Greatwater Lake i don't like human nature unless all candied over with art

after a moment or two, okeanos lets himself drift to the ground, settling on his stomach like a rather small sphinx. his ears twitch back sheepishly as he teases -- he knows it's a bad compliment -- but he doesn't speak, listening intently to her instead. she talks so differently than his mothers and their gentle, warm spirituality, their firm belief in karma and lives woven together. but: he also thinks about ariel and lily's death, and his mouth twists.

she says several things that he doesn't  know what to do with. sex, for starters: he's not innocent in the sense that he more or less knows what it is and how one goes about it and why, but he's certainly virginal, and talking about it makes him want to fidget. also, she calls him cute, and what is he supposed to do about that? okeanos takes a beat to reply, letting his tonge swipe nervously against his lips. instinctively he wants to ask -- surely she's got friends or family that would care if she died -- but, well, she probably doesn't, if this is what she's telling him. so instead he says, quietly, "i would care," and gives her a searching look. he wants to explain -- even if the universe doesn't care, the people you meet, they remember you, parts of you, and that must count for something, we're all touching each other somehow (and, yes, in the sexy way too, he supposes), but he's not sure how to without sounding hopelessly naive. so he tries to put it all into his expression instead, open and a little vulnerable, as one tends to be at this time of night.