"Not at all."

The hushed words were spoken through another downpour of smoke. Despite the addition of another presence beside him, Felix's half lidded eyes kept fixated forward, down at the remnants of another stranger's life. He wondered if he'd even get to live to that age. Given their unconventional line of work, it often did more damage to fret with concepts like death, as even one stray bullet could be the one to send their bodies to the ground. But, when confronted with realities of it, it was hard to apathetically trudge on, as he normally does every other day.

Reaching into his pocket, the admin fished out his pack of cigarettes and slid an additional stick far enough into Elisabeth's reach. A sign of peace among the half-dead.

"Are you out visiting someone?"

Elisabeth Fiorelli

"Ah."

Silently, he finally turned to face the woman, years of experience tugging his hands into action. He offered to light the cigarette.

"It's my first time," he admitted. When constantly surrounded by reminders of death, normally, he'd prefer to wait for his own demise before visiting the graves himself. It wasn't as though most of the people he'd come to know would've wanted to see his face again, anyways. It'd just serve as a rude reminder when one's spirit is meant to be resting in peace.

"Is that what I'm supposed to feel then? Peace?"

It was a question more for himself than the florist.

Elisabeth Fiorelli

As silly as it was, the woman's words brought great solace to the stoic man. Maybe, in this one specific way, he wasn't too far off from the average Hoenn citizen lurking around a cemetery at the crack of dawn. Just maybe, despite what most thought, even himself, there were still some ways Felix could be considered normal.

Another blanket of smoke blew out from his slightly parted lips, and with a shaky breath, his gaze slipped back over to Elisabeth. Hollowed, distant, cold, his eyes were vacuums, voided of even the small flickers of emotion she would have already grown to know.

"I got a call this morning," The monotonous voice spoke back. " My father passed away in his sleep."

Elisabeth Fiorelli

"No."

Bitterness wrung his words dry. There was no warmth to be found, nor care between his words. But, if one were to squint their eyes and search between the lines, slivers of regret could be found, hidden behind the boulders of arid hatred that burned his throat.

Ash fell from the end of his cancer stick, disgracing the grounds of this unfamiliar grave. It was a shame another man was paying for his father's sins in this way, but at that very moment, Felix couldn't care less than he already did.

Elisabeth Fiorelli

The static was ravenous that hushed October morning. It consumed every thought that dared to flicker, every emotion that dared spark, and every word that even attempted to weasel out.

To Elisabeth's words, The Static twitched against his skull, forcing his fingers to curl tighter around the fragile cigarette until its insides leaked out the other end.

"..."

For a few seconds, a heavy silence fell between them, swaying along with the brisk wind, like the morning's first roll of fog.

When he finally replied, it was not with the normal stoicism that's grown synonymous with his very essence. There's hurt to be found in the way he spoke. It might've been small and fragmented, barely noticeable to most, but it was there.

"I don't know what I feel."

Elisabeth Fiorelli

The warmth that blossomed at his forearm came as a surprise, forcing his eyes to widen and his breathing to hitch. But, unlike this morning's call, it was surprising he welcomed. Appreciated it, even.

While his expression kept solid, his eyes softened at her touch.

"I don't think that's true."

Every thought, every feeling he bleeds, they have always been spoken through action and action alone. Never words.

It isolated him. Made him different for never understanding the emotions which propel people forward.

Slowly, gingerly, he placed his hand over hers, letting what little warmth she provided seep further into his skin.

"I don't remember the last time I've felt like this," he murmured, his voice soft. Barely steady. "I don't know what to do with myself."

Elisabeth Fiorelli