[ He doesn't catch every nuance. Doesn't catch most of her meaning, and still he finds himself speaking— ]
Wouldn’t we all like everything.
[ Foolish. He feels foolish, the words ill-matched to whatever he’d intended to mean, himself unable to rise to the occasion of… of… something.
He slumps. Would sink back against the chair if it weren’t for her hand. An odd anchor. A must-become-damage cloaked as gift. Why would she touch him? Why on earth would anybody touch him?
(How it rends his heart, sets his hollows to constriction.)
How he feels warm and distant and certain and sad all at once, and how he wants— Something.
Better not to want.
Better not to hope.
For fuck’s sake, it’s only the press of her hand. It’s only that she’s come so close to him. He’s a fool. He’s drunk, and he’s a damned fool.
A careful sniff, and he’s watching her still. Never did learn to look away, never learned to keep himself from staring. Only he feels as if he can’t quite see her. Can’t see right, certainly, because she wavers, she melts, and doesn’t she look blurred around the eyes?
(Blue eyes. He sees that about her.) ]
Not ’s if you know me.
[ He might almost envy her, ha ha. ]
Lucky, lucky girl.
[ Except she’s still bound to live beside him. Bound to exist near a husband-not-husband-yes-husband she doesn’t care to fuck and nobody should care to fuck. Bound to live her days out mournful, alone and unknown, fuck’s sake who knows a farm girl.
(But she’s kept her touch against him.
It could mean anything at all.)
Now he glances away, frowning and drifting an open hand to his neck, scratching absently. ]
no subject
Wouldn’t we all like everything.
[ Foolish. He feels foolish, the words ill-matched to whatever he’d intended to mean, himself unable to rise to the occasion of… of… something.
He slumps. Would sink back against the chair if it weren’t for her hand. An odd anchor. A must-become-damage cloaked as gift. Why would she touch him? Why on earth would anybody touch him?
(How it rends his heart, sets his hollows to constriction.)
How he feels warm and distant and certain and sad all at once, and how he wants— Something.
Better not to want.
Better not to hope.
For fuck’s sake, it’s only the press of her hand. It’s only that she’s come so close to him. He’s a fool. He’s drunk, and he’s a damned fool.
A careful sniff, and he’s watching her still. Never did learn to look away, never learned to keep himself from staring. Only he feels as if he can’t quite see her. Can’t see right, certainly, because she wavers, she melts, and doesn’t she look blurred around the eyes?
(Blue eyes. He sees that about her.) ]
Not ’s if you know me.
[ He might almost envy her, ha ha. ]
Lucky, lucky girl.
[ Except she’s still bound to live beside him. Bound to exist near a husband-not-husband-yes-husband she doesn’t care to fuck and nobody should care to fuck. Bound to live her days out mournful, alone and unknown, fuck’s sake who knows a farm girl.
(But she’s kept her touch against him.
It could mean anything at all.)
Now he glances away, frowning and drifting an open hand to his neck, scratching absently. ]
Or not, mm.