You're so cold
but you feel alive
His musings about the shawl - safely hidden away in her room, forgotten for perhaps the first time as her concern had been focused on Sunjata - was met with a confirming nod. Indeed, and it was why she usually never left it behind either. Going so far as to wear it despite the heat, in the midst of day, as if afraid it would turn to vapor and disappear if she left it out of her sight.
Ever it was the drunken man's priviledge to wax poetry, and Sunjata seemed to have taken it upon himself to play the role of bard tonight, she thought with some amusement, as his words changed character. Gone were the hard, almost crude words of before, where he'd stated facts rather than spoken, replaced by something far softer and more considerate. Was his mask slipping again? Had the door cracked open again to the person he was inside, behind the flirting and the jesting, the seeming callousness? Maea didn't mind it in the slightest if it did, or if this was the result; what he said felt true enough. Made her think of moonlit nights, of drifting mists over lonesome meadows, where the two extremes seemed to finally find a balance.
In the midst of all the pictures he painted for her, he inched closer, reached a hand for her hair. Tucked it behind her ear, the touch so light that it tickled. Made her shiver, ever so slightly. Though the gesture surprised her, she did not object. It reminded her of before, brought back a moment spent floating in still, comfortable silence, with sunlight flooding the sky and pale clouds drifting overhead. The shadows had been cool and soothing that time, more a shelter than any kind of threat.
He withdrew again. Winked, as if to turn what he'd just did into a joke rather than... whatever it was he'd meant. She wondered what he saw when he looked at her. If it was somehow different from what her own reflection told her. What kind of light, what kind of dark? Slowly, almost thoughtfully she raised a hand from the book and rubbed her cheek, where his fingers had just barely grazed the skin. Maea wasn't sure if she would be able to answer such a question of him, if asked. Sometimes she thought he might be the answer to a question she'd never thought to ask... and sometimes she was afraid that knowing the answer might be worse than never having asked at all.
"Are you... going to be alright?" So soft a question, so quiet the concern as she gazed up at him. Quite close by, within reach if she stretched out her hand to try. Ever so slightly her weight shifted forward. Pulled in, though not quite daring to close the distance.
Ever it was the drunken man's priviledge to wax poetry, and Sunjata seemed to have taken it upon himself to play the role of bard tonight, she thought with some amusement, as his words changed character. Gone were the hard, almost crude words of before, where he'd stated facts rather than spoken, replaced by something far softer and more considerate. Was his mask slipping again? Had the door cracked open again to the person he was inside, behind the flirting and the jesting, the seeming callousness? Maea didn't mind it in the slightest if it did, or if this was the result; what he said felt true enough. Made her think of moonlit nights, of drifting mists over lonesome meadows, where the two extremes seemed to finally find a balance.
In the midst of all the pictures he painted for her, he inched closer, reached a hand for her hair. Tucked it behind her ear, the touch so light that it tickled. Made her shiver, ever so slightly. Though the gesture surprised her, she did not object. It reminded her of before, brought back a moment spent floating in still, comfortable silence, with sunlight flooding the sky and pale clouds drifting overhead. The shadows had been cool and soothing that time, more a shelter than any kind of threat.
He withdrew again. Winked, as if to turn what he'd just did into a joke rather than... whatever it was he'd meant. She wondered what he saw when he looked at her. If it was somehow different from what her own reflection told her. What kind of light, what kind of dark? Slowly, almost thoughtfully she raised a hand from the book and rubbed her cheek, where his fingers had just barely grazed the skin. Maea wasn't sure if she would be able to answer such a question of him, if asked. Sometimes she thought he might be the answer to a question she'd never thought to ask... and sometimes she was afraid that knowing the answer might be worse than never having asked at all.
"Are you... going to be alright?" So soft a question, so quiet the concern as she gazed up at him. Quite close by, within reach if she stretched out her hand to try. Ever so slightly her weight shifted forward. Pulled in, though not quite daring to close the distance.
lay your hands on me
one last time
MAEA
