[Sebastian flips through a little chapbook that he carries with him. Not 'As You Like It', nor Hamlet's undiscovered country, nor Feste's song. The piece he chooses to read isn't one he knows well and so, occasionally, his eyes refer back to the little book.
The sonnet begins, 'Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath steel'd,' and he will read it through unless she stops him.]
[She can really only barely listen to the words; despite what she's been given to numb the pain, it hurts, still, in a way that she can't brush off. The sound of the words, though, brings a smile to her lips; she's always been abysmal at deciphering Shakespeare's meanings, but there's always something lovely about just the sound, and Sebastian's a good reader.]
That was lovely. What does it--[she coughs, weakly. a little blood appears on the collar of her shirt.] Sorry. What does it mean?
People've been arguing about the meaning for a few hundred years, but I think it's about how a man can look at someone important and keep a picture of them in his mind's eye.
And, while that's all well and good, it's far better to have someone looking back at you than just an image.
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The sonnet begins, 'Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath steel'd,' and he will read it through unless she stops him.]
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That was lovely. What does it--[she coughs, weakly. a little blood appears on the collar of her shirt.] Sorry. What does it mean?
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And, while that's all well and good, it's far better to have someone looking back at you than just an image.
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[She coughs, wetly.]
I don't think there's much time, but there's something I should say. Before...
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[He says it quickly, before going quiet and listening to whatever she needs to say.]
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[Really, it's funny. It doesn't hurt so much anymore. Then again, she doesn't feel much at all anymore.]
...I am quite fond of you, you know. I think I could have loved you.
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