Dima. He thinks that's a new one. It's a good feeling, that he's heard enough nicknames to be unsure.
"Shaking hands isn't the custom I grew up with, but I don't mind it." Dimitri's not sure if he should offer his; on whose behalf did Anzu ask?
... the matter drops out of his mind as Anzu brings up names. Dimitri winces, less of a movement than a sudden stilling of motion. Clearly Anzu's words carry a layer of meaning Dimitri lacks the context to understand; he does understand that he's lied, and he's been caught in that lie, in this crowded place full of people and chatter and tables and meat, and the lack of ceiling is not the comfort it was a few moments ago.
Quietly, something behind Dimitri's eyes clicks, goes glassy and distant. His voice turns fainter, monotone, a clipped arch creeping over his rounded vowels and heavy consonants. "Ah, forgive me -- in truth, Alexandre is my middle name, not my family name." He flicks a glance up at something in the middle distance, at the level of the rooftops, then back down at the dishes on offer. Vegetables weren't common at the Master's Table, except as a garnish for flesh. Dimitri swallows, mouth dry, fighting to focus. "I spent some time in a ... a place where giving one's true name was ... not safe. A-and this place is far from that one," he does not sound certain, "but dining among strangers calls the memory too close for comfort. I meant no deception -- forgive me."
no subject
"Shaking hands isn't the custom I grew up with, but I don't mind it." Dimitri's not sure if he should offer his; on whose behalf did Anzu ask?
... the matter drops out of his mind as Anzu brings up names. Dimitri winces, less of a movement than a sudden stilling of motion. Clearly Anzu's words carry a layer of meaning Dimitri lacks the context to understand; he does understand that he's lied, and he's been caught in that lie, in this crowded place full of people and chatter and tables and meat, and the lack of ceiling is not the comfort it was a few moments ago.
Quietly, something behind Dimitri's eyes clicks, goes glassy and distant. His voice turns fainter, monotone, a clipped arch creeping over his rounded vowels and heavy consonants. "Ah, forgive me -- in truth, Alexandre is my middle name, not my family name." He flicks a glance up at something in the middle distance, at the level of the rooftops, then back down at the dishes on offer. Vegetables weren't common at the Master's Table, except as a garnish for flesh. Dimitri swallows, mouth dry, fighting to focus. "I spent some time in a ... a place where giving one's true name was ... not safe. A-and this place is far from that one," he does not sound certain, "but dining among strangers calls the memory too close for comfort. I meant no deception -- forgive me."