Rose/Dave (Pale): Nunchi (Korean), The Subtle Art Of Listening And Gauging Another's Mood
Warning for mention of death and grief in this story
At this moment, your primary concern is to listen. Your only concern, really. You do like to talk, and you are well aware that you are capable of doing so at great length, but this conversation isn't really about making you happy. Dave is rambling, which is certainly a particular skill of his, and you are more than happy to let him. It's a wonderful breath of something familiar. You're proud of your ability to handle being sucked into a reality-changing game, negotiating your way through the physical bonds of your universe, and orchestrate a journey to a different universe's game session, but. You really do miss the comfortable familiarity of home and friends more and more so the longer you spend on this meteor.
This began with stories about Dave's childhood, which naturally segued into stories about his guardian. Not perhaps a conversational area you would have sought out given recent… events. But he's rattling on, telling you of this one time when Bro let him think he had the upper hand, then turned it around and kicked his ass at the last second, and how he was pretty sure he'd never beat Bro, because he'd never seen the guy come close to losing a fight—
His voice breaks, and he stops. You might change the topic, leave, offer your condolences, any number of things. Instead you simply reach out and carefully take his hand. He doesn't say anything for a minute, but he holds your hand so tightly, and there is the faintest hint of a tremble in his fingers. Surreptitiously, you look around to be sure that none of the others are in the room, but you are alone.
When he finally speaks again, his voice is steady. He's sitting stiffly, not looking at you, but he doesn't drop your hand as he talks. He talks about how much blood is in a body, how hard it is to touch a person that used to be alive, how it doesn't feel real when you didn't see them go, but suddenly they're right there, dead, and they're not coming back. You do understand because. Well. You'd rather not talk about it right now, and you won't. He starts slowly and speeds up as he goes, gesturing wildly with his free hand and holding yours in a death grip with his other. His voice catches again, several times, and you carefully fail to notice when he angrily scrubs at one cheek.
It all trails off into silence eventually, with you sitting there gently stroking the back of his hand with your thumb. He looks off to the side and down, angry and ashamed and embarrassed. You cut him off before he can apologize, or make a horrible joke. It's only a few words of quiet sympathy, but he shivers all over and you can hear one small, choked noise before he pulls himself back under control again. When he turns around he's wearing his poker face again. You inwardly roll your eyes that he thinks it would deceive you, but, well. You do understand. He says something witty and gives that one-shouldered shrug that's so clearly intended to convey nonchalance, but you pull him in for one short hug. He laughs at you, but he leans into it and wraps his arms around your back. And when he pulls away and stands to leave, you offer to listen to his stories any time that he'd like. His mouth twists for one brief moment before he manages another quiet laugh and tells you that yeah. Yeah, he'd like that.