Keep it cool. Keep it together. Don't show just how much worse your dread gets the more she speaks, the more she talks about the war, about taking away an Aegis' choice by forcing them to fight. Zelos stabs at the pancake with his fork. Once, twice. Breathe in, breathe out. Don't even let Sheena get even the slightest lick of your anxiety, don't let anyone see how badly this is hurting already. Stop thinking about the cannon. Stop thinking about the cannon. Stop thinking about the cannon stop thinking about the cannon stop thinking about the cannon stop thinking about the cannon--
A voice cuts through so sharply that Zelos suddenly drops his fork. He blinks. Looks up to meet Malos' eyes.
He's... been addressed? He risks a glance at Anna. She's looking his way, too.
It looks like he's been addressed.
Oh, shit.
It's--It's fine. Keep cool. He breathes in deep, goes back to making eye contact with Malos, because at least looking at a blade helps the sickening pool of pain and guilt and horror in his gut to freeze over a little. Zelos rolls his eyes and hastily constructs a mask of annoyed nonchalance, as if Malos' request was personally troubling him, as if this were anything but the salvation that he wants to get the fuck away from cannon talk. "If you insist," Zelos says. It's the only thing that'll come. And it's pretty weak, maybe, but he's trying his fucking hardest to keep his voice calm and steady, making it a show out of slowly getting up from his seat despite every nerve in his body telling him to vault it the fuck out of this room.
He throws his hair over his shoulder and follows Malos out without further protest, the easy smile on his face hiding discomfort, hands at his sides balled into fists.
no subject
A voice cuts through so sharply that Zelos suddenly drops his fork. He blinks. Looks up to meet Malos' eyes.
He's... been addressed? He risks a glance at Anna. She's looking his way, too.
It looks like he's been addressed.
Oh, shit.
It's--It's fine. Keep cool. He breathes in deep, goes back to making eye contact with Malos, because at least looking at a blade helps the sickening pool of pain and guilt and horror in his gut to freeze over a little. Zelos rolls his eyes and hastily constructs a mask of annoyed nonchalance, as if Malos' request was personally troubling him, as if this were anything but the salvation that he wants to get the fuck away from cannon talk. "If you insist," Zelos says. It's the only thing that'll come. And it's pretty weak, maybe, but he's trying his fucking hardest to keep his voice calm and steady, making it a show out of slowly getting up from his seat despite every nerve in his body telling him to vault it the fuck out of this room.
He throws his hair over his shoulder and follows Malos out without further protest, the easy smile on his face hiding discomfort, hands at his sides balled into fists.