[ It is not so simply a 'noticing'. Rather, it is the careful anticipation of when Julius—Julius, who has withdrawn even further into himself over the course of the night; Julius, who reminds the Director so very much of himself, at times—will choose to take his leave of the party.
Since their sojourn in the Leithian meadowland and sunshine (that day when a trio of friends had relaxed and laughed, speaking of light, airy things like belonging, like dreams), Julius' health has been in a slow but sure decline, and as much hasn't escaped the Director's eyes. Upon his return to Westerley's Command Post, Sion had sequestered himself away in his office, perusing anything, everything of note within Julius' company file. Truth be told, the investigation had been fueled by hope; by a truehearted wish that what Sion suspected (dreaded and feared) would be disproven: what he glimpsed in Julius, it could not parallel that which had been done to both himself and his dear comrades, the friends which had suffered as he had. The people who he'd sworn to save.
(The soldiers who he had promised to show a kinder, better world to before he'd lead them to their graves.)
But his findings left no shadow of doubt, just as the blood on Julius' hands left no room for inaction.
This time, Sion is the one to offer Julius a handkerchief, the square of cream fabric trimmed with gold, pretty but not so delicate as to be of disuse. ]
You are hurting.
[ Hurting in a way the Director is familiar with himself: pain, which stems from being both more and less than human. ]
Why did you say nothing? [ Gingerly, gently, Sion presses the flat of his hand to Julius' back, reassuring and steady. Though he'd witnessed only the end of the coughing fit, the blood is testament enough to its severity. A wonder, that Julius remains on his feet; that his breathing is labored, shallow, but not uncontrolled. ]
Nevermind it, do not speak. [ —chiding, it is impossible not to hear that the Director's voice is edged with with worry, his brow furrowed in concern as his golden eyes flash, suddenly sharp. ] I want for no protest when I escort you back to your ship.
no subject
Since their sojourn in the Leithian meadowland and sunshine (that day when a trio of friends had relaxed and laughed, speaking of light, airy things like belonging, like dreams), Julius' health has been in a slow but sure decline, and as much hasn't escaped the Director's eyes. Upon his return to Westerley's Command Post, Sion had sequestered himself away in his office, perusing anything, everything of note within Julius' company file. Truth be told, the investigation had been fueled by hope; by a truehearted wish that what Sion suspected (dreaded and feared) would be disproven: what he glimpsed in Julius, it could not parallel that which had been done to both himself and his dear comrades, the friends which had suffered as he had. The people who he'd sworn to save.
(The soldiers who he had promised to show a kinder, better world to before he'd lead them to their graves.)
But his findings left no shadow of doubt, just as the blood on Julius' hands left no room for inaction.
This time, Sion is the one to offer Julius a handkerchief, the square of cream fabric trimmed with gold, pretty but not so delicate as to be of disuse. ]
You are hurting.
[ Hurting in a way the Director is familiar with himself: pain, which stems from being both more and less than human. ]
Why did you say nothing? [ Gingerly, gently, Sion presses the flat of his hand to Julius' back, reassuring and steady. Though he'd witnessed only the end of the coughing fit, the blood is testament enough to its severity. A wonder, that Julius remains on his feet; that his breathing is labored, shallow, but not uncontrolled. ]
Nevermind it, do not speak. [ —chiding, it is impossible not to hear that the Director's voice is edged with with worry, his brow furrowed in concern as his golden eyes flash, suddenly sharp. ] I want for no protest when I escort you back to your ship.