Re: second class smoking room
That looking and being in love isn't enough prickles at the back of Charming's neck. The smoking man knows love and loss, but his own love is new! Fresh as a new plucked daisy (and dying just as quick, adds some small internal voice) is his love. The fiery god doesn't know what he's talking about, and that's a fact. His girl with the pretty hair all dressed up like a doll with no place to go, she is waiting for him in a tower, somewhere. He only has to find her.
But his mission lacks urgency, and tangles in confusion. Has he ever loved anyone? Has anyone ever loved him? "Not hurt," he murmurs, looking down at his knuckles. "I just cut myself." He says the words, but the memory is a blank. What did he cut his hands on? He can't remember, so it must not have been important.
"Your lady," says Charming, leaning back onto one foot, "Did she love more than the sight of you?" It's not a taunt, but it is a challenge. Somehow, every question the god poses erodes his confidence in his tale a little more. It's petty to want revenge for that, but he does all the same, and while he waits for an answer he tries to construct his true love's face from Petrarchan ideals, wires of gold and coal black brows.