Some people crash two or three times and then learn from their mistakes
We are the ones who don't slow down at all
We are the ones who don't slow down at all
It's true, he can't hope to hide it from her, not when she can scarcely blink whenever he's around these days. She doesn't let herself read too much into it. It's easier to be lost to what-ifs and maybes without the bond between them, but Hotaru is not in the habit of willfully deluding herself. Even if her conclusions were correct, it would only twist the knife they left in each other's backs.
Her breath catches and holds in her throat as he approaches, the crunch of snow beneath his boots deafening as her eyes lift to hold his with each inch that disappears between them. She wants to fist her hands in his shirt, bury her face in the crook of his neck, feel his heartbeat against her cheek. She wants to kiss him, to chase the lingering taste of Nate off his tongue, to pretend she's home in Halo where they've joined her and everything in the world is right and perfect and beautiful. She wants to pretend this is a harrowing novel with a badly drawn cover, and that the snow in her hair is rain, and this is the moment where love conquers all and bridges are repaired.
Instead, she numbly releases her cramped fingers as he takes his own jacket from her hand, and the other lies limp against her side. She won't hurt him. Not again. And all of those dreams and fantasies and delusions cater to her own happiness - ignoring entirely the fact that if she were to reach for him now, it would only make things worse for him. So Hotaru lets him wrap her back into the coat, her hair trapped down against her back, no gentle calloused hand to set it to rights as it once might have. Throughout it all she never dares to blink. The cold is the reason for the sting in her eyes, and the wobble in her lip is merely shivers.
As his thumb trails across her jaw, her eyes clench closed briefly, a reaction she has to afford herself lest the strength it takes to keep her heart from shattering reveal even more. Brief as the touch may be she still turns into it helplessly, jaw tilting forward as if to chase the warmth of his hand even as her feet remain firmly rooted to the ground. It takes a few extra blinks to dissuade the wetness in her eyes before she can meet his gaze again. "Thank you," she whispers, and returns his touch with one of her own - the gentle caress of fingers against the back of his hand. Hotaru isn't sure she should be thanking him at all. For him this is the closing of a door, turning away to open another where hearth and home await. For Hotaru it is the hollow sound of an empty room with no way out but that solitary door now locked and forgotten. Give Nate my love, she yearns to say. But he already has it, whether he knows it or not, and she won't burden either of them with the knowledge.
Tilting her chin towards the flowers in his pocket, she manages a weak smile in hopes of distracting from the gleam of her eyes. "Better get those into some water soon," hoarse notes suggest, and she steps back. Breaking the illusion of closeness that she had shamefully indulged in. Inside the jacket sleeves, her fingers clench tight upon the material, the only layer preventing her nails from sinking into her palms. "Goodbye, Jata." This, Ru can allow herself. A nickname she has no right to, but one to mimic the same usage of her own in his mouth. It's a better goodbye this time, and yet it feels worse in every way.
Her breath catches and holds in her throat as he approaches, the crunch of snow beneath his boots deafening as her eyes lift to hold his with each inch that disappears between them. She wants to fist her hands in his shirt, bury her face in the crook of his neck, feel his heartbeat against her cheek. She wants to kiss him, to chase the lingering taste of Nate off his tongue, to pretend she's home in Halo where they've joined her and everything in the world is right and perfect and beautiful. She wants to pretend this is a harrowing novel with a badly drawn cover, and that the snow in her hair is rain, and this is the moment where love conquers all and bridges are repaired.
Instead, she numbly releases her cramped fingers as he takes his own jacket from her hand, and the other lies limp against her side. She won't hurt him. Not again. And all of those dreams and fantasies and delusions cater to her own happiness - ignoring entirely the fact that if she were to reach for him now, it would only make things worse for him. So Hotaru lets him wrap her back into the coat, her hair trapped down against her back, no gentle calloused hand to set it to rights as it once might have. Throughout it all she never dares to blink. The cold is the reason for the sting in her eyes, and the wobble in her lip is merely shivers.
As his thumb trails across her jaw, her eyes clench closed briefly, a reaction she has to afford herself lest the strength it takes to keep her heart from shattering reveal even more. Brief as the touch may be she still turns into it helplessly, jaw tilting forward as if to chase the warmth of his hand even as her feet remain firmly rooted to the ground. It takes a few extra blinks to dissuade the wetness in her eyes before she can meet his gaze again. "Thank you," she whispers, and returns his touch with one of her own - the gentle caress of fingers against the back of his hand. Hotaru isn't sure she should be thanking him at all. For him this is the closing of a door, turning away to open another where hearth and home await. For Hotaru it is the hollow sound of an empty room with no way out but that solitary door now locked and forgotten. Give Nate my love, she yearns to say. But he already has it, whether he knows it or not, and she won't burden either of them with the knowledge.
Tilting her chin towards the flowers in his pocket, she manages a weak smile in hopes of distracting from the gleam of her eyes. "Better get those into some water soon," hoarse notes suggest, and she steps back. Breaking the illusion of closeness that she had shamefully indulged in. Inside the jacket sleeves, her fingers clench tight upon the material, the only layer preventing her nails from sinking into her palms. "Goodbye, Jata." This, Ru can allow herself. A nickname she has no right to, but one to mimic the same usage of her own in his mouth. It's a better goodbye this time, and yet it feels worse in every way.
And there's nobody there to catch us when we fall
HOTARU
