[ olivia glances down at her own hands now, fingers curled almost protectively. she makes no comment on those things — right and wrong, good and evil... she does not think herself knowledgeable enough to warrant an opinion.
[The question, there's the smallest faltering in the rhythm of his chopping as she asks it, a slight tension in his face that could quite easily be missed if her eyes aren't on him, or by a person unaccustomed to his subtleties. There's a sharp feeling behind his ribs as though the knife has sunk into him there, briefly pierced him, but then it's gone again. He keeps his voice smooth and even as he responds, almost dismissive. Perhaps too carefully so.]
[His voice remains just as smooth, just as careful, and perhaps her last words had not been meant for his ears, but they reach him all the same. He wonders at them, just briefly, but he never has been inclined to pry into the details of other people's lives. A condition brought about through indifference, mostly, though not so in this particular case.
It's in part an answer to her quiet-spoken words, part an extension of his own feelings, that he adds--]
[There's a slight pause then, a somewhat awkward silence whilst something in Giovanni's head clicks and whirs, tries to decide on a cause of action. He doesn't look up from what he's doing, keeps his face focused and still, but--]
[Slowly he nods, keeps chopping, and quietly something stirs in him, a subtle jitter of feeling behind his ribs as again, her emotional state pushes against him like something almost physically felt. A strange thing, for something like him, who tends to walk around as though he's the only solid inhabitant in a world of ghosts, or perhaps as though he himself is the spectre, the haunt, unseen and removed from all those around him. And yet here he is, aware of her quiet unhappiness rather than mired so deeply within his own that he's unable to see outside of himself. It seems there's something he ought to be saying, or doing, and when he can't think of the right way to respond there comes a subtle rush of frustration through him, though outwardly it barely shows outside of the length of his silence, the slight tightening of his brow.]
My apologies that I can't be of more assistance.
[It's the only thing he can think of to say, in the end.]
[ a few beats of silence pass, during which nothing but the steady sound of giovanni's rhythmic chopping can be heard. for a while there she seems lost in her own world, eyes glazed and distant — or are they simply glossy from unshed tears?
whatever the case may be, she seems to snap out of it before long. a small but easy smile settles across her lips, and her hand soon finds his own, fearlessly or perhaps foolishly reaching for the one curled around the knife. ]
Thank you for listening, [ she tells him plainly. ] Just doing that is more than enough.
[There's a moment of growing tension in him, quietly aware of her continued silence and the odd glassy sparkle of her eyes, something he thinks he recognises from a long long time ago in himself (or perhaps that was never really him just a dream just a nightmare something forgotten and distant and sad but--) then she's reaching out to him, lips curling, the gentle feel of her hand on his making him pause in his rhythmic movements. And it's there in him, just vaguely, the desire to shake her off or resort to the violence so deeply ingrained in him it sometimes feels like an inborn part of himself rather than something conditioned and branded into his bones over time. But it passes, and instead, he turns to look down at her, the movement subtle but no less discernible for it.
His own smile, when it comes, is a little perplexed, a little puzzled, but it's a smile all the same.]
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at least not over dinner. ]
What about love?
[ love, on the other hand... ]
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I wouldn't know about that.
[Both true and untrue.]
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slowly, carefully, her hands resume their peeling. ]
Perhaps you will learn, soon, [ she murmurs. and, in a softer voice that may or may not be intended for his ears, she adds: ]
May your teacher be far kinder than mine.
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[His voice remains just as smooth, just as careful, and perhaps her last words had not been meant for his ears, but they reach him all the same. He wonders at them, just briefly, but he never has been inclined to pry into the details of other people's lives. A condition brought about through indifference, mostly, though not so in this particular case.
It's in part an answer to her quiet-spoken words, part an extension of his own feelings, that he adds--]
Perhaps it's best not to.
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Yes, [ she answers a moment later. louder, but that much more hollow, too. ]
Perhaps it is.
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Are you all right?
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...I don't know. But I have been told that I will be, eventually. I suppose I am still just waiting.
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My apologies that I can't be of more assistance.
[It's the only thing he can think of to say, in the end.]
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whatever the case may be, she seems to snap out of it before long. a small but easy smile settles across her lips, and her hand soon finds his own, fearlessly or perhaps foolishly reaching for the one curled around the knife. ]
Thank you for listening, [ she tells him plainly. ] Just doing that is more than enough.
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His own smile, when it comes, is a little perplexed, a little puzzled, but it's a smile all the same.]
Well. You're quite welcome, then.