[ and there it is — the sun's beams, burning away all traces of the moment. in the light of day, as if it has illuminated secrets shrouded in the dark, his sleeplessness is more pronounced — a sight that is strangely more intimate than the rays glittering over his bare skin. valiantly, she resists gawking at either with only partial success, though there is something to be said for the bullheaded boldness in her eyes when they lift from his chest to his.
merely another means she uses to confront him with the blunt truth of: ]
I can tell. You're mysterious, but not quite as mysterious as you think.
[ for a wishful second, she considers that perhaps she has learned him well enough to know to search him for that hauntedness. for that sincerity, shielded behind so much steel. it's illogical, really; she hadn't expected any blindsiding confession that he would rather she never leaves. in the end, she reminds herself of a far more reasonable and uncomfortable explanation: she has only recognized how alike they are. like calls to like. his fatigue is only a mirror of her own on those restless nights she is left with only her thoughts for company — and, sometimes, the dark whisper of a voice that is not her own.
it is a desperate want, to wish nikolai's presence alone could scorch it away. it's an attempt worth making. more than that, she has to admit to herself that yes, she would do this again. against her better judgment. despite the guilt that keeps building and building the longer she's forced to address her own tangled, complicated feelings.
she smooths down the hem of her gown, falling back over her knees as they're pulled to her chest. beside her, her fingers twine with the blanket to absently fiddle with it. ]
I would. [ she swallows, throat bobbing. somehow, it feels like spilling a secret, like wanting a taste of what she should forbid herself. ] Do this again. Even at night.
[ or whenever, she doesn't add, if only to spare herself the embarrassment of her own eagerness. she still has some dignity — and sanity, perhaps — left to protect. ]
no subject
merely another means she uses to confront him with the blunt truth of: ]
I can tell. You're mysterious, but not quite as mysterious as you think.
[ for a wishful second, she considers that perhaps she has learned him well enough to know to search him for that hauntedness. for that sincerity, shielded behind so much steel. it's illogical, really; she hadn't expected any blindsiding confession that he would rather she never leaves. in the end, she reminds herself of a far more reasonable and uncomfortable explanation: she has only recognized how alike they are. like calls to like. his fatigue is only a mirror of her own on those restless nights she is left with only her thoughts for company — and, sometimes, the dark whisper of a voice that is not her own.
it is a desperate want, to wish nikolai's presence alone could scorch it away. it's an attempt worth making. more than that, she has to admit to herself that yes, she would do this again. against her better judgment. despite the guilt that keeps building and building the longer she's forced to address her own tangled, complicated feelings.
she smooths down the hem of her gown, falling back over her knees as they're pulled to her chest. beside her, her fingers twine with the blanket to absently fiddle with it. ]
I would. [ she swallows, throat bobbing. somehow, it feels like spilling a secret, like wanting a taste of what she should forbid herself. ] Do this again. Even at night.
[ or whenever, she doesn't add, if only to spare herself the embarrassment of her own eagerness. she still has some dignity — and sanity, perhaps — left to protect. ]