If Eddie's miserable state strikes an emotional chord in him — pleasure, pain, or just pity — he muffles it well.
"It's Roman." Roman Fairchild. Pretentious, pleasantly musky with historical reference, and positively oozing blue blood all at once. He'd barely realized what the name entailed, when he'd first picked it on a lark. Now he loves it. He's learned to love it. "Your Eridan is dead and buried."
There's a certain manic delight in playing along to a theme. He'd never fully appreciated it until adulthood.
"Feelin' ballsy today, I take it?" Half a cigarette hangs out of his mouth, trailing lazy smoke up into the smoggy City sky. Eridan's tone is impassive, unreadable. Practiced. "I figured you'd already be runnin'."
It's a taunt, maybe. Or a threat. Or neither. Eridan doesn't pretend that Eddie doesn't know what he's been up to these past six years, or the line drawn in the sand between their causes.
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"It's Roman." Roman Fairchild. Pretentious, pleasantly musky with historical reference, and positively oozing blue blood all at once. He'd barely realized what the name entailed, when he'd first picked it on a lark. Now he loves it. He's learned to love it. "Your Eridan is dead and buried."
There's a certain manic delight in playing along to a theme. He'd never fully appreciated it until adulthood.
"Feelin' ballsy today, I take it?" Half a cigarette hangs out of his mouth, trailing lazy smoke up into the smoggy City sky. Eridan's tone is impassive, unreadable. Practiced. "I figured you'd already be runnin'."
It's a taunt, maybe. Or a threat. Or neither. Eridan doesn't pretend that Eddie doesn't know what he's been up to these past six years, or the line drawn in the sand between their causes.