Frey
Frey regards her for a long, thoughtful moment, their gaze settling over Hotaru with an intimacy that does not need to pry when it can simply feel the shape of what she has brought them. One of their hands rises to comb through the wild spill of her hair, fingers moving with a slow, indulgent care that neither soothes nor absolves so much as acknowledges the ache of wanting to fix what love has had the misfortune to touch. Their mouth still shines faintly with the persimmon’s juice, and when they lick it from their lips, the gesture is unhurried, sensual, almost contemplative, as if sweetness and sorrow are both things to be tasted properly.
"Sunjata came to see me recently, you know," they say, one brow lifting with the kind of knowing that feels warm rather than cruel, their hand drifting down to cover one of hers where it rests against their bare thigh. "And we spoke of his heart only a little." Their thumb brushes over her knuckles, not trapping, not holding her still, simply laying divine warmth over mortal desperation. "When he asked me for something, sweet one, it was not to have it mended."
Their head tilts, and whatever face Hotaru’s desire has chosen for them shifts again in that subtle, merciful way, not landing anywhere sharp enough to wound her. Frey’s gaze remains adoring despite the refusal tucked inside it, soft with understanding and bright with the unashamed certainty of a god who knows the body, yes, but also knows the strange and stubborn ways a heart can learn itself through pain. "This may be a moment of growth for him," they murmur, their free hand lifting to stroke Hotaru’s cheek, the touch tender enough to bruise without pressure. "Not of weakening, not of being made smaller by what has happened, but of becoming stronger because of it. A heart is not always broken because it hurts, darling. Sometimes it hurts because it is being asked to hold a shape it has never had to make before."
Their thumb traces lightly beneath her cheekbone, warm as breath, patient as the tide. "And I do not think you should take that chance away from him, however good your intentions are."
"Sunjata came to see me recently, you know," they say, one brow lifting with the kind of knowing that feels warm rather than cruel, their hand drifting down to cover one of hers where it rests against their bare thigh. "And we spoke of his heart only a little." Their thumb brushes over her knuckles, not trapping, not holding her still, simply laying divine warmth over mortal desperation. "When he asked me for something, sweet one, it was not to have it mended."
Their head tilts, and whatever face Hotaru’s desire has chosen for them shifts again in that subtle, merciful way, not landing anywhere sharp enough to wound her. Frey’s gaze remains adoring despite the refusal tucked inside it, soft with understanding and bright with the unashamed certainty of a god who knows the body, yes, but also knows the strange and stubborn ways a heart can learn itself through pain. "This may be a moment of growth for him," they murmur, their free hand lifting to stroke Hotaru’s cheek, the touch tender enough to bruise without pressure. "Not of weakening, not of being made smaller by what has happened, but of becoming stronger because of it. A heart is not always broken because it hurts, darling. Sometimes it hurts because it is being asked to hold a shape it has never had to make before."
Their thumb traces lightly beneath her cheekbone, warm as breath, patient as the tide. "And I do not think you should take that chance away from him, however good your intentions are."
