Tryin' to stay between the lines of who I am and who I used to be
Every rehearsed line and careful architecture of her apology has completely fallen apart by now. The snapdragon has made it so easy to be carried away by the torrents of her own consciousness, each stream of thought and feeling running over, the edges melting into one floodplain of fucked up. It's well and fully swept her under, and it seems the only thing left to do is sink or swim.
The demand dies on her lips almost as quickly as it leaves them. She does remember she'd told him she hadn't come here to yell, but her arms also didn't feel heavy enough to fall off and light enough to drift away at the same time back then either. As if suddenly aware of this disturbing sensation, she wraps them around her instead, clutch since having abandoned his coat.
He's quiet. Although noise has never needed to accompany wrath, in her experience the bluster of it is easier to sit with. She'd take a thunder storm crashing down compared to the slow and miserable drowning in mud and relentless rain any day. She's already experienced the latter once before.
The calm that he keeps is not mistaken for a lack of strain. It's there in the tightness of his jaw, the hard sound of his exhale, the sweep of fingers through hair. It's all controlled though, she can tell, because not even his accent dares spill through. It's terribly unfair that when they'd yelled before she'd wanted nothing more than to be held. Now that he'd held her, she finds herself wishing he'd just yell instead. Enough so that she stiffens further when he says he won't. Drying eyes tip away from him then, glancing out at the snow turned ash and back again as he starts to pull the truth apart in flakes.
It's not the brilliant show she thinks she wants, and maybe that's why each piece lands so cleanly, nothing else to muffle the honesty of what's been done. Certain portions sting sharper, making her flinch from them, and a few prove surprising, seen from an angle that her memories and perspective alone couldn't provide. Her gaze drags itself back up to his face, and when she opens her mouth to speak, her voice can't immediately be found. When it rouses, it's husky with the threat of taking on too much water.
"I fucked you up?" In truth, she did not realize what she'd said had rooted so deeply in him. She repeats it, for her sake rather than his. "I fucked you up enough enough that you went to Frey?" The words sound different the second time. The disbelief remains, but the private dawn of understanding has curdled into something closer to horror.
The demand dies on her lips almost as quickly as it leaves them. She does remember she'd told him she hadn't come here to yell, but her arms also didn't feel heavy enough to fall off and light enough to drift away at the same time back then either. As if suddenly aware of this disturbing sensation, she wraps them around her instead, clutch since having abandoned his coat.
He's quiet. Although noise has never needed to accompany wrath, in her experience the bluster of it is easier to sit with. She'd take a thunder storm crashing down compared to the slow and miserable drowning in mud and relentless rain any day. She's already experienced the latter once before.
The calm that he keeps is not mistaken for a lack of strain. It's there in the tightness of his jaw, the hard sound of his exhale, the sweep of fingers through hair. It's all controlled though, she can tell, because not even his accent dares spill through. It's terribly unfair that when they'd yelled before she'd wanted nothing more than to be held. Now that he'd held her, she finds herself wishing he'd just yell instead. Enough so that she stiffens further when he says he won't. Drying eyes tip away from him then, glancing out at the snow turned ash and back again as he starts to pull the truth apart in flakes.
It's not the brilliant show she thinks she wants, and maybe that's why each piece lands so cleanly, nothing else to muffle the honesty of what's been done. Certain portions sting sharper, making her flinch from them, and a few prove surprising, seen from an angle that her memories and perspective alone couldn't provide. Her gaze drags itself back up to his face, and when she opens her mouth to speak, her voice can't immediately be found. When it rouses, it's husky with the threat of taking on too much water.
"I fucked you up?" In truth, she did not realize what she'd said had rooted so deeply in him. She repeats it, for her sake rather than his. "I fucked you up enough enough that you went to Frey?" The words sound different the second time. The disbelief remains, but the private dawn of understanding has curdled into something closer to horror.
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.
