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
[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?