[For as quickly as it had bubbled to the surface, Eridanus' anger is placated by the gentle touch against his jaw. He turns his face into it, solace sought in the pads of those fingers. Familiarity joined with Lucius' idle need to disturb the space of others was quickly becoming the recipe of comfort that ebbed the pain that would otherwise consume his heart. He knew Lucius to simply be curious, but there was a part of him that wondered of a deeper meaning in this conversation. His brows knot together, a grimace briefly holding his visage before he releases a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.]

You should know that even I strive for perfection, but I am done talking about me. [They were difficult memories as they were, especially since the last one was filled with written letters to Rosefica between battles. Eridanus is not Lucius, he is not a dancer on the battlefield, and he does not consider it his home.]

Tell me, beloved Lucius, was there a time where you were not perfect? A time where you found the ample room to be better than you were? [He knew the man before him would be lying, for no one wins every battle in one splendid motion. As he speaks, his hand takes the one at his opalite jaw, and coaxes its fingers to trace the line where flesh and precious stone meet.]