❛ nothing matters at all. might as well be nice to people. ❜
softer world sentence meme: @dahyarif
“Don’t like that,” Molly murmurs. He tilts Joy’s head back with the very tips of his fingers, parting their hair to dab oil below the root. He rubs circles against their scalp, a pattern similar to the one he often takes to his horns. “I mean, I do. The second half. Are you a nihilist now?”
The late morning is brisk today, greets them with a startlingly rare blue sky and white wisps of clouds, the broken up remnants of the light rain that scuttled through the evening prior. Whenever the wind doesn’t gust, it’s uncommonly humid. More rain is on the way, he thinks. It’s been days since he’s seen the sun last, rare as it is in Wildemount according to Gustav, and it glints off Joy’s hair, makes it look like coils of spun gold similar to the lions he’s seen on tapestries peddled by the mercantile caravans they pass on the road. It fits. He sections it into two tails, begins working through one side with his fingers.
They deserve this. It’s been a rough few days.
“Being nice to people matters.” Molly rolls the words around in his mouth before he says anything. It’s so brusque it sounds like he doesn’t mean it. “Leaving them with a, uh. With a good memory matters. That’s all we are, inevitably, right? I never want someone to have bad memories of me, not unless they deserve them.”
Molly doesn’t have many of his own, but he knows enough that he wants to do better than what he’s got. He allows their ends to slip from between his clasped palms, begins on the second section. His lips firm together, soften. Not every day is a good day, he knows that intimately, but he doesn’t know what haunts the corners of Joy’s smiles—all Molly understands is that he can see it, and that it disturbs him enough to want to ask.
Molly squeezes soft handfuls of Joy’s hair, fluffs it a bit as he releases it around their shoulders. He picks up a rag that’s seen better days, paws errantly at his hands to clean whatever oil remains. He pats gently at the top of their head, considering his next words.
“Doesn’t always…feel like it,” he says, quiet again, slower, as though the truth is a cornered animal he’s approaching with hands outstretched. “Like anything matters. We’re all hurtling towards the same thing.”
There are people who’ve had it worse than waking up in a grave with no memories. Yasha, he thinks. Toya. Ornna, for sure. He doesn’t have to carry the weight of his tragedy. He’s careful with his next inhalation, makes sure it’s measured, like he’s only taking in the breeze and not so much like he’s trying to settle the tremble coursing from sternum to belly. The towel pats at the back of Joy’s long neck. He injects a lightness into his next words.
“But if I get there before you do it’d be nice if you remembered me for my uh, generosity. Who else would be willing to take care of all this hair?”
