[ He feels as though he's teetering on tears, something caught in his throat. The sadness—his own, terrifying and unfamiliar—and secrets—not his, but somehow just as real—are overwhelming. He suddenly feels that he knows too much about Claude, and nothing at all, and an artificial, lingering affection that starts to fade when the real emotions swirl in, too much to process. He has never felt contempt for his own, immediate family. The feeling winds through him with unpleasant tension. His own memory sits heavy beside it.
The mundane complications of dating a coworker suddenly morph and twist into something much more tangled. He sniffs once, trying to find his composure. ]
Who... was that?
[ He's an idiot. Claude is right; they've been played for fools. It's all on the tip of his tongue, the front of his mind, but part of him can't shake the illusion yet. Maybe he doesn't want to. The color has drained from his face, the room growing cold. His voice sounds strangely apprehensive, even to him. ]
no subject
The mundane complications of dating a coworker suddenly morph and twist into something much more tangled. He sniffs once, trying to find his composure. ]
Who... was that?
[ He's an idiot. Claude is right; they've been played for fools. It's all on the tip of his tongue, the front of his mind, but part of him can't shake the illusion yet. Maybe he doesn't want to. The color has drained from his face, the room growing cold. His voice sounds strangely apprehensive, even to him. ]
—Claude, what was that?