Amalia
stop thinking so much
He sets about cleaning, methodical and sure, a Scion in his kingdom, a ferocious thing made comfortable by the sanctity of home. Amalia watches, suddenly unsure, not wanting to interrupt his actions with her bumbling ineptitude, to betray the fact that she does not belong. It is nice, she thinks, to simply see him, to bask in the security he displays; it is terrifying to think of interrupting that, of inserting herself into a clean tableau.
When at last he turns that blue upon her it is with the infinite acceptance she has come to know, breathtaking in it's absolutoon, an affection she does not, cannot, deserve. Her evenings, her nights, her bedtime routines- they are strange and simple things, private and personal, totally unassuming but suddenly glares, flaws, weaknesses in her facade of normalcy, a facade she has never worn well. When you're ready, Deimos' says, and a swift calculation runs through her mind as she tries to determine what she can abandon for the night, which rituals can be left behind.
One, among others, cannot.
"I need to say my nightly prayers." Amalia's eyes are not downcast; she does not try to conceal herself from him, cannot deal shame for this. The love of her gods is a precious thing, one he must know and accept if he is to accept her. A glance is thrown around the room for something she knows she will not find: a shrine, an altar, any semblance of reverence in the Spartan space. Biting her lip, she looks back at him. "I can go outside for it, or do it here. It won't take long."
you're breaking your own heart
