#yes. voluntary janitor. mhm (definitely not the last person to “nose goes” or anything)

[yellow-rose-embalmer]

Of course it would make sense that he didn't know something like that. He looks away, almost bitterly laughing. Why would he know, he who had never lived such a thing, he who knew such a thing was impossible? What had changed? Then again... maybe it was because he was communicating with the dead already. The living did not want him. The dead and still could not judge him, and even if he had ample evidence that the dead could speak and leave and do all the things the living could to hurt him... he knew death far better than life. This was his best chance, wasn't it?

As for what he would like... he didn't know where to consider that from. He wants to be the hand that guides people through whatever is needed, but he also feels the weight of needing approval like a heavy collar around his neck. He wants to give and receive those messages that surpass words, but he doesn't know how to translate a thing. None of the things he had in mind for a 'silent friend' applied here, not when this friend had already passed, not when he didn't know what else was possible for a friendship.

The concept feels so blurry, and yet he has to say something to please. He can't just leave the air empty, leave without being able to come up with anything. And yet, when he opens his mouth, at first, nothing leaves but air and choked syllables that wished, somewhere, they could be words.

When he is finally able to say something, he still stumbles over his words, he still does not know the first thing of which he speaks. "...I— I think... I'd like if I knew we wouldn't... judge... abandon each other so easily... if I could be someone to rely on— y-you in turn, of course... if we could understand... without needing to speak... if we could be s-silent friends... at times..."

"Hey doll! D'you happen to have a spare glove in that handy box of yours? Just one is fine!"

@the-bloodline-embrace

Aesop may have been caught organizing his box anyway as his eyes narrowed, lips that could not be seen pressed together in focus (he tended to make it a habit so he would not have to do it all at once or wind up with an untenable workload). Even so, he freezes, eyes widening upon hearing the voice behind him, as he slowly looks to confirm that which had quickly grown familiar.

"Ah... hello again. Y-you came at a good time, I was just making sure everything I had stored in here was properly stocked. Let me see..." As the embalmer opens up his kit fully to make sure he can see everything, running a finger down the collection to make sure he was looking in the right place, he reminds himself that he would practice getting used to these names, too. No matter how wrong it felt.

Finally, he fishes out a glove from one of the compartments, handing it over. "Here you go. I... hope this fits you well, Victor." The name slips out before he can stop himself. By the time he notices, he wants almost to fade away, to ask the man before him to forget what just happened. But all that comes out is a weak "...sorry."