[It's the simple chores that he does best. Running errands. Clearing walkways of snow or leaves. Dipping the candles out at the end of the night, or sometimes letting them glow. It isn't difficult. Something ingrained in it. A habit. No reason to complain, or strive against the routine.
None that he can see.
Or maybe there is one. A nagging sort of voice, like snowflakes on the back of the neck. Not that he finds the work distasteful.
He doesn't have to keep his head so far down.
But he raises it, as he raises the shovel and raises his gaze to look at Gilgamesh's shrugs. Wonders what the silence qualifies as. The distaste that flows through the shrug and the absence of caring is answer enough, he supposes. He doesn't shake his head, but he is tempted. He doesn't laugh, but he is tempted. He shovels walks and keeps the church in order, but he is tempted.]
no subject
None that he can see.
Or maybe there is one. A nagging sort of voice, like snowflakes on the back of the neck. Not that he finds the work distasteful.
He doesn't have to keep his head so far down.
But he raises it, as he raises the shovel and raises his gaze to look at Gilgamesh's shrugs. Wonders what the silence qualifies as. The distaste that flows through the shrug and the absence of caring is answer enough, he supposes. He doesn't shake his head, but he is tempted. He doesn't laugh, but he is tempted. He shovels walks and keeps the church in order, but he is tempted.]
I'd guess not.