[People are dolls, he says. The world is his dollhouse. Where is the lie? If something stood between Lobelia and his happiness, he'd simply remove it— toss those dolls aside with a flick of the wrist.
Self-preservation always came first. Any doubt, guilt, shame, only stood in the way of his goal. He hears the voices of his parents like they still stand beside him, reminding him of what's important.
Everyone has the right to be happy. Even you, Lobelia.
Hansa sees the truth, plain and ugly. Lobelia isn't happy. He can't be, won't be, living life the way he does. Lobelia sees it too. It gnaws on him, refusing to be ignored.
Lobelia settles on the floor, legs crossed, back to Hansa. He's thinking, not brooding. Concentrating, not pouting. So he'll say if Hansa thinks to question him.]
Because it reminds me that I'm alive— a human, like you. Nothing more than a simple man. It's something I've earned, isn't it? If pain finds me, I welcome it with open arms, because it was meant for me.
Does nothing else remind you that you're alive? Your precious music? Talking with others?
[Is pain really the end-all be-all of everything? Hardly not. Hansa scoffs, shaking his head as he pulls himself forward to lean on the back of the pew.]
Something you've earned. How strange. You act without remorse, and yet, for your actions, you expect some payment in the form of pain.
[Lobelia lifts his head at that, feeling as though Hansa's words have brushed against forgotten thing inside of himself. He doesn't shy away from the question. He accepts the scrutiny without flinching.]
Of course there are other things. Music. Conversation. The simple joy of another person's voice meeting mine. I am not so starved for sensation that I mistake every pleasure for pain.
[A thin, wry exhale.]
But pain is honest. Music lies, words lie, people lie. Even happiness... slips through my fingers when I reach for it.
Pain doesn't pretend to be anything else. When it finds me, it means I acted. I chose it for myself.
[His expression softens— very slightly, but enough that it shows he is not arguing, merely revealing.]
You say I expect payment. Perhaps I do. Perhaps I feel I must earn whatever small brightness the world gives me. Because it was not freely given before. But treating myself better...?
[He considers this with a tilt of the head, caught somewhere between melancholy and amusement.]
Mm. If I knew how to do that, mon cher, do you think I'd be here in this church, baring my throat to your questions?
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no subject
Self-preservation always came first. Any doubt, guilt, shame, only stood in the way of his goal. He hears the voices of his parents like they still stand beside him, reminding him of what's important.
Everyone has the right to be happy. Even you, Lobelia.
Hansa sees the truth, plain and ugly. Lobelia isn't happy. He can't be, won't be, living life the way he does. Lobelia sees it too. It gnaws on him, refusing to be ignored.
Lobelia settles on the floor, legs crossed, back to Hansa. He's thinking, not brooding. Concentrating, not pouting. So he'll say if Hansa thinks to question him.]
Because it reminds me that I'm alive— a human, like you. Nothing more than a simple man. It's something I've earned, isn't it? If pain finds me, I welcome it with open arms, because it was meant for me.
no subject
[Is pain really the end-all be-all of everything? Hardly not. Hansa scoffs, shaking his head as he pulls himself forward to lean on the back of the pew.]
Something you've earned. How strange. You act without remorse, and yet, for your actions, you expect some payment in the form of pain.
[So what does he really feel?]
Treat yourself better, Lobelia.
no subject
Of course there are other things. Music. Conversation. The simple joy of another person's voice meeting mine. I am not so starved for sensation that I mistake every pleasure for pain.
[A thin, wry exhale.]
But pain is honest. Music lies, words lie, people lie. Even happiness... slips through my fingers when I reach for it.
Pain doesn't pretend to be anything else. When it finds me, it means I acted. I chose it for myself.
[His expression softens— very slightly, but enough that it shows he is not arguing, merely revealing.]
You say I expect payment. Perhaps I do. Perhaps I feel I must earn whatever small brightness the world gives me. Because it was not freely given before. But treating myself better...?
[He considers this with a tilt of the head, caught somewhere between melancholy and amusement.]
Mm. If I knew how to do that, mon cher, do you think I'd be here in this church, baring my throat to your questions?