[His gaze doesn't visit the sight of his sister long, but it's enough to burn the image onto the backs of his eyelids — like the light leftover by sunset, searing the distant horizon honey-gold until dusk turns it a cold blue. Robin's shoulders are bare, pale skin sloping up to the bowtie at her throat. It covers a scar: well-healed, long old, but one he could trace in the dark even if he's only seen it once. When she lay there in bed asleep, healing, during those first crucial days of recovery. She didn't know he was in the room so it felt permissible in that moment to look. All he did was look, and that was enough, because it proved she was alive in front of him. She was safe.
Robin's hair is black, which he thinks is all wrong, and he wants to say he doesn't like it. The absurd thought doesn't come from that ideal version of himself whose footsteps he had followed in his goodbye to Penacony. It is something else, some other part of him transformed by the union of those two pieces of his identity. It wants to say it doesn't like the black hair because she's more beautiful as herself. It hates the fake wings, the torn nylon, the cheap fishnets. And yet... he can see nothing else but the sight of her in all of those things, resplendent and gleaming, perfectly without flaw.
Confronted with what she asks, he's realizing how absolutely out of control he is in this situation. And how it just — isn't fair. He worked so hard for so many years to provide a paradise for her, and he failed. What now? What will he do now?]
Don't worry.
[Oblivious to the fact of her concern for him, Sunday sees this only as a way to reassure his sister of her own well-being.]
If you need anything, you should come to me. I have enough chips for the both of us. [The lie tastes ashen; he tells himself it's a temporary mistruth.] You don't have to work that job you picked up, so please don't feel forced to. There are... other options available here. You could perform, if you'd like — I've seen other musicians in the numerous lounges and restaurants.
[He still hasn't moved from where he's standing. He hasn't shed the disguise. It's almost like he's become frozen in this spot, chiseled out of stone, staring at the crossroads ahead and paralyzed by the choice.]
I'll... help you advertise, and if it gets to that point, I know how to manage your appointments.
truly i do not know how to stop tl;dring
Robin's hair is black, which he thinks is all wrong, and he wants to say he doesn't like it. The absurd thought doesn't come from that ideal version of himself whose footsteps he had followed in his goodbye to Penacony. It is something else, some other part of him transformed by the union of those two pieces of his identity. It wants to say it doesn't like the black hair because she's more beautiful as herself. It hates the fake wings, the torn nylon, the cheap fishnets. And yet... he can see nothing else but the sight of her in all of those things, resplendent and gleaming, perfectly without flaw.
Confronted with what she asks, he's realizing how absolutely out of control he is in this situation. And how it just — isn't fair. He worked so hard for so many years to provide a paradise for her, and he failed. What now? What will he do now?]
Don't worry.
[Oblivious to the fact of her concern for him, Sunday sees this only as a way to reassure his sister of her own well-being.]
If you need anything, you should come to me. I have enough chips for the both of us. [The lie tastes ashen; he tells himself it's a temporary mistruth.] You don't have to work that job you picked up, so please don't feel forced to. There are... other options available here. You could perform, if you'd like — I've seen other musicians in the numerous lounges and restaurants.
[He still hasn't moved from where he's standing. He hasn't shed the disguise. It's almost like he's become frozen in this spot, chiseled out of stone, staring at the crossroads ahead and paralyzed by the choice.]
I'll... help you advertise, and if it gets to that point, I know how to manage your appointments.