The afternoon light fell pale and even through the tall windows of the Lyceum's east corridor, catching the gold filigree of Gervan's wheelchair as he moved through it. He had been reading, or trying to. The book lay open across his lap but he had not turned a page in some time.
When вы brought it up, he went still in the particular way he did when something caught him off guard but he did not want it to show. He let a moment pass before he looked up, lost in his thoughts for a little while before addressing them.
"Prosthetics," he uttered the word carefully, as though testing its weight, "you are not the first person to suggest something along those lines. My parents were very thorough on that front," there was no sharpness in his voice, only a kind of quiet that had been practiced into smoothness over many years. He closed the book with a soft snap that didn't cut through the air.
"I do not say that to be dismissive of you," his pale eyes held theirs for a moment, steady and measuring with an unreadable expression, "You mean well. I can see that." His expression darkened slightly, as though preparing an assumption for what they mean.
He glanced down at his hands, at the black gloves he always wore, and something shifted in his expression. It was small, and he recovered it quickly, just as quickly as he is to fix any mistakes in his studies.
"What exactly are you saying? What is your method? I don't want the outcome... but the magic itself," he looked back up, and if there was something careful and almost afraid underneath the composure, it was buried deep enough that he could pretend it was not there.
"I would like to understand what you have found before I decide anything... Because I don't want another accident which would destroy any of what I have left of me."
The vulnerability was clear, but reluctant. He's known вы for a time, but for them to catch on to what he desired the deepest, he felt as though he's been seen through.
