10-02-2021, 10:15 PM
selaphiel
And he wonders if he should tell her, if he should admit that each of her feelings overflows its boundaries and stretches out into the air around her, sinks into his own chest.
But he doesn’t. Because he doesn’t want her to shut it off.
(This is the first selfish thing. He wants to keep them for himself because they are such a welcome reprieve from the worry that typically plagues him. Because he so rarely feels anything else, especially now.)
Her gratitude thaws the marrow of his bones and he smiles, just barely. And then he leaves it behind in favor of his apology because she deserves to hear it. Because he had not meant to chase her off when he’d asked. Because he’d only wanted to help but his help has never been very well-received. He knows that now, though it has been a hard-learned lesson.
He swallows thickly in the wake of her response and nods his understanding. She owes him nothing, least of all an explanation. But he blinks a pale blue eye at her, quiet as he considers.
It is so familiar to him, death. It has followed him (or has he followed it? It’s difficult to tell anymore) his whole life, doggedly refusing him to shake himself free of it. But he knows how difficult it can be to drudge up the words.
“We don’t have to talk about it,” he says and then, watching her still, he adds, “we don’t have to talk at all, if you don’t want to.”
Because it is enough to simply walk in step beside her and feel all the things she feels. The warmth and the cold and she is crafted from ice, just as he is, and there is some comfort in this.
I just bite my tongue a bit harder
@keyna