a way, that is what he'd been looking for. he knows it must sound awful, to say he'd been hoping for tears, but he knows that, sometimes, that's the only way that a true act of realization and self-redemption can come to fruition. there's little in the world that makes him feel the same way a child in need makes him feel, and as czeslaw bravely -- crestfallen and frightened but impossibly brave for such a little thing -- talks and talks about this awful man who did awful things to him, he wants nothing more than to let him know that he's safe, that he's doing so good.

(what he wouldn't give to tear into a man like that with everything but his teeth. as was just, in the holy man's mind.)

" czes. hey, now. there, there, son, look here -- " carefully, he reaches out and puts one hand back on his shoulder, his other one placing underneath the sharp-yet-childish chin and guiding it up. he rests it on the boy's round cheek for just a second or two, long enough to wipe a tear away with the pad of his thumb. he reaches that arm out and plucks the tissue box from the coffee table -- set there precisely from this purpose -- and places it next to the boy.

" no one has a right to speak to you the way that man did, or do whatever it is he did to you. do you hear me? no one. "

[empiriical]

@collectalong / starter call.

"...." wary eyes narrow as czes looks the other up && down. appearance-wise, he can't be much older than he himself seems to be, but czes knows better than to take age at face value.

maybe it's intuition, or maybe it's the way ronny seems to have vanished from the room, despite having been there moments before, but it's like czes can sense that something is off, or rather...

"are your parents with you?" his voice is high && innocent, his normal ten year old boy persona that he uses for every new person he meets as a way to test the waters. "this restaurant really isn't a place for kids."

[empiriical]

that's another thing czes can respect about melvi. he knows his limits. he knows his faults. he doesn't get carried away by ego. czes recalls that that wasn't always the case, recalls how furious firo && maiza had been at the young man's audacity. but things are different now, clearly.

he nods.

"i understand that," he admits, rare, mature sincerity in his voice. "i see that."

as if maintaining such a grown-up attitude is exhausting, czes' physical mannerisms slip back further into those of a child. luckily, melvi changes the subject first, although — frustratingly — czes doesn't find much relief in it.

"i know," he says matter-of-factly. "i've changed a lot. more than most people around me. i mean..." thinking about firo, he snickers a little, finding welcome levity in the ribbing of his roommate. "other immortals haven't changed at all. && probably never will." there's a little smile on his face now.

"I don't necessarily expect it," Melvi replies matter-of-factly. There's no hint of discomfort in his voice except the general trepidation present due to his generally private nature. "Being devoured, I mean. I just know that it's likely. I've been told I'm not generally pleasant to be around; I'll push the wrong button someday and that'll be it for me. Frankly, I'm not skilled enough to stop most people from making that attempt."

He wonders if that man had planned for that, too; had deliberately kept Melvi believing he wouldn't be devoured by anyone until the time came where he met someone with actual strength to speak of. He's terrifed of being devoured, now, even if none of it shows in his speech. A good life is one of the easiest things to shatter, when it comes to immortals.

"It's easier to live with the possibility if I think of it as inevitable," Melvi admits. "From that perspective, I can at least enjoy however long I have ahead of me, evil or not. I worked hard to earn a life of my own. Even if that doesn't mean anything to anyone who didn't see that work happen, I deserve to be able to live that life. Or something like that. It's a miracle that I even get to live without having to bend to someone's whims every five minutes."

The taste in his mouth is bitter. Abruptly, he changes the subject.

"If it means anything at all, I think you're far more capable of change than I am."

[empiriical]

@closedcoffins: ❛  it's a little late to worry about the impression we're making on people, you know?  ❜

there's a wry smirk on czes' face that gives way to quiet laughter at maiza's remark. shaking his head, he turns back to face the road, && rolls down his window, letting the breeze rustle his hair slightly. "fair. i guess after making enemies out of an entire village, things can't get much worse than that."

he rests his head against the back of the seat, closing his eyes. "still... it's been a long time since we've been back. not... long for us, but... the others... && there's probably new people... i wonder what they're all up to..."

it's unlike him, to be so interested — or even to really care. for the first time in close to three hundred years, czes feels light.

it's not quite a smile he gives maiza, but it's close. "you think firo's gonna give you your job back? oh my god, wait... he's married now. haha oh man... maiza, maybe we should bring them back a wedding present even though it has been... what, twenty years?"

THE SLASH.

[empiriical]

"now it seems so long ago." — @closedcoffins

expression turning cloudy, czes narrows his eyes at maiza — curious, calculating, uncertain — as if he can't quite comprehend his words.

"does it...?" he asks, voice distant && troubled. "it doesn't feel that way to me."

he pivots in the passenger seat to fully face him, but doesn't say any more, just watching maiza drive. czes remembers extraordinarily well ; maiza summoning ronny, szilard's rampage, fermet shielding him with a firm hand on his shoulder... no, his head —

a small, involuntary noise of distress escapes him, && czes abruptly turns away, eyes trained back on the road. he sits like that silently until his heart rate returns to normal.

"sometimes i wish i was more like you, maiza."

WHISPER HOUSE.

[empiriical]

“ if i were your father, i’d hold you round the shoulders and say, 'it’s not your fault. you did nothing wrong'. ” — @choicescreen

god. how many times has he heard something similar? czes hates the way his shoulders tremble, the way his chest contracts with impulsive anger, because he has to be lying. he's not good, no matter what isaac && miria, or anyone for that matter, says.

at least maiza's friend won't devour him. czes had introduced himself as thomas, just to make sure, before correcting himself with a flippant apology of 'sorry, force of habit.'

he's not actually sure if finn knows he's immortal, either. in the end, it probably doesn't matter. people don't believe him unless they have good reason to.

"well, you're not my father," he says, a little too harshly. "i don't have a father, && i don't need one. && besides — i..." i know that, anyway, he thinks. nothing i did warranted that.

he looks at the door, where claire had just exited moments earlier. he hates that even now, decades later, that shock of red hair still petrifies him. you don't know what i did, he thinks, looking back at finn. you don't know what i tried to do.

"i don't need sympathy," he mutters, taking a moment to try && calm his breathing. "i'm fine."

DRIVE MY CAR.

[empiriical]

sighing quietly, czes discards the hope that he would be able to make this trek completely unbothered by anyone else. it's not that he dislikes being around others ; in fact, he's spent his entire life until now — all one hundred && fifty or so years of it — in the company of other people. the first ten years, even, were good, despite the death of his parents. the people around him cared. begg, maiza, niki... even fermet, or so he'd thought. there's a bitter taste in czes' mouth as he thinks about it. it's not that i want to be alone... i just can't trust anyone but myself anymore.

"thomas," he lies easily, && feels instant relief at his ability to do so. his shoulders relax slightly. if he can lie about his name, that means this boy isn't an immortal. not that he has any reason to suspect, of course, but...

"yes. i'm..." he doesn't even know what to say he's doing. he doesn't even know what he's doing. running, i guess. he turns the question back on xeno instead of elaborating. "you?"

the initial rejection of help is familiar. he sees distrust locked into the younger boy's expression, recognises it as one he's worn many times. the world is a place full of bad things and bad people — why trust any stranger? xeno gets it, but there's no threat trapped inside the fabric. he's relieved when the boy adopts it.

"s'alright. you don't need to thank me." it's the least he could do, really, as the caller of this storm. a glance is cast upwards; the sky almost looks ready to surrender snow.

he returns his gaze back down to earth, shrugging slightly. "no, not really." he finds vague answers work best, spoken casually to erase suspicion. "i like the cold."

another drag is taken off the cigarette, looking back over at the kid. there's something worse than the cold in his expression, fear that shouldn't belong to a child. "i'm xeno," he offers, pointing at himself, an attempt to break the ice, so to speak. "you travelling on your own?"

[empiriical]

despite czes' misgivings, the other boy seems normal. irritatingly energetic, maybe, but czes has always had a bit of a soft spot for kids, even with the harsh exterior he fronts. "my family owns the this place," he says bluntly, an easy lie. "just don't cause trouble."

the last thing i need is for maiza or ronny — or even worse, firo — to see me hanging around this kid if anything happens. i don't like interfering in their business for this reason. it's dangerous... he thinks back to the events that occurred on a certain train. i'd feel bad if they got hurt... ugh that's so unlike me.

still, he grits his teeth && plays along. "there's a couple who always comes in here dressed funny," he says, not feeling the least bit guilty for using isaac && miria as an excuse, "i'm looking for them." then, heaving a sigh, he forces a smile at the other. "i'm tho—" the name gets stuck in his throat. czes' eyes widen, && he breaks into a coughing fit to hide the panic in his expression as a cold sweat spreads across his back. "t—" why... "s-sorry," he chokes out, tongue unsticking as his mouth forces out his true name against his will, "i'm c-czeslaw... meyer..."

why...? is this kid an immortal too? it's not possible....!

a pair of hazel eyes meet with the other kid's, and it's like his whole world lights up. a dangerous-looking shine, widened eyelids, shoulders hunched just so - gasping a little, he chuckles once he realizes just what's being asked.

"really! then what about you?" they sway back and forth, regarding czes with a playful smile and a voice just a little too loud for polite conversation. "i don't see anyone chaperoning you. guess we're both a couple'a rulebreakers, huh? hahaha...! what're you lookin' for anyways? we can make it a scavenger hunt!"

[empiriical]

czes stands there, arms folded across his chest — although upon close inspection, its clear that his fingers are digging into his arms hard enough to leave marks. he listens to what the man has to say, face impassive. he wants to believe it. he's heard it — some of it — from maiza, as much as he could say, given the little that czes shared with him.

his lip quivers.

shakily, he sits down on the couch. his hands move to grip the cushion instead, white-knuckled.

"m-my name's not really benjamin," he whispers, inexplicably guilty. "it's czeslaw meyer... czes."

now that he's talking, it's hard to hold back tears ; he doesn't want to cry. he's not sad. he's angry. angry at feremet, at the rail tracer. at maiza for crashing the car && making them come here, at mulcahy for prying. at himself, for being so easily swayed. for being weak.

it's just like with isaac && miria on the train. they'd been so nice, even when they didn't have to be. they'd said he was good, even though they didn't know a thing about him.

it had all been too much for him to handle. that's why he's here now, with maiza. he'd been running. && now all he's done is gotten himself into the same situation. forgiveness he doesn't deserve.

maybe it's because he's not religious that he feels free to talk. maybe because he's not afraid of the repercussions.

"he hurt me..." he says hoarsely. "over && over." czes tells him more than he's ever said to maiza, every detail. "&& he said it was an experiment, that he didn't enjoy it. but when i devoured him..." he's too wound up to realize that his words make no sense, that mulcahy won't understand what he means. "i knew. he loved every second of it. && that feeling... is in me..." he grips his head in both hands. "he's in me... he's part of me. so... so i'm..." just as bad.

thankfully, the walk to the chapel was short in its duration. nobody thought to stop them with a witticism -- the most popular way of starting a conversation in spruce harbor general hospital -- or a complaint -- the second most popular way of starting a conversation in spruce harbor general hospital. perhaps they saw the air around the duo, and decided it best not to bother the chaplain as he performed his duties.

this isn't a formal confessional, so he doesn't bother with his sash, always tucked inside his pocket for the opportune moments, or obscuring his face. the priest reaches his free arm out to his other side, gesturing to the office in the back. nobody occupies the pews, but he still feels as if he should give czeslaw as much privacy and confidentiality as he can offer. " we'll go back there. i have a nice couch in there we can sit on. " and, unspoken, as to keep it a secret, a stash of candies given to him by radar that he doesn't doubt will prove popular with this young soul.

he releases the little hand, closing the door behind them. he opens his mouth, but closes it, czeslaw beating him to speech. admittedly, he hadn't expected -- this. as the boy's desperation rises, well-masked across his features and rickety smile, but climbing higher and higher like a holy steam, he feels only guilt. he's not entirely sure what the boy is telling him is the whole and honest truth, but that doesn't matter. he won't scold him for it, or try to poke holes in it. that'll only chase him away.

guilt for the thoughtless that wrote off dear little benjamin as someone so coldhearted and undeserving. whoever would do that to a child is certainly worse than whatever the child does in retaliation, wanting only attention and love and warmth and finding none. for carelessly thinking he wouldn't take those cruel words and think that's all he is. and above all else, for lying to him, whatever that lie must've been, that he was past forgiveness and understanding.

lord, please let it not be the man he was brought in with.

" benjamin, " he starts, careful to keep his voice gentle, encouraging him to do the same. he sits down, affording him to be eye level without making czeslaw feel terribly small. he continues haltingly, " whatever it is you've done, whatever it is that was done to you ... you were a child, my son. you -- are a child. none of it was your fault, and god wouldn’t fault a little boy for what he … did to survive, either. "

a beat, thoughtful. he knows this type. working with orphans as much as he had, he is past well-acquainted with good kids who think themselves bad. " i don't think a bad kid would worry about all of this and how it effects his reputation in the eyes of others, or in the eyes of god, even when he's not to blame. "

[empiriical]

don't talk to me like i'm a child, he thinks, bristling. then, you won't, anyway, once you hear what i have to say.

czes' face goes blank, the serious look all but vanishing as his features soften when the woman looks in their direction. he has no intention of letting anyone else see behind his mask.

he doesn't want to take the hand when offered. but there are still eyes on him, or there could be, && he has to play the part. scared little boy. so czes accepts it, allowing himself to be led to the chapel. face angled toward the ground, his expression darkens && he smirks wry to himself.

i wonder what he'll do... what he'll think... would he believe me if i tell him about immortals? about summoning a demon on a ship? will he cry, knowing the crimes innocent little 'benjamin' has committed? i'm so curious.

czes' thoughts race through his mind like the winds of a hurricane. that insatiable thirst for results... huey's like this too, isn't he? he sees everything as an experiment. && fermet...

hand is yanked from mulcahy's just outside the chapel, as a realization dawns. nausea rolls over him like a tidal wave, && his newly freed hand presses to his mouth, eyes flashing in momentary panic.

then it subsides, && the calm mask is replaced. this time, he takes mulcahy's hand of his own accord.

it's been a long time since czes was last in a church. memories of his parents' funeral surface, but only vaguely. he'd been four years old, going on five. there are no details he can recall, only the swell of somber organ music && the colorful reflection of stained glass on the floor. he hadn't understood, then, but it had been nice. comforting.

the feeling he gets as he enters this chapel is nothing like that. here, he feels as if he is the devil from that ship, && he has been summoned && caught in a trap of his own design. his footsteps stall at the threshold for a moment before stepping inside, eyes cast up to look around.

he waits until the door has closed, heavy && echoing, && then turns to mulcahy. the childish mask is dropped instantly, && he looks at the man with a deathly serious expression.

"you wanted to know what was bothering me." it's not a question, && he doesn't wait for a response. "that story, about the rail tracer? it was true. it happened to me. && you know why? because i wanted to kill an entire train car full of passengers." he utters the words brazenly, even smiling slightly as he does. as if he's only proving a point in an argument mulcahy doesn't even know he's having yet. "&& then when the train got to new york, i was going to sell explosives i made to the mafia." these words, this confession of terrible, terrible evil, is made in the innocent voice of a little boy. "but before all that? i murdered the man who was my guardian. so tell me, father — what does that make me, in the eyes of your god?"

francis mulcahy is no stranger to distressed children. over three decades spent as a shepard, he's tended his fair share of scraped knees, bumped heads, bruised feelings and adolescent troubles, among the lambs of his flock.

it is not the words themself that cause him to pause, but the sheer weight and gravitas they're delivered with. little benjamin talks as though he is barely holding back a festering grief of someone decades his senior. it clenches at his heart to see and hear.

" last time i checked, which was this morning, i sure am. " smile ever-sweet, his fingers mold a little more reassuringly, grounding, into the youthful shoulder beneath his palm. an idea dawns on him, and he casts his gaze around the room. nurse bayliss is entertaining some youngsters in one corner, and he, quietly and without drawing unwanted eyes to them or the true depth of czeslaw's feelings, manages to grab her attention.

" hiya, father, benjamin. something the matter? "

" no, ginger, everything's fine. i was wondering -- well, benjamin here wants to have a little chat with me, privately, and i don't want to deter the other children from their play. is it alright if we go back to the chapel? "

ginger's brows furrow with concern as she looks between the boy and the man, but she nods. " 'course. of course. "

mulcahy stands after she's gone back to her little audience. " is that okay with you? entirely confidential. just between you and me, i promise. you won't even be overheard. " he holds out his hand, but won't be offended if it isn't taken.

[empiriical]

the hand moving toward him causes czes to flinch, but it doesn't land on his head — && this man is certainly not immortal, something czes is extremely grateful to know — so he lets it slide. it's not exactly comforting ; he's too tightly wound for that. but it's not bad, either.

all good guesses, he thinks, even his unvoiced words scathing, but wrong. someone like you could never understand.

still, he doesn't like how easily mulcahy can read him, for all the walls he puts up, the innocent, childish mask he attempts to wear.

maiza knows some of what's happened, but not all of it. czes had been afraid to admit the truth even to him, for fear of what might happen if he spoke it aloud. && so he's kept it bottled up for over a century now, never quite giving anyone the full story.

he's not sure what possesses him to speak up now, what it is about this stranger that makes him want to get on his knees && repent — to confess someone else's sins, && to the only crime he's guilty of: the knowledge && memories he's absorbed.

"you're a priest, right?" he murmurs, voice almost too quiet to make out. he doesn't consider himself religious, necessarily. he was raised by men of science && magic, the curse of immortality placed upon him by a devil, or so they'd once believed. god has no place in a world like that, but he finds himself morbidly curious about the answer anyway. do you believe in demons? is the question on the tip of his tongue, perhaps an easy segue into the real story, should he choose to tell it, but he dodges that in favor of one that seems to slip out of its own accord.

"that means whatever i tell you is confidential?"

despite the timbre of his voice, his words sound nothing like those of a ten year old's.

the little girl, her bravado restored and renewed, groans. that's it? she complains. with a resigned boooo-ring, she slides off mulcahy's lap, joining her friends elsewhere in the recreation room. he looks slightly bemused at her antics, a small smile curling upwards. he keeps it when he turns his attention back to czeslaw, but it disappears once he sees the far-away look in the boy's eyes.

poor thing. he'd struck him as shy, when he'd first walked in, a little distant. mulcahy has no idea that the fears held to his chest are much worse than the typical anxieties and homesickness experienced by many of the patients. he can, however, try his hardest to help with what he perceives to be that. that's what he's here for, even if, sometimes, he wished he could be a little more useful.

there's just nothing quite like the feeling of being needed, is there? he remembers asking a less than amused charles, once, when everybody -- patients, doctors, and visitors -- but them and a few others who hadn't eaten the poultry had been struck by salmonella due to soiled turkey dinner.

tentatively, he piped up, laying a gentle hand on czes's shoulder and speaking haltingly. " is something bothering you, benjamin? something, perhaps, somehow shared in your regaling us? i know being in a hospital is scary. i know it must be difficult to make friends, and you miss home. you're entitled to those feelings, and there's nothing bad or shameful about feeling them. do you understand? "

[empiriical]

it's a little mean, probably, to use something very real that happened to him as a ghost story. maiza would probably click his tongue at him in disapproval && say nothing, but he's not in the room, && czes's displeasure with their current situation — 'maiza if you hadn't crashed the car, we wouldn't be in this situation. why do they need to keep an eye on us? our injuries literally vanished.' — has rendered him grumpy && a little callous.

with the story of the rail tracer concluded, czes pulls his hat down over his eyes a little more. the question, innocuous as it is, makes him laugh. it's a rough, unpleasant sound, unnatural in his voice. his shoulders shake first, a noise like sandpaper in his throat, && this hoarse choking quickly gives way to childish giggles that hardly hold the innocence they should.

i'm more grown-up than you. ay of you. && yet as far as you're concerned, i'll never grow up. he thinks back to something firo told him from the time he spent in prison. he'd been called peter pan. the boy who will never grow up. && here's czes, in the body of a child forever, who has changed more than firo or maiza or anyone.

"....sorry," he mutters, feeling just a little guilty — not for mulcahy's sake, but for the other kids — && shakes his head. "i just..."

you know, i never even considered what i would do if i could be an adult.

"nevermind. i didn't mean to scare you. besides, from what i've heard, the rail tracer was never seen again after that night." except in my head, when i try to sleep. when i catch a glimpse of red hair out of the corner of my eye. when he walks into the alveare to talk to firo...

@empiriical​ as czes said: things that would send cold chills down your spine and wake you in the middle of the night.

deep space nine.

spending time with the children is his favorite pastime. it is perhaps the saddest ward in the hospital, but also, the most joyful. it means everything to him to see their little faces light up, and he wants nothing more than for them to feel safe and cared for during their stint, however long that may be.

the girl who'd suggested telling ghost stories in the first place squeals, burying her face into the crook of his neck. he gave her a little shake, gently bouncing the knee she sits upon once, twice. " it's alright! benjamin's merely telling us a story. though i must admit, i'm a little spooked, myself! "

he turns his attention to czes, smiling tenderly. " you're quite the storyteller, son! do you want to be an author when you grow up? "

[empiriical]

wary eyes watch the small, dancing flame illuminating the older boy's face. the proximity frightens him, all sharp eyes && wolf teeth, && he looks at once like a lost child && a war-torn soldier.

new york... maiza's there, isn't he? i can't... i can't... i can't let any of them find me.

czes lets out a shuddering breath, && it must make him look cold, or perhaps it's the slight shake of his knee, bouncing nervously ; either way, he is shivering, && the other's noticed.

"no, i...." he hesitates to accept it, to trust this gesture of goodwill that simply cannot be ; there IS no good in this world. but the jacket's already there, && czes' fingers close around the fabric instinctively, the thick material already warming his hand. "...thanks."

he lifts it, draping it over his shoulders / far too large, but he likes it that way, likes the way he can fade into the shadows like this. for a moment, the shivering stops. "you aren't cold?"

the jacket resting on xeno's shoulders is all for show. there's little he loves more than the cold; the spell of winter currently striking may be partially his own doing, a farewell gift to this disaster of a visit. fishing a cigarette from his pocket, he looks over at the sound of a young voice. he had barely noticed the small, shivery boy, hidden like a shadow, the backpack on weary shoulders almost looking bigger than him.

"oh, sure. all the way to new york." next a lighter is retrieved. he cups his hand around the flame, lighting the tip of the cigarette and promptly inhaling. he pauses, looking back over at the other ghost haunting this lonesome stop with him.

"you cold?" already, xeno is shrugging the unnecessary layer of his jacket off. "here," he slides it across the bench, "put it over yours."

[empiriical]

the laugh that czes utters is unbefitting of someone in a child's body, speaking with a child's voice. "you're the only person who would say something like that, knowing everything that's happened to me. then again... i'm probably the only person who's ever said they're envious of you, so." he shakes his head, still chuckling quietly. "i wonder what that says about us both, huh?"

he falls quiet for a moment, mulling over melvi's words with an uneasy pensiveness. he doesn't like the way it unsettles him, the discomfort at melvi's certainty of his own nature. his own inevitable ending.

czes has only survived this long by feeling no sympathy for anyone, && the precarious camaraderie he shares with melvi isn't out of any pity or immense empathy. they just understand each other, no more && no less.

so why do i suddenly feel upset?

he hugs his knees to his chest, feeling more && more like a little kid again. "forever's a really long time to live," he says softly. "you never know what could happen in that time. unless you expect to be devoured, i guess."

"I can't," Melvi corrects, his own smile similarly devoid of any actual happiness. "It's just a resignation, of sorts. I've accepted that people will see me the way they see me, whether or not they're right about the way that I am. It doesn't make me feel any better to understand that."

( He wonders if that shared habit of smiling falsely is coincidental. In any case, Melvi only dislikes showing any visible signs of distaste because... he'd always seemed a little more chipper when Melvi expressed any emotion that wasn't neutral or positive. )

He's hesitant to say anything more. It's not typical of them, fragile dynamic that they have, to speak at length about their own issues. Most of the time, everything they share is an intrinsic understanding of their similarities---though there's nothing saying that isn't speaking in its own right.

In any case, Melvi's brows furrow in mild frustration before he forces his expression back into that sour smile.

"I'm a little envious of you, really. I've wondered what it would be like to get to ask the question 'would I have been evil if that hadn't happened?' to myself before. But I wouldn't have been anything if it hadn't happened. Ha-ha."

Melvi laughs sardonically, then leans back, head tilted towards the sky. "Anyway, maybe I do have it easier because of that. Nothing ever changed me in that particular regard the way people change other people. I was born evil and I'll be devoured evil one day. So, I can only offer that perspective."

[empiriical]

to anyone else, a response like that might have been incredibly unsatisfying. but czes nods, as if melvi's passed some sort of test with his answer. the smile on his face is wry && overall unhappy, the kind that elmer surely would disapprove of, but from the way his jaw is set grimly, he looks as if melvi's only affirmed what's in his own mind.

"...yeah." he slowly sits down next to melvi, bracing his hands against the bench, his legs dangling as he kicks at the air. if you weren't looking at his expression, or listening to the way he's talking, he'd be easily mistaken for a little kid in the moment ; indeed, there is an oddly childlike air about him even now. in some ways, this conversation is freeing for him.

"so many people keep telling me how 'good' i am, people who hardly know me, && i wish... i wish they wouldn't. because they don't know anything about me. or what i've done."

internally, he thinks back to his conversation with elmer a couple of years ago. there had been certain things about his circumstances that he'd been able to accept then, after decades of being around maiza, firo, ennis, isaac, && miria. but even now — especially after finding out that the only thing that's provided any semblance of security over the last century or so wasn't true at all — he still doubts. his heart clenches in sudden fear at the passing thought of his old guardian, && he averts his gaze as if to hide the redness in his face.

"i'm impressed..." despite the words, it doesn't really sound like a compliment. "you can just decide how to feel."

❛ do you think i’m a good person? ❜ / czes for melvi because yknow. you know. 🥲👍

How should I know?

Melvi is at least aware enough to know that his standards for things like good and bad are skewed beyond reason, understands that viewing everyone else in the world as better than himself is an unreasonable view. And he's never considered that he'd meet someone with circumstances similar to his, so he doesn't know how to factor in that unexpected variable to his worldview.

A 'no' and a 'yes' would be equally disingenuous; am I too idealistic if I say no? Am I only projecting my own wishes onto someone else? But on the other hand, if I say yes, isn't that only becaus I'm projecting my feelings even more? I don't---

"I don't know you, Czeslaw."

Voicing the root of the dilemma without the branches, Melvi frowns. "And I'm not a good judge of good or evil. But from my perspective, I've stopped caring about things like that. I'm going to live how I want regardless of what I am, and if people see me differently than I see myself, I've decided just to be grateful that they see anything worth seeing at all."

questions. / accepting.