Maybe he did—maybe he could—but he sure as the Circle didn't fucking want to find out.
Where the tall blond didn't hesitate, where he boldly moved to best express his sympathies, Niccolette received the comfort with her typical immovable grace. Words, he'd learned, always got in the way. His words, especially. He wasn't unaware of the trouble his mouth usually found for him and this time—this moment—he kept his scarred lips pressed tightly together. A slow exhale at the curl of nails into the light green of his uniform dress shirt, and Rhys' arms a little tighter because he was far too perceptive, far too sensitive, far to used to reading unspoken things in the fields of others.
It was enough, though, just enough, to tip the scales in his delicate veil, and if he pulled away quickly, if he turned on his heels and fled into the glaring sunlight, it was just as much for himself as it was for the dark-haired Bastian he'd once known too well.
Too much.
But still, here they were.
She had to watch him melt into his own seat once they were indoors, once all of his well-practiced manners were played out, one card at a time. Nicco sat with a purpose and it was all Rhys could do to keep his pieces together. The sheer strength of her field was a bastion, a shield that not only kept him at arms' length but also held him up—
Oh, that flicker of a smile before his attention was drawn to the human, patient and ready, turned his insides, cooled his nerves. He didn't really want to drink, but, damn the Circle, he really did,
"Same as the lady, thank you." He hid it all behind a smirk, unable to come to his own conclusions, suddenly overwhelmed by choices he shouldn't even have been making. The young Valentin dug the bones of his elbows against the table, feeling the pinch of nerves because he needed it,
"Four fucking snaps—I was an Inspector first—Investigative Division. Youngest Sergeant in at least a few decades, a century, maybe. I could've had it made—before—before—" Rhys searched her face, blue eyes washing over her grin like a tide rushing from shore, down to her hands, staring at the table while his teeth dug into that scar that split his bottom lip. His pale eyelashes fluttered. The words were there, burning in the seething oven of his narrow chest, a chest that had been battered and broken, put back together again, slowly, painfully, never to be the same.
Never the same. His jaw clenched, shifting in his seat, ignoring the ringing that lingered in his left ear.
"—until this year. I transferred to Patrol Division in Intas." He hesitated on naming the month, looking at her, knowing now that her start of the year was far worse than his own. He'd made his choice. She hadn't had one, that much he could tell, "On purpose. You'll never guess who my Captain is—and, fuck, chroveback is a bit rough on ... things. Yeah. I'll leave that for you to imagine, eh, Nicco? But you get used to it. Pain is, well, it's relative I suppose."
The bitter officer shrugged, dismissive, looking away from her to watch the bar, left foot beginning to bounce under the table to the sudden faster tempo of his pulse. He'd talked about all of this before, but it was more difficult than he could articulate to just dance along the edges, to draw just a thumb over the blade to see how sharp it was.
He was used to being hilt-deep.
Right in the guts.
A hand reached up, fingers raking through his hair, finding tangles, finally letting it fall from it's half-ersed tie. Too long. In need of a trim. Wild. Feral like he felt beneath the illusion of his Seventen greens.
Their server reappeared, their lack of a field and general body language allowing them to be unobtrusive and swift, depositing their drinks without a word before shuffling away from the dangerous depths of their conversation.
Rhys' hand fell, dropped, snatching his glass and immediately lifting it aloft in Niccolette's direction, raised in as rebellious and mocking of a cheer as he could ever be known for, letting a smile crease its way into his well-carved features, gentle and true,
"Sana'hulali, Uzoji."
Hello. Goodbye. Many Blessings. It all meant the same in Mugrobi and he meant it, swallowing everything else that could have been with a mouthful of Brunelleschi and a hiss.