"Good... that's good. Thank you." It doesn't give him much information on where Sunday's soul is, but at least... he knows one place it isn't.
He barely registers the hand moving across his back until his wings twitch at the unexpected contact. A reflex. But the touch doesn’t press, doesn’t restrain. His wings soon droop, heavy, though a bit of lift remains—just enough not to obstruct Casper’s movements. ((Don't ask how Sankta wings work heck if I know))
Having trouble with this—grief—is normal. Apparently. It doesn't feel normal. It feels impossible. Exhausting. Painful.
But perhaps that's what Casper meant. To let it happen anyway.
"I... I'll do what I can," he murmurs, voice thin. "I'm not sure what that looks like yet." Protect the others. But they're scattered across this deck, and right now, it’s all he can do to stay semi-upright.
And even that is slipping.
His weight leans further and further into Casper as the tears slow. He’s fading. Drained. But something about the young man’s amusement tugs at his awareness. A joke that is also a promise. A serious one. (It's a miracle he caught the joke at all.) "You... don’t have to do that..." he says, though the words hold little resistance. He thinks he understands the sincerity and the comfort offered.
More reassurances. More warmth. It is comforting. Federico doesn't understand why it is-no words will bring him back-but it is.
His breath hitches slightly at the next thought, disoriented and quiet: "Why...? Is it... part of your work for the dead?"
no subject
He barely registers the hand moving across his back until his wings twitch at the unexpected contact. A reflex. But the touch doesn’t press, doesn’t restrain. His wings soon droop, heavy, though a bit of lift remains—just enough not to obstruct Casper’s movements. ((Don't ask how Sankta wings work heck if I know))
Having trouble with this—grief—is normal. Apparently. It doesn't feel normal. It feels impossible. Exhausting. Painful.
But perhaps that's what Casper meant. To let it happen anyway.
"I... I'll do what I can," he murmurs, voice thin. "I'm not sure what that looks like yet." Protect the others. But they're scattered across this deck, and right now, it’s all he can do to stay semi-upright.
And even that is slipping.
His weight leans further and further into Casper as the tears slow. He’s fading. Drained. But something about the young man’s amusement tugs at his awareness. A joke that is also a promise. A serious one. (It's a miracle he caught the joke at all.) "You... don’t have to do that..." he says, though the words hold little resistance. He thinks he understands the sincerity and the comfort offered.
More reassurances. More warmth. It is comforting. Federico doesn't understand why it is-no words will bring him back-but it is.
His breath hitches slightly at the next thought, disoriented and quiet: "Why...? Is it... part of your work for the dead?"
His eyes are closed. He doesn't seem to notice.
Even if this was for work..."You're very kind..."