DEIMOS
He brought his head up from the cushions, from any semblance of comfort, waiting for some raw exposure, for something blighted to segment across bones and limbs. But she required a listening ear, and not his consternation, not his apprehension, not all the unfurling nerves keening over his mind. So he did just that – waiting, watching, as her hands moved and she sought to explain. And he said naught as she unraveled the bits and pieces tearing her apart, processing, striving to understand, to comprehend, the meanings between, the layers altered and morphed, and where to go, where to bend, where to stand, where to begin again.
And when she’d finished, with her eyes brimming, he raised his hands and gently attempted to take hold of her cheeks, soft and dulcet, his clasp calm, gentle, and she’d be able to pull away easily if she couldn’t take it, didn’t want it. Vocals were a quiet rumble, accepting, tired gaze riveted to her, focused, endeavoring to strive through the clarity, to bring forth the veracity they needed and craved. “Then I wish you would stop pretending.” It wasn’t fair to either of them; and though he knew he did the same, she was a more paramount composition. “We all change.” Even him, despite his best efforts to never erode from his nonchalance, from his apathy, had been dragged out of his shadows, out of his darkness, and out of the void. Sometimes he wasn’t certain which hurt or gave more.
His thumbs brushed lightly against her cheeks, still wanting to keep her there, attention on him, what he had to say, what he had to justify through the muddlings of confusion, on where she seemed to believe he lingered. He cherished her, from the past, the present, and whatever the future might throw at them. “Just as I love the girl from the library, I love the woman who fights for what she believes in. The woman in front of me. I have never asked you to be anyone else. I would not.” Perhaps she’d been playing dual roles because she thought that’s what he needed or wanted; when it’d been anything but.
A sigh undulated through him, fatigue and exhaustion wearing, and he shook his head, wanting her to fathom where he was coming from. “But you have to stop shutting me out.” He couldn’t help her, couldn’t support, if he didn’t know what she needed. If he didn’t know where she stood. One hand maneuvered, grasping down to her fingers, and then placed them on his chest, over the beats of his heart. “You are safe here.”
No sense in looking away, he tilted his head, chasing after her in small movements, in motions, following the wayward waltz. “And I hope you would know for yourself too, and not just the gods.” That they were not the end all, be all, that she had to know her value, her worth, her strength, her weaknesses, her everything, for Vi, but also for her own soul.
And when she’d finished, with her eyes brimming, he raised his hands and gently attempted to take hold of her cheeks, soft and dulcet, his clasp calm, gentle, and she’d be able to pull away easily if she couldn’t take it, didn’t want it. Vocals were a quiet rumble, accepting, tired gaze riveted to her, focused, endeavoring to strive through the clarity, to bring forth the veracity they needed and craved. “Then I wish you would stop pretending.” It wasn’t fair to either of them; and though he knew he did the same, she was a more paramount composition. “We all change.” Even him, despite his best efforts to never erode from his nonchalance, from his apathy, had been dragged out of his shadows, out of his darkness, and out of the void. Sometimes he wasn’t certain which hurt or gave more.
His thumbs brushed lightly against her cheeks, still wanting to keep her there, attention on him, what he had to say, what he had to justify through the muddlings of confusion, on where she seemed to believe he lingered. He cherished her, from the past, the present, and whatever the future might throw at them. “Just as I love the girl from the library, I love the woman who fights for what she believes in. The woman in front of me. I have never asked you to be anyone else. I would not.” Perhaps she’d been playing dual roles because she thought that’s what he needed or wanted; when it’d been anything but.
A sigh undulated through him, fatigue and exhaustion wearing, and he shook his head, wanting her to fathom where he was coming from. “But you have to stop shutting me out.” He couldn’t help her, couldn’t support, if he didn’t know what she needed. If he didn’t know where she stood. One hand maneuvered, grasping down to her fingers, and then placed them on his chest, over the beats of his heart. “You are safe here.”
No sense in looking away, he tilted his head, chasing after her in small movements, in motions, following the wayward waltz. “And I hope you would know for yourself too, and not just the gods.” That they were not the end all, be all, that she had to know her value, her worth, her strength, her weaknesses, her everything, for Vi, but also for her own soul.
i'm in the mood to dissolve in the sky
