Hushed Willows plain white shirt and a skinny black tie

reif seems to be thinking something important, so atwood leans forward slightly, offering the full weight of his attention. his attention is rewarded when his brother talks finally, recognition widening atwood's eyes. he's not the only one, then, who thinks about it. this makes sense -- he'd known, of course, that reif must have seen it too -- but that is different from thinking about it. from dreaming it. 

"me too," he says quietly. "mostly in dreams. just - the sound, and the red, and everyone screaming. it was so -- so wet," his nose wrinkles at the memory. "i didn't want to look at -- at him, like that. and i didn't, really, even though cam was grabbing at him, because he wouldn't listen to me about it. but i can kinda. imagine it, i guess." he lifts one shoulder and rolls it inelegantly, looking anywhere but at his brother. maybe that's too much. but he has to share it.

the rain grows heavier, and atwood shifts closer to reif, seeking shelter under the willows. "maybe you are different," he says, because comfort isn't a skill he's learned yet. but then he adds "i think i am, probably," with a oddly long-suffering sigh for a child. mama - seabreeze mama - says he's like ariel, sometimes, her face all soft and sad when she does, though she tries to make it sound happy, he thinks. it makes atwood ache in a way he can't identify -- is he walking in the footsteps of his dead mother? is that a burden or a gift? he doesn't know, and he doesn't think reif will either, so he doesn't say any of this, just looks at the rain pensively.