He makes a sound of protest when she shifts away from him, something instinctual and in the back of his throat, but whatever this is between them is too new for him to say much, so he relents. There is a spark of something in the back of his gaze, something playful and reminiscent of the boy he might have grown to be had life been different, but it fades quickly—a flicker of flame that grows more serious when she reaches out to touch him. He leans into the touch, unashamed of how quickly he responds to her.
His breath catches at the nearly casual use of the word ‘we,’ at the way she has grouped them together, and there is an age old instinct that flares to life in him. A fear of the damage he could bring. A fear of being cornered with no escape. It threatens to rear its ugly head, but he squashes it violently, draining the life of that insecurity before it has room to breathe into life. There is no time for that. Not here. Not now.
“I’ve spent my whole life running,” his breath is hoarse as he voices the truths they both know, the ugly way that he has always run so quickly from anything that could take root. Including from her. Maybe especially from her. It was only when he had finally defeated his demons (become them, perhaps, but that is a different beast for him to wrestle with later) that he could see her pain enough to stop him in his tracks. It was only then that he had run toward something instead of away from it.
“I don’t want to run anymore,” this, said quieter, a whisper shared between them. He dares to reach toward her again, brushing aside her forelock and studying her face. “Hyaline is your home. It was mine once too.” His father’s. His mother’s. “I want to stay.” A smile grows in the corner of his golden mouth. Not a faux arrogant smirk. Not a cruel sneer. Just a smile—simple and honest and very much for her.
"We can stay."
so as our grief falls flat and hollow upon a billion blooded seas
all our worst ideas are borrowed (you do and don't belong to me)