I'm not giving up, kicking off the rust
Her nonchalance is maddening. Her wants all of her chalances back, the way he's used to them. This feels like Flora has been muted, both in volume and brightness. Not just soft, he has seen that, when she's more like a sunset and less like the daylight. Not merely careful, when she's reluctantly breaking through cloud cover. No, this is so much worse, and horribly unfamiliar. He'd love to know all the parts of her, but this one feels like it shouldn't slot in along with all the other pieces.
His fingers are tight in hers, like he might be able to drag the color back with the strength of his grip, which he wishes now more than ever is stronger than this (in tug-o-war she'd crush him). His forearm brackets against hers, taking more than her hand, twining with as much of her as he is currently able. He holds her arm in his lap, the bouquet set down on the stone lip next to him with a subtle clink to free up his other hand. It settles overtop his hold, like maybe two hands will be enough. "See—that's what I mean," he scoffs, but it's gentle still, like they're just playfully arguing about whether you put the toilet paper roll on so it comes out on top or the bottom and not whether or not she DIED. "Call it crazy, but you don't think death should be, I dunno, like an extreme measurement and not just the low bar?" He's uncertain if she's simply refusing to be honest with him, or if she hasn't yet been honest with herself.
A pause, his gaze holding hers with an intensity he normally reserves for fighting. "Flora, you're not okay," it comes out louder than his other words had, and strained into something rougher. His other hand slides back overtop hers, fingers tips dragging across the spaces between her knuckles with light pressure. "And that's allowed," he says softly again, pulling her hand up to his lips where he plants a light kiss.
An exhale that doesn't quite make it into a laugh falls when she accuses him of getting her ocean dirty. "Adds more realism," he cuts back, but he releases her hand all the same to start pulling his wet boots off and the socks beneath.
His fingers are tight in hers, like he might be able to drag the color back with the strength of his grip, which he wishes now more than ever is stronger than this (in tug-o-war she'd crush him). His forearm brackets against hers, taking more than her hand, twining with as much of her as he is currently able. He holds her arm in his lap, the bouquet set down on the stone lip next to him with a subtle clink to free up his other hand. It settles overtop his hold, like maybe two hands will be enough. "See—that's what I mean," he scoffs, but it's gentle still, like they're just playfully arguing about whether you put the toilet paper roll on so it comes out on top or the bottom and not whether or not she DIED. "Call it crazy, but you don't think death should be, I dunno, like an extreme measurement and not just the low bar?" He's uncertain if she's simply refusing to be honest with him, or if she hasn't yet been honest with herself.
A pause, his gaze holding hers with an intensity he normally reserves for fighting. "Flora, you're not okay," it comes out louder than his other words had, and strained into something rougher. His other hand slides back overtop hers, fingers tips dragging across the spaces between her knuckles with light pressure. "And that's allowed," he says softly again, pulling her hand up to his lips where he plants a light kiss.
An exhale that doesn't quite make it into a laugh falls when she accuses him of getting her ocean dirty. "Adds more realism," he cuts back, but he releases her hand all the same to start pulling his wet boots off and the socks beneath.
Kaisel
I keep acting tough but maybe I'm not good enough
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
