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ferre makes aesthetics ( 7 /??? ): verse three ( patrick myungdae grace & lee hyuk )

"you wouldn't suffer as much, if he weren't there." patrick shakes his head. "if he wasn't there, i wouldn't have a reason to be strong to begin with."

( photos & the hunger games lore do not belong to me. credit for the portrayal of lee hyuk goes to alex @jeoseungsaja! happy holidays my dear friend <3 )

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ferre makes aesthetics ( 6/??? ): verse three ( maría castro & patrick myungdae grace )

"take a deep breath with me," he says, voice soft as if it came from a better world. "everything is going to be okay." she knew it wouldn't be, but she wanted to believe him anyways.

( photos & the hunger games lore do not belong to me. credit for mária goes to @ptternminds! happy holidays fellow colleague :3 )

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ferre makes aesthetics ( 5/??? ): verse two ( lee hyuk & shin myungdae )

"myungdae, no offense, but shut up." alfred cuts in, without looking up from the latte he's making. "that guy looks at you like you're the fucking sun. he doesn't hate you."

( photos do not belong to me. credit for the portrayal of lee hyuk goes to alex @jeoseungsaja! happy holidays my dear friend <3 )

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mister hänni. → FOR ONCE THE CHAOS IS...REFRESHING. Or perhaps that’s just the result of the one giving the temper tantrum happening to trip of say, a cane that is barely sticking out. Of course an ostentatious person like that wouldn’t notice, let alone realize who had actually tripped him. Myungdae gives a (not-so) innocent tilt of his head towards his generous benefactor of the night: “I’m not quite sure what you mean.”

open starter yannick hänni, former ice hockey player turned tabloid reporter, has major emotional regulation & relationship management issues, but hey ♥

"I never asked you to come, this literally cannot, directly nor indirectly, be my fault."

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myungdae/patrick 🤝 mana: muses whose type are exclusively 'women and [insert canonical male love interest]'

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A SHOP FOR KILLERS + hugs

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@ptternminds / continued from here!

THEIR BAG HAS KEROPPI PRINTED FRONT AND CENTER. And maybe the social worker knows it well themselves, but the mascot…well it doesn't suit them, does it? Still, they carry it and Myungdae can only assume it's either for a. sentimental reasons or b. the safety it invokes. Children are drawn to bright colors and even more so mascots- perhaps it is a means of getting children like Yuri to open up to them, the CPS worker.

Not that Myungdae is inquiring. Keroppi isn't even Yuri's favorite. It's actually Cinnamoroll. Or was it Pompompurin? She has plushies of both. It occurs to him that perhaps he would know which one she favored more if she didn't sleep on the couch with him most nights…or if she even liked either of them to begin with. It hadn't even been his idea to get her the plushies- Nell and Alfred got her each as welcome present of sorts.

Myungdae highly doubts the social worker- Baek- would care much, would they? Baek, who sits across from him unannounced, with a poker face almost akin to his own, the only different being that their calm doesn't try to hide their…disdain. They don't seem all that impressed with him, really. Probably wondering how the hell he, of all people ended u,p with not only Yuri, but also Hiro.

It wouldn't make matters much better if he admitted he's not sure how things ended up this way either, would it? All he knew at the time was that Yuri and Hiro both needed someone, an adult at the time and of course, he happened to be there.

What was he supposed to do? Turn them away?

"Oh," He says, rather simply too. He knows he needs to put on a good impression for Baek. The impression of a competent, attentive parent: one who knows what they're doing, one who knows their child. And yet-

"Um…daycare? She doesn't like being away from us if she doesn't have to be."

He feels as far away from himself, even further than he does to Yuri. Maybe that's why he was so insistent on taking her in. It takes a stray to know a stray.

But Baek doesn't need to know that. Sure, they mean well, prioritizing Yuri's well-being above the niceities and reserving judgement for what probably looks like a disaster zone if families were supposed to be houses. But it doesn't change that they're not- well, trust is hard-earned in these parts, aren't they? Their ID badge doesn't earn them points either, especially not with Alfred.

Still Myungdae can't help but wilt a little bit more under their gaze. Or what feels like a scolding, even if he'll be damned before reaching out for additional services for assistance. That's just more surveillance to put up with. "I'm fine, really. She…we don't need therapy, these additional resources if that's what you're trying to say– what she needs right now is stability." Which he wants to believe she's getting. "I thought…I thought that's what you were looking for her to have."

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i did it!! it's not all complete, but i finished up the major portions of the revamps i needed to write for patrick (verse one) and myungdae (verse two). Please take a look at his carrd and reread the information if you have the time ( and check out my smexy lore page too <3 )!!

But also if you want a basic summary of things I changed/added here's a list:

VERSE ONE:

rewrote Patrick (verse one)'s history portion to reflect his trans identity.

renamed his biological older brother, previously myungsuk, to myungdae....patrick took his brother's korean name when he legally transitioned :3

took down the full story tab for the time being because i need to figure out how to simplify the events there a bit more....

VERSE TWO:

simplified, simplified, simplified a lot of things here :'D

took out myungdae's connection to ARGOS. instead, he was forced into labor by ANACHRON and later escaped with alfred's help (more on that later). that's where myungdae got the burn scars and the bad knee.

alfred also helped him recuperate in the aftermath. by the time the black knight starts up, myungdae's been in seoul for about 2-3 years.

nell helped him with making a fake id and papers.

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i know i said i needed to rewrites parts of his backstory because of a major change i might and i will. but i also don't feel like making any anticipation for this because honestly? it doesn't change too much about him...

basically, patrick is trans (ftm). he transitioned in secondary school and while out about his queerness, his gender is something he keeps more to himself.

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i haven't forgotten about this blog! there is one major change i made for him though so i need to rewrite parts of his backstory before i'm ready to write him again <3 i also want to get more into writing drabbles for him as i have a lot of lore on his relationships and world i need to share :'D

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thinking about the fact that in all his verses, the most important parts of his identity have never been inherent. they were all things that he learned or picked up along the way from someone else and then made it his own.

like in verse one, the fact that he speaks very formally and is highly knowledgeable in greek myth and transracial literature? trained himself in both as the only asian teenager in the british countryside. in verse two, him being the black knight? picked up fighting and lying skills to survive– it was either sink or swim. verse three, his reputation as a gentleman in the capitol? crafted that reputation over the years to protect himself and then the other victors.

but the things he considers most important to his identity comes from his loved ones, which also fits in well with the idea that ultimately, humans are composites of all the people they've loved. in verse one, patrick's insistence that he is a gentleman? came from felicity's calling him such. verse two where he has an inclination towards coffee and pigeons specifically? well hyuk ( @jeoseungsaja ) also loves coffee and reminds myungdae of a pigeon. verse three where he begins to have hope that perhaps there is a better world to be, maybe not found, but rather created? maría ( @mythvoiced ) definitely played a part there.

because even if he did come from a birth family with a good standing, patrick has an orphan for longer than he has been their child. and if you are an orphan, you don't truly have anything but yourself.

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:'DDDD

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really love dynamics that are like 'it honestly doesn't matter if you view them as romantic or platonic, the point is that they love each other. the type of love is inconsequential, all that matters is that it's there'. gotta be one of my favorite genders.

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"Thank you so much for introducing me into your busy schedule," Hermes says and he's oh so very polite, epitome of status and class, of the Capitol, complete with something less polite glistening in his eyes, making his stare resemble the kind worn by someone curiously waiting to see whether the distracted mouse will see the lurking cat in time. He comes up around Patrick, offering his hands. "Let me take your coat, hm? Care for a drink?" ((btw if Patrick is more of a jacket kinda peep here pretend it says jacket >:3333333)) || a year late but here we are ( unprompted w/ @mythvoiced )

One would think at his age, the stream of clients on his end would be slowing down by now. The copious amounts of surgeries and skin care routines Capitolites undergo would indict so– he’s already past his prime and with the pool of victors always growing larger and larger each year, he would assume the Capitol’s attention on him would fade. The Capitolites are like crows in that respect, eyes drawn to what is shiny and what is new, their attention spans that of goldfishes.

One would think then, that he’d be discarded by now, being OLD now and therefore in the Capitol’s eyes, as good as dead.

“But of course,” Patrick says astutely, flinching when he realizes the client has managed to sneak behind him. Well that’s new– most clients wait for him in their bedrooms. Most clients would have their avoxes let him in, the task of welcoming a guest apparently too arduous for those of their class. And most clients wouldn’t offer to take coats either. Perhaps this one was raised with a military background of sorts.  “Your father has a great deal of connections to the games and President Snow certainly didn’t want to disappoint his son. You know our president holds the games to the highest esteem.”

The coat stays on for a moment longer. He tries to savor it, his armor, as he looks around the foyer. It’s ornate, just like all the ones that came before. And all the ones that will come afterwards– at some point when you’ve seen one interior of a mansion, you’ve seen it all. The heirs of the elite aren’t much better and with the way his newest client looks at him, like he’s supposed to provide some sort of entertainment at the moment, Patrick can only bite back a sigh. Only three hours, Patrick tells himself. Slowly, he forces a smile. Three hours and then he can get on a train and go back home. Back to Sun. 

“It would be my pleasure,” Patrick says, finally offering Mister Hermes his coat. His stomach turns. “I suppose we all need a drink before the main event, hm? And a chance for me to get to know you, my dear.”

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where the martyr becomes the survivor ( @mythvoiced from here ) || trigger warning: allusions to s*a, but no depictions of the act itself.

Nights like these are chilling. 

Chilly sometimes, depending on the time of year, but always chilling, sharp enough to cut to the bone. He prefers it this way, the cool night air of the Capitol brushing against bare skin, a body that never feels quite like his own on nights where the clients have him marked in their calendars. A body that he would want nothing more than to crawl out of and trade in for a new one. The sensation, the urge used to be stronger in his younger days and even if the body now has become accustomed to it, the ‘escorting�� as President has so deftly phrased it, the sensation leaves him lightheaded. The lights of the street lamps make the edge of his vision blur as he tries not to think of the sweat drying on the back of his neck, foreign fingers that pressed themselves there without thinking. Why would they need to ask anyways– he’s theirs for the night and you don’t need to ask objects for permission. It is better than staying there in the aftermath though.

He’ll take the chilling air over the humidity. The lingering smell of sweat mixed in with sex. Or the lazy breaths of a body next to his as it embraces his own like he is their lover. The night air cuts through that. Chillingly. 

Mister Hrvoditnir’s place is the last stop for the night. An unexpected one too– Patrick didn’t realize until the card listed his name at the very bottom that Mister Hrodvitnir had made a purchase for him. Did something happen? Did he decide he wanted out of this arrangement after all? Most of their communications aren't done face to face so it must be urgent, if Mister Hrodvitnir is calling out to him. And if it is in the case of getting cold feet, Patrick wouldn’t blame him; they’re both playing with fire, rigging and manipulating the whims of the elite.

But then he gets to Mister Hrodvitnir’s place ( he insisted on walking rather than getting chauffeured; Mister Hrodvitnir barely maintains the driveway of his place anyways ) and no second thoughts surface. Instead there is only a simple hello and an offer to come in. Have a cup of tea. Patrick both snags in relief and bristles at the offer. 

All that money and maneuvering spent, for this?

And that’s exactly what Patrick tells him. Kindly, of course: “You don’t need to do that, not for me.”

And like a wolf baring its teeth, like a wolf closing in on its prey,  his smile drops and suddenly he’s stepping into Patrick’s space. At least he’s polite enough to give a warning beforehand. 

But Patrick freezes, nails digging into his palms. Is this how Sun feels when he brings strangers into the house? The outrage, the fear that accompanies the way a stranger will thread on her territory and there’s nothing she can do to change it so her next best option is bolting to the nearest safe space?

But Patrick is not a cat and he can’t very well just shirk this visit. And unfortunately for both of them, Mister Hrodvitnir is correct. A martyr might incite a revolution, but in a nation where the calls for upheavals and revolts are far cries, the goal in the long run is not change, but survival. And who better would know the ropes there than the survivor himself?

Patrick knows it. Mister Hrodvitnir, no, Van knows that he knows it well. 

The nickname ‘Chessmaster’ isn’t entirely accurate for Patrick anymore, is it? A chessmaster may direct the pieces on the board, but they are never with the pieces. A chessmaster must sit separately if there is a chance at victory. 

That’s not the case for Patrick. If anything, ‘Chessmaster’ might actually suit Van better than anyone else. Who else could wade between both the elite and the plebian circles without raising brows? Who else must don the guise of a nonchalant bidder in order bring some kind of relief for the victors?

And like a chess piece taking orders from its Grand Master, Patrick half sighs, half huffs in acquiescence. It doesn’t stop him from glaring at Van, of course, but his shoulders fall as the exhaustion finally settles in. The night air is no longer comforting but just plain chilly, even if Patrick has his coat on. 

( How odd, unapologetic concern stemming from within the Capitol of all places. He supposes Van’s neighbors don’t get that from Van often, do they? )

“I suppose I can come in for a cup of tea.” Yes, tea always helps in these scenarios, don’t they? He steps into Van’s foyer and the skin on the back of his neck embracing the warmth inside. “Could I… use your shower? It wouldn’t be for too long. I just–” He looks down at his clothes: the suit that he wore this afternoon, yes, but the tie has been stuffed in his pocket. And the shirt underneath is crinkled. “I need to clean myself up.”

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maría. → Ironically, María reminds him of her, Sun:

They’re both loud. Not loud the way Capitol citizens tend to be in all spaces: encompassing and overwhelming. Loud the way an alarm clock is: quiet until they’re suddenly not. And then they make sure you know they’re there whether you want to not. María will stamp her feet, shout, and make a mess of her clothes and the Capitol’s pristine arrangements, anything to leave fingerprints, proof that she was there once upon a time. And Sun will yowl at him, jump on his desk to knock over his books and papers, and sit on the book he’s reading. Of course the reasons for the noise between the two are significantly different. If María never lets him or the other Victors forget about the horrors of the games or the rot hiding behind Capitol’s gleaming facade, Sun would never let Patrick forget to feed her. Especially if it’s one minute past her meal time. Or half an hour early. 

They’re both unnecessarily bold. How María keeps tumbling back towards him, whether it’s with stolen bread or oversteeped tea, even when he denies her concern. And how Sun still wakes him up in the middle night, weighing down on his chest even if he keeps a knife under his pillow for security purposes ( the likelihood of her getting cut is greater than any imagined threat that comes to him in his dreams ). 

And they’re vulnerable. Or at least they look at him vulnerably, like they can’t decide which facade to wear when speaking to him. In María’s case, it probably would be more of a question if she even has a mask to wear in the first place– of all the victors, María might be the only one who doesn’t have one, instead choosing to wearing her wounds on her sleeve for the Capitol to poke and prod at. But María still approaches him in a roundabout way, the way teenagers do, both seeking and loathing guidance at the same time. And for all the years she’s been with him, Sun still watches him from afar, through door cracks, before approaching.

Maybe this is why of all the victors who have come out of the arena, Patrick keeps looking to her. Beyond the scope of responsibility and duty, somewhere deep down, there is an instinct to…protect? No, that can’t be– there are only two individuals he should be prioritizing and María, young María who is fresh out of the arena, who isn’t even guaranteed to make it out of the den of vipers known as Capitol society, certainly isn’t either of those individuals.

“Well, it would be rather cruel to make a cat travel for no good reason, wouldn’t it? They can be quite…territorial of their surroundings.” And at this point in his life, it’s not a matter of whether to be cruel or kind so much as it is a matter of what degree of either can be afforded without tipping the scale. Not that he thinks Sun would actually mind making the trip. If anything, she makes her dissatisfaction over the temporary separation palpable whenever he returns from the Capitol– either she yowls at him from the door or she sulks in the corner of his house, requiring him to make a wild goose chase to find her once more. Both are…well, it is certainly a way to be welcomed home and he’d rather entertain one of those two options than the Capitol scooping her up without warning.

They’re not exactly accepting of strays, even the furry kind. María probably knows this too. In a way, all the Victors are strays, foreigners of sorts within Panem– with a piece of themselves firmly planted in the arena, they no longer quite belong to districts, but they don’t fit in with the Capitol either.

“Your parents are coping. It’s just as hard to see a child changed as it is to lose one,” he says simply. That’s what his own legal guardians did back then– trying and trying to make him feel at home until they just couldn’t anymore and at that point, it was easier to keep distance. He hasn’t seen them in years. He doesn’t even know if they’ve rejoined the earth by now. Even if her parents don’t try to understand her, he can only hope her family doesn’t go down the same route. “That being said, I think it would be easier to feel anything aside from gratitude in your case. A pity people never quite…realize that.”

And they never will, if they are only watching the games. It’s no wonder the only person who could possibly understand a victor is, well, another victor.

“If cats could speak, she might complain that I’m not around enough.” Or she might not. Perhaps that’s the reason it’s easier to bring Sun up here now, to a girl who, with an outburst like water boiling over the edge of the pot, isn’t guaranteed to keep secrets. Ironically, in this nation, a cat of all things might have more immunity than any victor does. 

“Who says I haven’t burst before?” He says though and perhaps that’s too much to reveal about him–a hint that he hasn’t always been this tranquil, this calming in the face of all this horror. Patrick certainly knows he hasn’t always been that way and it wouldn’t do for María to figure that out now. Not when she needs…guidance first. “It doesn’t matter whether I burst or not. What matters is that I keep going afterwards. She’s worth it.” 

Something, someone, who makes the suffering worth going through. Hope, he might say, in a situation that is irredeemable. As soon as someone gets a hold of such, surrendering becomes…tricky, unfortunately. “Even if you want it to stop, it won’t.” So she better adapt to it sooner than later if she wants to survive, pragmatism would say, but when has he ever been the rational one? “Your reason doesn’t have to be another person; it could be something else, like a hobby, something you like to do for yourself?” Or a cause, even. “You don’t have to know right away either. And you can always redefine it and change as many times as you would like.”

Maybe he does do it on purpose.

Appear like a whole person stuck behind so many walls of glass that María can only assume her perception of him to be somehow distorted.

She envisions them in a room - similar but different to this one, mutilated by the same rich smooth walls but not quite as glimmering not quite as feigned not quite as stuck in its play-pretend to not reveal its ugly reality - all the Victors, all the Survivors.

She envisions them in a room most eerily similar, if not a direct copy, of the training halls. The same coloured walls, the same echo to a footfall, the same smells (sweat turned putrid with the acrid scent of fear, anxiety, desperation, hopelessness, cowardice mixing with the ferocity of an animal ready to fight its last fight, to gnaw at its own leg to escape the trap and to maul at anything set in its path).

None of the equipment, or the boards, or the chatter of gamemasters, the scents of their rich food wafting over until it reached even María's nostrils and made her sick, the hollowing pit of her stomach when she'd refused to eat a few days just to be defiant curling and coiling and twisting on itself every time she heard the sound of fish meat giving or pig skin sliding off its back.

Just them, just the Victors.

In a dark grey, blue-ish room full of bright, white lights.

Patrick stands, prim and proper, somewhere miles away from María. She doesn't connect with what she looks like, how her hands feel, but she sees the others. And she sees the distance, she sees the vague silhouette of a gentleman, backlit to cover his face with shadows.

Glass upon glass upon glass between him and the others.

Devora, Devora appears in a similar manner. Terrifying, and somewhat clearer, closer, but even though no shadow blocks her face, her features are hardened like a stone mask, and María can't read them any better than Patrick's.

She starts pulling at a string coming lose where her dress tightens around her waist. Capitol garments are the finest among the finest, imported directly from... from her...

Home.

María's gaze flickers up. It stills on the smile on his face and one of the glass walls sizzles away. Irrationally enough, the answer displeases her. And pleases her to lengths she can't hope to begin to describe. She's glad. Someone important is someone who can keep you alive.

A sense of responsibility towards another, towards their feelings, is perhaps the most violently effective reason to stick around.

That, and María's sense of... cowardice? Or the metaphorical stomping of her foot on the ground, petulant and loud and wailing like a child who doesn't understand how to express her hurt and lashes out?

Her frown deepens a little at the choice of words.

"You sound like you're talking about... a kid or a pet," she honest to fucking god hopes it's not the former. She'd assumed it was a woman. The way of the world, always assume it's... that kind of love. She can't tell if it's because her parents valued it like no other form of love or because of the stories they teach young girls, about how little else matters.

Funny thing to teach kids still, when at least one girl will get brutally killed each year.

Or be forced to brutally kill.

She thinks of Victors' personas, thinks of herself, thinks of Devora.

She scoffs, her head turns away like she can't move it far away enough. Out of her peripheral, out of her entire vision, half intended to pretend she can't still feel him nearby, hyper-vigilante as they all are.

Now she wishes for some extra walls of glass.

Why does he get to ask- why does he have the guts, and she doesn't?

"Only parents who blame me for winning," she twists the string around her forefinger and pulls until it threatens to slice into her skin, and snaps. Fine garments. María is just particularly good at destroying fine things.

No, that's not quite right, though, is it? They don't blame you for winning. They beg you to stop acting like you lost.

"They want me to go home and be grateful. They want me to be grateful," she takes a deep breath, fills her lungs until she wants them to burst, and exhales in one sharp breath.

"Nothing to look forward to about that. I imagine... Sun doesn't ask that of you, hm," she glances and turns her body to face him. "I don't want to... keep having to figure out how to make it easier. I want it to stop," her features contort, a grimace dragged and yanked at by helplessness, by the visual representation of screaming into the dark to have somebody, anybody hear her. "That makes sense! It makes fucking sense, who the fuck... I don't get it, I don't get you, with your... correct answers and correct way of appearing and correct way to act and... how you don't burst."

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maría. → Mentoring never gets any easier with time. Anyone who says otherwise is either lying or they clearly have never been a mentor, let alone a tribute for the Capitol’s barbaric games. But this time around is…well, it’s worse. And it must be especially so for María, who is still fresh out of that hellhole herself. 

Bad enough that she’s the sole victor of ‘sound mind’ from District Eight.

Even worse that her first time mentoring has to be for the Third Quarter Quell.

Worst of all, her mentees are two children. Twelve year olds freshly placed into the selection, only to be plucked for the reaping. 

All the tributes are this time around. It’s no wonder she’s a trembling mess, a wolf with sharp fangs and no prey or predator to sink its teeth into. Only a fool would think feral wolves can keep still and docile at the convenience of others. 

“You don’t have to drink it right now. Some people prefer their tea warm,” Patrick assures her, dislodging the paper cup from her fingers before he takes a seat on the coffee table. It’s not exactly gentlemanly behavior, but the cameras, aside from the ones Snow uses to keep surveillance, aren’t on them.

And even if the cameras were viewing them live, Patrick doesn’t mind cutting a corner or two. Once a troublemaker always a troublemaker. He leans forward, peering up at her. “You haven’t forgotten anything; both of your tributes are okay. They both have found good spots to rest for the night.” He shows her both of his hands, makes sure she can see both of them before he places one on the back of her shoulder. “Take a deep breath, alright?”

Only when the tremors stops does he remove his hand. But he doesn’t move from his spot on the coffee table either– scandalous, he imagines dispatch would say, crowding against a young girl, the freshest meat of them all, when there is all the space left in the room to occupy. 

One might think the arena made grown-ups out of the carcasses of the children who survived, but here María somehow looks…well, younger isn’t the right word. Vulnerable, like a child begging to be reassured that the world out there isn’t so dark. He snorts, albeit kindly. “Believe it or not, I do have the same responsibilities as a mentor like you. Just because I’m considered an aide to Snow, doesn’t mean I can shirk those duties.” 

The corner of his eyelids crinkle. Why? It’s not like her questions will change anything in the long run. He’ll still have clients to entertain and the children will still be in this slaughtering the Capitol considers a game. He pats her hand. “I’ll be alright. The tributes seem to have settled down so the fanfare tonight should be a bit…tamer in the comparison to yesterday. If you want to take a walk before you turn in, I don’t think you’ll have to worry about any run-ins. I can walk you to your room too, if you would like.”

Her hands are shaking. That's why she's curled them so tightly into fists, shoved them between her thighs as though trying to keep them warm, squeezed tightly together in the hopes it might kill, still her nerves. All signs of weaknesses have ever granted her are further agitation. She'd rather choke on her own fingers, shove them down her own throat, than show anyone even a sliver of it.

But Patrick isn't just anyone, is he? And if there's one thing she can sacrifice hiding the tremor for, it's making sure he doesn't need to care any more than he already does.

So, her fingers shake as they wrap around the cup handed to her, and her leg bounces with the fury of a thousand civilians scrambling away from a falling bomb and a soon-to-be impact zone.

"Can't," she offers simply, inhaling, exhaling through her nose, a full body sagging as the warmth of the tea creeps into her fingers and grants her something else to focus on.

"I... I can't. Can't shut up-," stop, stop, okay, no need, bite down, swallow, good girl. Be quiet. Keep it all inside. Her parents most-instilled wisdom. "I feel like... I'm- I constantly feel like I'm forgetting something or I should be doing something, I-"

She feels nauseous at the mere idea of bringing the tea close to her lips and holds it in her lap instead. At least she isn't dolled up today. Silver-lining and all.

Her gaze flickers up. He's too kind, it's a thought that strikes her over and over and over again. Ever since the first time she'd met him, only that at the time, the thought had come along with growls and hisses. No way could that be genuine. No way could he care. No way.

"You shouldn't be here," she mutters, and leans forward suddenly with the surge of the need to clarify. "You should be getting some rest yourself, I mean. You- This must be exhausting to you, you've got-..."

The pause feels more like an interruption than anything else.

"Have you been resting? Like, at all? I don't..." she tilts her head, an unconscious gesture, suddenly a child again. "I've never asked... how you're doing."