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"Is that what that wretched instrument is called?" A fittingly absurd name, he thinks to himself.

His eyes dart briefly to the others, making sure nobody paid her any mind as she left. He reaches for her waist, drawing her closer as soon as she's within arm's reach. Scar presses a soft kiss to Lust's hairline, an action that bumps back the impressively stupid hat she's somehow been convinced to put on her head.

"I have something, if you would indulge me for a moment," he says quietly. In his free hand, held at partial discretion, is a book.

Edited 2024-01-08 17:48 (UTC)

"Of course."

Her curiosity is piqued. And it has gotten very loud in the living room, she wouldn't mind stepping away for a short while.

It's a natural thing to move close to him, as though he has some gravity that pulls her into his orbit. She likes to feel the warmth of him, to be able to brush her fingers against his whenever she pleases. He doesn't shy away from the touch.

"I must confess, I'm not the kazoo's greatest fan myself. It's sounds like something Sir would play. We should have the room to ourselves, in the kitchen."

He takes her suggestion, leading quietly to the kitchen, where the sounds of festivity are muffled through the wall.

There's a dash of nerves, now, both of his hands holding onto the finely bound book he's kept hidden these last few weeks. There's little between them that makes him freeze up, anymore, but this territory is difficult, painful no matter how they cut it. His eyes dart from hers, to the book in his hands, then back to her, a touch somber.

"I want you to have something permanent," he says. That's a tricky word with them, something of an impossible goal. They can't exchange vows in any meaningful way, here. In his own foolish daydreaming of a world where they could truly go home, he thinks he might catch on fire for even voicing such a desire to an elder. They're trapped in a limbo of unbelonging, together in this loneliness he doesn't have a hope of explaining to anyone else.

The book he holds out for her to take is archival in quality, both its pages and the ink he's used to write on them while she's been at work. The cover is blank and unassuming, minus small flourishes of detail in the leather. Inside, on the first set of pages that face each other, is the same dedication on each side. The left is penned in the common language they all, somehow, understand here. The right is in Ishbalan, the handwritten characters flowing opposite, from right to left. The book is dedicated to her, using the half-dead names they only share in private.

For Isobel

Dying for love is easy.
For you, I could live.

Kaleb

The first page after this is a one-to-one outline of the alphabet, with explanations for how it is written, how it is pronounced, painstakingly outlined. Following this is a basic outlining of grammar, sentences, how they differentiate from what she knows. Subsequent pages follow the same format as the dedication. The letters he had only learned and practiced in class and in prayer on the right, and their translation legible to her on the left. Pages are filled with explanations of history, of ritual, of little things, like the shawls given to them with their names and how to properly set an altar. How to celebrate a marriage. He goes on at length about food, various recipes that he's managed to carry with him and important ingredients, their equivalents, where to find them both here and in Ishbal.

There's a great deal of empty space, still. He hasn't finished it. He isn't certain he'll ever have enough time to. But even in this state, it's enough to show her.

He wonders, half-consciously, if it's too sincere. If such a blunt outpouring of devotion is more than she wants from him, even now. But this is for the home they can't return to just as much as it is for her. This is everything in his heart poured into one small object to outlast or, God willing, outlive them both.

Her expression is at first curious. His demeanor, the air of dramatics, the book in his hand. What is he up to?

Curiosity is soon wiped away into something difficult to place. A widening of her eyes, a small involuntary parting of her lips. She takes the book and holds it gently, almost reverently. Her eyes scan the pages with something like wonder. As though it were some holy text presented to a pilgrim. Something mystic.

In a way, it is.

All these years of human life, of slowly reclaiming and coming to understand herself, brought with them new regrets and sorrows. The more she knows herself, the more she grasps what was taken from her. The more she can feel the loss of it. She has never been without someone from home. Through it all she's at least had her brother. But as much as they're the same, they're so very different. Envy was one thread to one life, but the other...there was nothing. Just an emptiness and a handful of childhood memories without context.

The culture that had once been hers is something she had accepted would never be returned to her. How could it?

But here it was, in her hands, her first and private name scrawled within its cover. Along with his.

Overcome, she closes the book quickly and holds it to herself. That uncomfortable prickling has come into the corner of her eyes, so familiar now but still unwanted. There's a party going on in the other room, for God's sake. She can't be weeping in the kitchen right now.

And of course she has to say something. The time that must have gone into this...the care and the thought.

"Thank you."

It's all that she can manage.

The lingering fear that this is too much fades.

He positions himself discretely between her and the doorway to the rest of the house. Opening this particular door between them doesn't get easier, or even less painful. Nevertheless, he doesn't want to keep it closed, relegated to a quiet, private ache whenever one of them accidentally knocks it.

"I... would have thought I had lost more of the writing," he confesses from under his own spell of somber nostalgia. "But once I started, it kept coming back."

Maybe it would be best to lead with that, in the make-believe scenario where he gets to see his teacher again. His vocab? Still pretty good! Soften the blow of the alchemically sustained Was Supposed To Be My Brother's Wife he sleeps with.

The thought brings a dry quirk to the corner of his mouth.

"We often remember more than we realize."

She's still clutching the book to her like a sacred relic. Words are still difficult, under the swirling tides of emotion.

"I do...have memories from my childhood. Full, solid memories. But no context for them, they aren't connected. They're....points of light in the fog, nothing between them, nothing attached to them. Their edges are blurred and taper into emptiness."

This gift will help fill some of those blanks, add color and context to those spaces of emptiness. There will always be large portions missing. Some things, once lost, cannot be regained. But some things can be. Enough pieces to imply a picture, if not complete it.

"This is very thoughtful and generous."

Because expressing 'you've given me back another part of myself' seems too heavy and charged a thing to say.

Scar's eyes soften at her stilted word of thanks. He knows what she means, the magnitude of it. It still catches him off guard, how easy it is to read her now that he isn't checking himself every moment he's in her presence. He can have enough painstaking sincerity for both of them.

He reaches gently for the outsides of her shoulders, drawing her into his arms.

In another moment, he'll be pulling the hat from her head and dropping it carelessly to the floor. It's in the way.

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