I'm not giving up, kicking off the rust
The breath is the first sign, too sharp, to audible. He can assume it's her wounds though, not the graze of his lips. The blush is the next hint though, but maybe it's the bath giving her a flush with heat she's soaked in too long. When her joke tries to land though, that's when he knows. There's something off about it, something put on like he doesn't remember ever hearing from her before. The way her smile tries and fails to spark... Some of her vibrancy came back briefly, but now it's all washed away again. His 'brows crease with the confusion.
"Good, I'd hate to be the reason you stink." he offers back gently, the ghost of a smile lingering, like maybe if he pretends back and forth enough with her it will turn real again.
She pulls away with such intention he can't chase after her. It all lands wrong in his chest, because he hadn’t meant to crowd her, hadn’t meant to twist the comfort into something heavy. He’d only been trying to give her the same thing she'd given him. To hold her, anchor her, remind her she isn’t alone. He doesn’t see the lines they redrew, not when she's hurt like this, not when he'd give anything to pull her out of sepia and back into color. Besides, this feels different. Maybe because it's a risk he's already taken once, or because he doesn't intend to tug her into bed, but this just feels like love, plain and simple, and that they've always admitted to. Maybe not in those three, set words, or with all the tenderness they can muster, but still love. Friends can love. Should love.
His eyes follow her hand, reluctant but obedient. "Yeah, sure," He manages to say without letting the worry in. He stands and reaches for the towel, sighing softly as he tugs it down. He can't just expect her to be alright, can't just expect her to instantly rebound at the sight of his smile, but he doesn't like this. He feels for the first time like he can't reach the place she's gone to.
"Here you go," he murmurs, softer still, as he hands the towel over. "Gods know you can't get any more wrinkles." another attempt at normalcy. This time he does turn, letting her come out of the tub behind him. He stays quiet after that, moving a little more carefully, like someone might when they’re cleaning up a mess they can’t quite see, hoping she’ll guide him through what’s okay and what isn’t. Because he’d give her anything, even silence, if it meant she could shine again.
"Good, I'd hate to be the reason you stink." he offers back gently, the ghost of a smile lingering, like maybe if he pretends back and forth enough with her it will turn real again.
She pulls away with such intention he can't chase after her. It all lands wrong in his chest, because he hadn’t meant to crowd her, hadn’t meant to twist the comfort into something heavy. He’d only been trying to give her the same thing she'd given him. To hold her, anchor her, remind her she isn’t alone. He doesn’t see the lines they redrew, not when she's hurt like this, not when he'd give anything to pull her out of sepia and back into color. Besides, this feels different. Maybe because it's a risk he's already taken once, or because he doesn't intend to tug her into bed, but this just feels like love, plain and simple, and that they've always admitted to. Maybe not in those three, set words, or with all the tenderness they can muster, but still love. Friends can love. Should love.
His eyes follow her hand, reluctant but obedient. "Yeah, sure," He manages to say without letting the worry in. He stands and reaches for the towel, sighing softly as he tugs it down. He can't just expect her to be alright, can't just expect her to instantly rebound at the sight of his smile, but he doesn't like this. He feels for the first time like he can't reach the place she's gone to.
"Here you go," he murmurs, softer still, as he hands the towel over. "Gods know you can't get any more wrinkles." another attempt at normalcy. This time he does turn, letting her come out of the tub behind him. He stays quiet after that, moving a little more carefully, like someone might when they’re cleaning up a mess they can’t quite see, hoping she’ll guide him through what’s okay and what isn’t. Because he’d give her anything, even silence, if it meant she could shine again.
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
