Tryin' to stay between the lines of who I am and who I used to be
Fortunately for Sunjata, eloquence would be wasted on her in this moment. Whatever short, blunt, and familiar words he has is what's more certain to cleave through the cotton her mind has been swaddled in. The fibers make reality fuzzy, and they catch on every stray thought and feeling as if a web in disguise.
Snow he urges again. The weave shudders and relents, sense able to bore through the slight gap and deliver clarity. That's right—they've been standing in a snowy field this whole time. She nods, the motion slow and small, but a final acceptance of the reality that's been exposed beneath the curtain of something else. Before she can soften with that understanding though, the next snag has already come.
This one isn't so cleanly pulled away, not when it's him, not when it's her. She took the thread between them and hauled it taut, then wound what slack remained so tightly around her fist that her fingers have turned violet. It's what makes this comfort scrape so strangely against her. Not soothing at first, but almost painful in its softness, like taking the pressure of the cord off her knuckles has let the blood rush back in too hot and too fast, the sting of feeling returning somehow worse than the numbness had been.
She's shaking her head by the time he pulls away enough to look at her. The backs of her hands scrub clumsily at the slowing fall of tears, as if by erasing them she could manage to do the same to all her shame. "No," she says quietly, the sound splintering apart on its way out. The gaze that finally lifts to meet his is wet and red-rimmed and stubborn in a way that's unappealing. "No," she says again, clearer this time, though her jaw works so hard around the rest of it that it aches. The broken bits of an apology crowd there, swollen and miserable behind her teeth.
She tries to withdraw further from him. From the softness, from the forgiveness, from the evidence that he's patched himself up just fine without any offering from her when she can't seem to do the same. "You should be mad," she insists again, trying to pull farther back through the snow despite the miserable hitch in her breathing. "I wasn't fair to you."
The words come apart unevenly, tripping over breath and guilt alike. "Everything was gone and you were just—there—and I didn't know where else to put any of it." Her face twists hard as another surge of crying threatens. Her palms wipe harshly beneath each eye again, more frustrated and embarrassed now than tearful, but the roughness seems to keep the next wave back. "You offered to help and..." Her shoulders hitch helplessly. "I was so upset Sunjata and I just—I just..."
She shakes her head again immediately after, faster now, agitated by herself. "And now you're acting like, like—" she gestures towards him as if all of him is the clear meaning. "Like this. As if I'm the one who deserves comfort." She laughs once then, sharp and bitter and entirely without humor. Another retreating half-step carries her back, as though distance might finally make his kindness hurt less. "Why aren't you angry? Yell at me!" The apology comes apart faster the more she tries to hold onto it, thoughts sliding over each other slick and loose beneath the lingering haze of whiskey and snapdragon.
Snow he urges again. The weave shudders and relents, sense able to bore through the slight gap and deliver clarity. That's right—they've been standing in a snowy field this whole time. She nods, the motion slow and small, but a final acceptance of the reality that's been exposed beneath the curtain of something else. Before she can soften with that understanding though, the next snag has already come.
This one isn't so cleanly pulled away, not when it's him, not when it's her. She took the thread between them and hauled it taut, then wound what slack remained so tightly around her fist that her fingers have turned violet. It's what makes this comfort scrape so strangely against her. Not soothing at first, but almost painful in its softness, like taking the pressure of the cord off her knuckles has let the blood rush back in too hot and too fast, the sting of feeling returning somehow worse than the numbness had been.
She's shaking her head by the time he pulls away enough to look at her. The backs of her hands scrub clumsily at the slowing fall of tears, as if by erasing them she could manage to do the same to all her shame. "No," she says quietly, the sound splintering apart on its way out. The gaze that finally lifts to meet his is wet and red-rimmed and stubborn in a way that's unappealing. "No," she says again, clearer this time, though her jaw works so hard around the rest of it that it aches. The broken bits of an apology crowd there, swollen and miserable behind her teeth.
She tries to withdraw further from him. From the softness, from the forgiveness, from the evidence that he's patched himself up just fine without any offering from her when she can't seem to do the same. "You should be mad," she insists again, trying to pull farther back through the snow despite the miserable hitch in her breathing. "I wasn't fair to you."
The words come apart unevenly, tripping over breath and guilt alike. "Everything was gone and you were just—there—and I didn't know where else to put any of it." Her face twists hard as another surge of crying threatens. Her palms wipe harshly beneath each eye again, more frustrated and embarrassed now than tearful, but the roughness seems to keep the next wave back. "You offered to help and..." Her shoulders hitch helplessly. "I was so upset Sunjata and I just—I just..."
She shakes her head again immediately after, faster now, agitated by herself. "And now you're acting like, like—" she gestures towards him as if all of him is the clear meaning. "Like this. As if I'm the one who deserves comfort." She laughs once then, sharp and bitter and entirely without humor. Another retreating half-step carries her back, as though distance might finally make his kindness hurt less. "Why aren't you angry? Yell at me!" The apology comes apart faster the more she tries to hold onto it, thoughts sliding over each other slick and loose beneath the lingering haze of whiskey and snapdragon.
Colt
I been livin', I been losin', findin' out that I can't run from me
Received a Gilded Market wig from Remi that resembles her usual hair and is enchanted to stay on better than most wigs | has a reverse centaur tattoo on her left hand with the legs going down her pointer and middle fingers that looks like this.
