The sad glimmer of Garbage’s orange eyes is so similar to Brunhilde’s unkempt coat that when she finds them, she almost thinks they must just be reflecting her. She pauses midstep, pulled from the assumption that the pair would pass in silence. His simple, quiet hello is enough to draw her attention, if only because she rarely meets men that do not exude at least faux confidence.
Brun likes the way he does not impose, even with an unwelcome introduction. And that sadness—oh, that sadness, something she just knows.
“Hello,” Brunhilde murmurs, almost perfectly matching Garbage’s intonation. She does not know him, but she immediately claims to know why he is careful; she knows what it is like to walk upon miles of shattered glass while praying to not make a sound. Some melancholy, twisted affection forms a lump in Brun’s throat. She wants to curl around his suffering and commiserate, to know how small he feels and to feel even smaller.
“My name is Brunhilde,” the flame whispers even lower than before. “Why did you stop?”
Brun likes the way he does not impose, even with an unwelcome introduction. And that sadness—oh, that sadness, something she just knows.
“Hello,” Brunhilde murmurs, almost perfectly matching Garbage’s intonation. She does not know him, but she immediately claims to know why he is careful; she knows what it is like to walk upon miles of shattered glass while praying to not make a sound. Some melancholy, twisted affection forms a lump in Brun’s throat. She wants to curl around his suffering and commiserate, to know how small he feels and to feel even smaller.
“My name is Brunhilde,” the flame whispers even lower than before. “Why did you stop?”
@[garbage]
