( Ginger has free access to all the neglected pillows... they're soft, at least. Mika sits on the couch without a particular sense of getting comfortable; he's just kind of here. It felt weird to have a totally empty room, but he doesn't know how to interact with his own furniture, either. He just feels out of place, regardless.

He rests an elbow on his knee and his cheek in his palm, gazing at Ginger. "We're all worth crying over"... Not him; he insists. But the intent and the sentiment isn't lost on him. )

I guess not. ( On taking them back. ) Your tears don't sound like any I've heard. Big and warm.

( Weird descriptor for crying, but listen— the fact of the matter is that he can hear and feel and see everything around him to a frighteningly precise degree: he can hear the interlocking score that comprises the world's harmony, as God had written it, intended it, and its splendor. It just struggles to stir his heart, if it ever does at all. It's torturous, to be always surrounded by beauty, and to feel acutely how little it moves you.

He closes his eyes, for a moment. Somewhere in the soft flicker of the candlelight and the crackle of the fireplace is Ginger's breathing, affected by emotion; feeling circulating through the body... )

... Is it hard? Being half one thing, half another?