[It's one of those small things that remind Octavian that he and Charles are very different even when it comes to their innate nature as ghosts. Ghostly beings. His severe aversion to actually behaving in a manner befitting, well, a ghost is his own problem, and so he stands there for a moment just looking at the still-closed door before turning away to see what Charles is doing.
Chattering, it seems, ah youth—]
The symbols are not hard to learn.
[He could do a little bunch of flash cards or something— no, but maybe a sheet of notes? Hmm, much to think about.
But Charles has already moved on to the photo, and Octavian comes over to look at it alongside him. It's three men in a sitting room of some opulence, two seated on a plush sofa: one of them is clearly Octavian, alive and well but not much different than he appears now besides that. The other seated man is visibly just Octavian without the glasses with more neatly coiffed hair and a relaxed slouch; the two of them appear enjoyably mid-conversation, not looking at the photographer.
The third man appears about their age, maybe a few years older (could be the tightly trimmed facial hair), standing behind the couch with rigidly upright posture and actually looking at the camera, smiling mildly, like he expected these two to not take the moment entirely seriously. His clothes are finer in an intentional way, quality made to be looked at, and the overall impression he gives is businesslike. His hand is on Octavian's shoulder.]
That is my brother. Sterling. One of the greatest intellectual minds of a generation. [In his esteemed opinion, which is the one that matters. Anyway,] He died.
[And did not hack what remained of his soul into a ghost, is the implication here. Octavian turns to drift back to his sitting area, waving a hand at the photograph as he goes.]
no subject
Chattering, it seems, ah youth—]
The symbols are not hard to learn.
[He could do a little bunch of flash cards or something— no, but maybe a sheet of notes? Hmm, much to think about.
But Charles has already moved on to the photo, and Octavian comes over to look at it alongside him. It's three men in a sitting room of some opulence, two seated on a plush sofa: one of them is clearly Octavian, alive and well but not much different than he appears now besides that. The other seated man is visibly just Octavian without the glasses with more neatly coiffed hair and a relaxed slouch; the two of them appear enjoyably mid-conversation, not looking at the photographer.
The third man appears about their age, maybe a few years older (could be the tightly trimmed facial hair), standing behind the couch with rigidly upright posture and actually looking at the camera, smiling mildly, like he expected these two to not take the moment entirely seriously. His clothes are finer in an intentional way, quality made to be looked at, and the overall impression he gives is businesslike. His hand is on Octavian's shoulder.]
That is my brother. Sterling. One of the greatest intellectual minds of a generation. [In his esteemed opinion, which is the one that matters. Anyway,] He died.
[And did not hack what remained of his soul into a ghost, is the implication here. Octavian turns to drift back to his sitting area, waving a hand at the photograph as he goes.]
Pay no heed to the rest.