It’s difficult to look at the man, and difficult to turn his eyes away.
He does wipe his feet, an almost unconscious motion, well-learned. Then he’s moving away from the door, several feet away from Ludo. Better to keep space between them, perhaps. (Not that he wants to. Not that he cares for this distance or his responsibility in imposing this space. The man deserves better. Deserves better than to be kept at arm’s length, but also deserves better than to unconsciously share space with… Well. With everything that Daud has been.)
For several moments he glances around the room; at the fire, at the discarded woodwork, at anything and everything that isn’t Ludo, his shoulders gathered tight, right hand flexing as his left fingers beat sharp against the air, a customary gesture of agitation. Then, running an unsteady hand through his hair, he turns toward the man. Looks directly at the man.
And tells himself not to think too much about the way his breath comes both hitched and somehow easier. The way his shoulders gather further tension and the way he feels himself relax. The way everything, everything suddenly turns to a standstill, even his rush of thoughts hushed silent, and he could almost, almost think—
What? Almost think. Almost think everything might turn out all right.
He can’t get lost in this. Came here with a purpose, and it wouldn’t be fair - none of this is fair - to fall into distraction. (Can’t get lost in this. In what could be. What lingers so close, what he could almost hold. If only he could separate himself from everything he was. But the past weeks have proven that’s too much to ask. But consequences, didn’t he learn years ago the weight of what he’d done and the sting of all its echoes? This is only another iteration. Another particularly painful, deeply regrettable iteration.) So he looks away again. So he breathes.
Speak. Simply speak, there’s— No cause for dragging this out. No cause for making the man wait. What was it he’d said to Katrina? ’There’s a lot you don’t know about me.’ Sitting outside this very cabin while Ludo left them space, cognizant as always of what was called for, ready to give without uncomfortable questions, without protest. He’s a good man, hasn’t Katrina said that time and again? It’s the truth.
All right. All right.
"Ludo, I—
"I didn’t come here to." This isn't going well, is it? Another breath. All right.
no subject
He does wipe his feet, an almost unconscious motion, well-learned. Then he’s moving away from the door, several feet away from Ludo. Better to keep space between them, perhaps. (Not that he wants to. Not that he cares for this distance or his responsibility in imposing this space. The man deserves better. Deserves better than to be kept at arm’s length, but also deserves better than to unconsciously share space with… Well. With everything that Daud has been.)
For several moments he glances around the room; at the fire, at the discarded woodwork, at anything and everything that isn’t Ludo, his shoulders gathered tight, right hand flexing as his left fingers beat sharp against the air, a customary gesture of agitation. Then, running an unsteady hand through his hair, he turns toward the man. Looks directly at the man.
And tells himself not to think too much about the way his breath comes both hitched and somehow easier. The way his shoulders gather further tension and the way he feels himself relax. The way everything, everything suddenly turns to a standstill, even his rush of thoughts hushed silent, and he could almost, almost think—
What? Almost think. Almost think everything might turn out all right.
He can’t get lost in this. Came here with a purpose, and it wouldn’t be fair - none of this is fair - to fall into distraction. (Can’t get lost in this. In what could be. What lingers so close, what he could almost hold. If only he could separate himself from everything he was. But the past weeks have proven that’s too much to ask. But consequences, didn’t he learn years ago the weight of what he’d done and the sting of all its echoes? This is only another iteration. Another particularly painful, deeply regrettable iteration.) So he looks away again. So he breathes.
Speak. Simply speak, there’s— No cause for dragging this out. No cause for making the man wait. What was it he’d said to Katrina? ’There’s a lot you don’t know about me.’ Sitting outside this very cabin while Ludo left them space, cognizant as always of what was called for, ready to give without uncomfortable questions, without protest. He’s a good man, hasn’t Katrina said that time and again? It’s the truth.
All right. All right.
"Ludo, I—
"I didn’t come here to." This isn't going well, is it? Another breath. All right.
"You’ve never asked about the man I’ve been."