𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖎𝖈𝖊, 𝖓𝖔 𝖋𝖎𝖗𝖊
𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒖𝒆𝒅 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒂𝒔𝒌 - [ 𝒎𝒚𝒅𝒆𝒊 / 𝒑𝒉𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒐𝒏 ]
brows pinch sharply almost on impulse at the mention of burning the abandoned books, but the nagging, angry thought the mental image provokes is quickly and quietly subdued as expression evens out to something neutral once more. phainon bends down to pick one up as mydei continues speaking, looking first at the cover: simple blocks of color portray a woman in a long, billowing skirt with a wide-brimmed hat as she stands against the railing of one of the vehicles he'd seen driving around the city on metal tracks, face angled towards the figure of a man at the side of the vehicle who seems to be watching her in turn. the trolley problem: a love story, the simple title reads: a flip inside the cover starts the tale of a woman named margaret with dusty hair that curls softly and freckles on her cheeks who is posed with a difficult, near-impossible choice from the very first line...
hairs stand up on the back of his neck: phainon lowers the novel in his hand.
ah. mydei is looking at him.
he glances up and holds the eye contact quietly: then, when it seems the other man has finished his thought, he shakes his head and starts to walk over. "well, I'd wager that the person who owns these things likes sad and romantic stories," not that this assertion has anything to do with anything at all. he still doesn't like the idea of burning these, as silly or serious as they may be. then, a slow sigh: he pushes the book to the other man's chest, and nods his head towards a narrow staircase partly concealed by a shadowy hallway beyond this main room. "let's go upstairs and see if there's anything better to work with, maybe some furniture that the homeowner thought was too much a hassle to bring down earlier this week. it should be a little warmer up there, too." he doesn't move on himself just yet, though --- a glance down that traces over red markings wonders about what his final thought left implied and unsaid.
are you cold this time, genuinely? it seems so.
Sad, romantic stories? At first, he doesn’t understand the tangent, amber eyes searching Phainon’s expression to determine his dwindling sanity before he catches the book itself. The cover. “Tales of grief are rarely romantic.” He stalls, trying to picture it. To love and feel sadness for it? He doesn’t know why it’s important he point this out, so in the next breath he’s moving to where Phainon wishes to go. “You sound foolish.”
In and out. They’ve already accomplished their objective…but he can concede that it’d be smarter to see what else they can offer dying flames.
It is warmer, if only by a few degrees. Enough for Mydei’s skin to prickle with added awareness. The hallways are cramped and narrow – some flaw of design that allows the buildings to be so closely packed together while still housing full families. “They would have fared better staying in this house.” He says to himself, bypassing a child’s room along the corridor and finding two larger ones. In each, the linens had been stripped from the beds and taken titan’s only know where. The clothes were small, more befitting of one the size of Anaxagoras or Hyacine. “We can break down bed frames. Take these-“ These are thick, heavy curtains. Someone had clearly attempted to take them down without the proper tools and had given up halfway through.
After a few testing tugs, he rips the steel beam from the wall itself, limbs protesting his call to shift away from the debris. At least it’s nothing like Amphoreus’ falling pillars, he thinks, but it still draws a hiss from behind clenched teeth. Cool air rushes in from the place where the wall has been broken overhead, but the drape of thick fabric in his hands seems worth it. “Don’t just stand there.” He commands, wiping dust from stinging eyes and finding a bit of golden blood from how it collapsed over his head.
It's nothing. “Come…and help me.” Better that Phainon take the curtains, too long and tangled for his aching fingers.












