Eridan had never actually felt pale before, not in all his miserable salt-soaked years. Not during either of his petty, halfhearted attempts at moirallegiance, not hardly, and he'd never thought he would. Moirallegiance is a leash, he'd spat the few times it had been suggested in his youth, and princes don't wear leashes. A soft shoosh and cordial pap to numb the sharp edges that composed greatness, that's all it ever was. The societal construct of scared and shivering whelks. He'd never needed that, and he'd never cared enough to offer it to anyone else.
By his third shhhh into the dark fight-mussed span of Eddie's hair, he'd broken it near the end with a lightly hysterical half-giggle at the ridiculousness of it all. More of a rattle, actually. The chain smoking hadn't done his human body much good.
"Oh, Eddie," mumbled against his scalp; leg wrapped around the other man's and rolling them just slightly off kilter, onto their sides. He pillowed Eddie's head with the span of his arm and ignored the bite of the cold tile. "You're a fuckin' mess if I ever saw one. God, I'm so sorry."
What exactly he was sorry for — not being at Eddie's side to protect him back then, not being the right hand, not intervening when he was caught, not stepping in during the torture, not following him afterwards, there was actually quite a variety of failings to choose from here — he didn't know, didn't care to look into very deeply. Examining his numerous failings had never been an effort Eridan had made willingly. But he was undeniably sorry, and that was actually remarkably upsetting.
Was this genuine paleness? He wasn't sure. Still, Edward Nygma was just about the only creature that needed him in all those soft, tenderly platonic ways right here, right now. The only person that seemed to need or want him at all. Eridan flicked the dying sputter of his cigarette across the linoleum and closed his eyes, breathing in panic sweat and the smoke from his own clothing.
"You can tell me about him later." The riptide tug of his own curiosity couldn't keep him from that. He wasn't a saint, after all. "I don't want you gettin' too deep and frothin' into my Gucci, now."
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By his third shhhh into the dark fight-mussed span of Eddie's hair, he'd broken it near the end with a lightly hysterical half-giggle at the ridiculousness of it all. More of a rattle, actually. The chain smoking hadn't done his human body much good.
"Oh, Eddie," mumbled against his scalp; leg wrapped around the other man's and rolling them just slightly off kilter, onto their sides. He pillowed Eddie's head with the span of his arm and ignored the bite of the cold tile. "You're a fuckin' mess if I ever saw one. God, I'm so sorry."
What exactly he was sorry for — not being at Eddie's side to protect him back then, not being the right hand, not intervening when he was caught, not stepping in during the torture, not following him afterwards, there was actually quite a variety of failings to choose from here — he didn't know, didn't care to look into very deeply. Examining his numerous failings had never been an effort Eridan had made willingly. But he was undeniably sorry, and that was actually remarkably upsetting.
Was this genuine paleness? He wasn't sure. Still, Edward Nygma was just about the only creature that needed him in all those soft, tenderly platonic ways right here, right now. The only person that seemed to need or want him at all. Eridan flicked the dying sputter of his cigarette across the linoleum and closed his eyes, breathing in panic sweat and the smoke from his own clothing.
"You can tell me about him later." The riptide tug of his own curiosity couldn't keep him from that. He wasn't a saint, after all. "I don't want you gettin' too deep and frothin' into my Gucci, now."