well i grew up quick and i grew up mean

@Lyric !

Old age drives one to sentimentality, it seemed.

In the days since meeting Alastor, Aesop had been swinging between high and low. He was euphoric, nostalgic, ecstatic, melancholic. He was lonely, but never alone. He spent his nights beneath the stars and he muttered Greek under his breath, and he felt three years younger.

He was careful about his feelings. He parceled them out, sorted them into neat little boxes labelled 'Alastor' and 'Erasmus.' It would not do to fall in love with a memory masquerading as something different.

So his days were distracted. He made sure to practice his skills, Greek now among them. During the days he sought out plants, and while he walked he practiced his language. And when the nights came he divined their purposes, though he steadfastly ignored whatever they might have to say about Cancers and love.

Such was one of those nights, out on the rocky edge of the beach. He watched the stars tilt in the sky and watched the waves cycle through their tides, and he let himself feel just a little sentimental.