You’re beautiful. And me? Not so beautiful.
Caleb stills a moment. In the candlelight, and staring as he does at the tome in his hands, it is easy to see the sharp, angular features of his jaw, the striking flickers of colour in his eyes, where everything else is covered in a dark grime.
When he looks up, his brow is knitted. “No,” he says, and it is very soft. Caleb closes the tome, and his fingers rest against the leather cover as he leans forward, and his gaze is something electric and surefelt. “I do not think that is true.”
A pause.
“You have -- eyes that glow in the dark, yes, and many -- many misaligned teeth, to be sure. But. Your soul.” And there is no hesitation in the way Caleb’s fingers lift from the tome and reach to press against where Nott’s heart would be -- and Caleb knows where it is, because he is a studious sort, and he would know these sorts of things. “Your soul is -- is -- is -- so kind, and thoughtful, and smart, and so well meaning, and, and, and truly beautiful -- ... And mine is, eh, shit.”
Black as tar and foul to match. Perhaps it says something that he doesn’t look away or flinch when he says that -- about the truth of it all, and the soul-binding belief in it. He just tilts his head a bit, the most tiniest of shrugs. What can you do?
After another moment, he gives Nott a twitching sort of smile, and taps her on the nose, and settles back.
“So you see, we are opposites, you and me.”
