a thousand faces staring at me, a thousand times i've fallen
He doesn’t remember the last time someone else had hugged him, had kept him close as Hester does now. Sure, his family had after the attack, but for friends? People he’d grown up with? Years ago. Far too long ago. It hurts, in a way that he doesn’t realize, as if he’s been starved of it when she latches onto him and he finally gives in. The offer to stay with her and her family is a big one, one that he’s not quite sure he can take her up on. “M-Maybe.”
He feels like it’s just trading the burden of himself from his family onto her own.
He’s buried his face into her shoulder, eyes shut tight against the tears that swim within his gaze, trying to hold it together but falls apart, evidenced by the tremble to his shoulders and the way he attempts to hold his breath even though he knows that doesn’t work. But they have work to be done, and he pulls away after a moment, avoiding her face as he reaches up with the back of his hand to wipe at his face, to suck down a breath of fresh cold air, and latch onto the screwdriver like it’s the only thing he has that’s right in the world.
“Yeah.” He manages, though his voice is rough and it burns when he speaks, he swallows hard and focuses his attention on the last few screws that need tightening down, and once it’s done and hers are tightened, he’s sitting back a bit – still blinking away tears – as he goes to wiggle each leg. “T-That’s… Good.” He tries to keep his composure as he runs a hand through blonde hair, moving to stand and flip the table over to ensure it’s sturdiness, if only to do something with his hands.
He feels like it’s just trading the burden of himself from his family onto her own.
He’s buried his face into her shoulder, eyes shut tight against the tears that swim within his gaze, trying to hold it together but falls apart, evidenced by the tremble to his shoulders and the way he attempts to hold his breath even though he knows that doesn’t work. But they have work to be done, and he pulls away after a moment, avoiding her face as he reaches up with the back of his hand to wipe at his face, to suck down a breath of fresh cold air, and latch onto the screwdriver like it’s the only thing he has that’s right in the world.
“Yeah.” He manages, though his voice is rough and it burns when he speaks, he swallows hard and focuses his attention on the last few screws that need tightening down, and once it’s done and hers are tightened, he’s sitting back a bit – still blinking away tears – as he goes to wiggle each leg. “T-That’s… Good.” He tries to keep his composure as he runs a hand through blonde hair, moving to stand and flip the table over to ensure it’s sturdiness, if only to do something with his hands.
a thousand voices dead at my feet
GLAS
