[Despite being completely exhausted and sleeping quite deeply when sleep finally found her, Kyrie is an instinctual early riser and finds herself awake long before Nero, who was conked out beside her with his arm draped over her waist, completely oblivious to the fact that he was being watched intently and adoringly by his girlfriend as he slept.
Eventually, she finds herself feeling restless and thirsty and manages to ease her way out of Nero's embrace, brushing the ghost of a kiss across his lips as she leaves the bed. Unsure of who's home, she dresses before heading to the kitchen to make some tea, readopting Nero's hoodie from the night before as a way of keeping him with her until he wakes up again. It's almost like wearing a hug, and she knows for a fact he will tease her for being a complete softie but she will certainly give as good as she gets if it happens.
She sets the kettle to boil as she begins searching as quietly as she can for teacups and teabags. Everything in the kitchen seems to be arranged in a sensible, logical way and she soon finds herself nursing a cup of Earl Grey and lemon, hoping it will soothe the scratchy throat she's woken up with and make her feel a bit less fuzzy headed. The house is quiet, not a soul besides herself is stirring and she enjoys the peace, savouring the aroma of her tea and the way the rosy morning light begins to brighten as the sun climbs.
And then she hears the door open and someone walk in.
It becomes apparent fairly soon who it is.
Kyrie is frozen to the spot, her eyes laser focused on Vergil as he moves into the space and then stops and straightens. Her stomach feels like it's tied in knots and she finds herself fighting the urge to abandon her tea and bolt back to the safety of her room and Nero where she won't have to deal with this. It's too soon, she doesn't know how to put her thoughts in order, let alone confront the very complicated feelings the revelations of the night before have brought out.
This man is Nero's father, and not so long ago (to her) he tore his son's arm off and left him to die on the floor of their garage.
It would be easier to pretend she doesn't know, to let herself observe and come to her own conclusions before she has that conversation and she's all but resolved to play it that way, but then Vergil speaks and that option is taken away from her.
He said you wished to hear me out.
It says something that Nero has already been in touch with him. She's not sure when that happened, how it had escaped her notice, and she has a brief, uncomfortable feeling like jealousy that there's someone else that Nero is sharing their conversations with. Immediately she berates herself for that; she's been so lucky to be foremost in Nero's affections for so long that she's just going to have to get used to sharing him with someone else he loves. It will be an adjustment.
At least she hasn't tried to kill him.
Again, she's appalled at how prickly her thoughts feel.
She hates confrontation, she hates getting into the weeds with something she doesn't know how to overcome, and this just might be one of the weediest patches she's found herself in.
She sets her tea aside, draws herself upright and takes a deep breath, trying very hard to keep her voice steady. Somehow this is even more intimidating that singing in front of a whole congregation; at least then there had been words and a melody to follow. No one has written a score for this.]
That's right. I do.
[She takes the steady delivery of her words without a single tremor to be a small win. Who knows how long it will last?]
no subject
Eventually, she finds herself feeling restless and thirsty and manages to ease her way out of Nero's embrace, brushing the ghost of a kiss across his lips as she leaves the bed. Unsure of who's home, she dresses before heading to the kitchen to make some tea, readopting Nero's hoodie from the night before as a way of keeping him with her until he wakes up again. It's almost like wearing a hug, and she knows for a fact he will tease her for being a complete softie but she will certainly give as good as she gets if it happens.
She sets the kettle to boil as she begins searching as quietly as she can for teacups and teabags. Everything in the kitchen seems to be arranged in a sensible, logical way and she soon finds herself nursing a cup of Earl Grey and lemon, hoping it will soothe the scratchy throat she's woken up with and make her feel a bit less fuzzy headed. The house is quiet, not a soul besides herself is stirring and she enjoys the peace, savouring the aroma of her tea and the way the rosy morning light begins to brighten as the sun climbs.
And then she hears the door open and someone walk in.
It becomes apparent fairly soon who it is.
Kyrie is frozen to the spot, her eyes laser focused on Vergil as he moves into the space and then stops and straightens. Her stomach feels like it's tied in knots and she finds herself fighting the urge to abandon her tea and bolt back to the safety of her room and Nero where she won't have to deal with this. It's too soon, she doesn't know how to put her thoughts in order, let alone confront the very complicated feelings the revelations of the night before have brought out.
This man is Nero's father, and not so long ago (to her) he tore his son's arm off and left him to die on the floor of their garage.
It would be easier to pretend she doesn't know, to let herself observe and come to her own conclusions before she has that conversation and she's all but resolved to play it that way, but then Vergil speaks and that option is taken away from her.
He said you wished to hear me out.
It says something that Nero has already been in touch with him. She's not sure when that happened, how it had escaped her notice, and she has a brief, uncomfortable feeling like jealousy that there's someone else that Nero is sharing their conversations with. Immediately she berates herself for that; she's been so lucky to be foremost in Nero's affections for so long that she's just going to have to get used to sharing him with someone else he loves. It will be an adjustment.
At least she hasn't tried to kill him.
Again, she's appalled at how prickly her thoughts feel.
She hates confrontation, she hates getting into the weeds with something she doesn't know how to overcome, and this just might be one of the weediest patches she's found herself in.
She sets her tea aside, draws herself upright and takes a deep breath, trying very hard to keep her voice steady. Somehow this is even more intimidating that singing in front of a whole congregation; at least then there had been words and a melody to follow. No one has written a score for this.]
That's right. I do.
[She takes the steady delivery of her words without a single tremor to be a small win. Who knows how long it will last?]