[for Wilhelm, chaos goes ahead and orders the avgolemeno with a side of grilled pita bread, because he knows Wilhelm will enjoy at least a couple bites of it. for himself, it's the shrimp santorini, just swimming in feta and oregano, and he gladly thanks God for the bounty, the opportunity to eat. having the means to fill his stomach will never be anything but a blessing.
he has to thank Wilhelm for picking up the tab, too. at two o'clock, just about on the dot, he reaches for his phone and he dials Wilhelm. the sound of Wilhelm's voice is more of a relief than he thought it would be. there isn't much else for him to hear--Wilhelm keeps a quiet, tidy office, or so chaos imagines, brooking no distractions. on chaos' end, there's the slightest, just the tiniest ruffle of his hair getting caught in a breeze. he tucked into his lunch on the back porch of Wilhelm's estate, with the sunlight to warm him and the flowers to keep him company. he's still sitting out there in a comfortable heap, cradling the phone between his ear and his shoulder.
ice clinks against ice when he finishes taking a sip of water. then:]
Wilhelm. I'm convinced I should be the one thanking you.
[that isn't the english language. that isn't greek, or french, or finnish, or spanish, or an obscure dialect of something they studied while in college. it's a language with more subtleties than any other known to man, allowing for an array of connotations, no matter the literal meaning. when chaos speaks in this unnamed tongue, he uses it to convey his thankfulness, his longing, and his own hope that he isn't interrupting anything important. it also holds the hope that Wilhelm hasn't forgotten the satisfaction and keen fellowship of being able to communicate like this. creating their own language within wreaths of notepads and flashcards was far more interesting than doing their linguistics homework. it's been a while since the last time chaos tried to do this...
but with more than 3,000 versatile words, they shouldn't have a problem holding a conversation.]
Did you get all the work done that you wanted to?
[curiosity, concern, a little bit of guilt, and just enough sun-warmed contentment.]
no subject
he has to thank Wilhelm for picking up the tab, too. at two o'clock, just about on the dot, he reaches for his phone and he dials Wilhelm. the sound of Wilhelm's voice is more of a relief than he thought it would be. there isn't much else for him to hear--Wilhelm keeps a quiet, tidy office, or so chaos imagines, brooking no distractions. on chaos' end, there's the slightest, just the tiniest ruffle of his hair getting caught in a breeze. he tucked into his lunch on the back porch of Wilhelm's estate, with the sunlight to warm him and the flowers to keep him company. he's still sitting out there in a comfortable heap, cradling the phone between his ear and his shoulder.
ice clinks against ice when he finishes taking a sip of water. then:]
Wilhelm. I'm convinced I should be the one thanking you.
[that isn't the english language. that isn't greek, or french, or finnish, or spanish, or an obscure dialect of something they studied while in college. it's a language with more subtleties than any other known to man, allowing for an array of connotations, no matter the literal meaning. when chaos speaks in this unnamed tongue, he uses it to convey his thankfulness, his longing, and his own hope that he isn't interrupting anything important. it also holds the hope that Wilhelm hasn't forgotten the satisfaction and keen fellowship of being able to communicate like this. creating their own language within wreaths of notepads and flashcards was far more interesting than doing their linguistics homework. it's been a while since the last time chaos tried to do this...
but with more than 3,000 versatile words, they shouldn't have a problem holding a conversation.]
Did you get all the work done that you wanted to?
[curiosity, concern, a little bit of guilt, and just enough sun-warmed contentment.]