Dolce doesn’t mean to eavesdrop. He never does. He’s not supposed to. He’s required to. Someone might want to know what their guests said under their roof. But, he, doesn’t mean to. He doesn’t mean to. He can’t not. He just hears. Always. And people rarely explicitly say when something’s not meant for you to hear. You have to pick it up by context clues. Then think as hard as you can about some little snatch of song you heard once, fill up all your mental bandwidth, so that hopefully none of it sticks in your memory, except everything sticks in your memory, but that doesn’t mean you have to make it [i]easy[/i] for yourself-

Point being: He heard everything. Sorry Kat.

If it makes you feel any better, he also heard everything. 

First, the slow breaths. In. Hold. Ouuuut. Then, countless bodies rise to their feet. Doors open. Voices rise. Not as many as you might think. Swords thunk against their pegs. Swords ring, just a little, out of their sheaths. Then clap back in. Many feet walk. They patter, uneven, steady, like rain kissing the ground. Here and there, tears fall. Here and there, hands clasp. Arms hold. Songs hum. 

Foxgirls giggle.

[i]They do not speak at all. They simply are.[/i]

No talk with a Supreme Leader could have made him understand; the whole thing was doomed from the start. The letter of apology won’t be nearly as long as he thought it would either. It wasn’t needed. Dolce breathes in the cocktail of biological dominance he was built for. [i]Sees[/i] the world he was born for. Breathes out…

Vasilia catches him before his legs buckle and he hits the ground a second time. Scoops him up to her shoulders. Steadies him, hand in hand.

“Tell me what you see.” She begs.

Dolce tells her everything. Even as the helicopter takes them to the skies.