citynet | video ; @thundaga

video ; @thundaga

[ hello and welcome to Boredom Hours, sponsored by one too many midafternoon beers and a perpetual inability to not immediately make his ennui everyone else's problem. today's host is... Reno!

when the video starts, it's to a shockingly decently framed shot of Reno doing the hooligan squat on the front stoop of his apartment building. he's got a lit cigarette hanging from his mouth, and once he's sure that the video is rolling he takes a long drag of it before he speaks. ]

Sup. I'm Reno. Some of ya may know me from my colorful past as "guy who got yanked into pool by tentacle monster."

[ probably nobody knows him that way but it's fine. we are not concerned with strict veracity here. Reno blows a neat smoke ring and grins the kind of grin that means he knows he's being a pain in the ass. ]

I was thinkin', y'know, there's only so many of us. Probably ain't a bad idea to get to know each other, right? [ he gestures with his cigarette as he speaks as if to underscore his words. ] We need some conversation starters. Some icebreakers, y'know? Everybody's favorite highlight from their corporate bonding retreats.

So! [ he holds up a hand to count on.

one finger. ] Two truths and a lie. Post 'em, let other people guess. I'll leave mine too. Shoutout to the blond girlie who had that party a couple months back for this one.

[ two fingers. ] Hot or not. Or smash or pass, whatever you wanna call it. Post yourself and let people vote, if you're brave. Or post your friends if you want to fuck around. You can all see my face right now so count that as my submission.

[ three fingers. ] Creativity exercise, open prompt. You can go anywhere, be anybody, do anything you want. The world ain't ending and there's no war or whatever the hell going on. Who are you and what are you doing? [ brief smoke break, and then Reno stubs the butt out on the cement, exhaling as he says, ] Me, I wanna make mediocre coffee for minimum wage and not worry about shit except makin' rent.

[ and lastly, four fingers. ] "Reno, this is fuckin' stupid and I don't want to do it." Okay, nobody's got a gun to your head. We ain't even got guns here. Do what you want.

[ his four fingers curl in so he can offer a cheerful, if a bit manic, thumbs-up before he reaches out to turn off the video.

just before he touches the button, though, he pauses as if something just occurred to him— ] Oh, shit—also, drop map pins for your favorite restaurant in this place. I'm in the market for new eats, bonus points if it's spicy.

[ okay, now he's gone. ]

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[ ah-

he is used to it. used enough that he adjusts to make room for her without thinking too hard on it, even as he pauses over her closeness. that part will always come, probably — but that isn't a bad thing.

the picture she takes is a little bit casual, a little clueless, as emil doesn't expect it; the usual surprise is for after, through don's giggling and statement. looking at himself, without the preparation of knowing what he does is being caught in the moment is— funny. the concept of posting himself on one of these is also funny. ]

I-I didn't say anything about that.

[ that's just too far....... sinclair can return the favor, pulling the phone back to take a candid photo of her in turn. he doesn't show her this time. instead, looking at it and then the previous photo of don, he asks: ]

Why is it odd?

[ hey... at least she doesn't know so she isn't curious, pictured don's eyes sparkling with mischief and delight while the one who answers simply plops her head against him without a thought. like the bus, like always, comfortable. ]

Hmm~. I cannot rightly explain it.

[ it doesn't make sense for someone who's so into the limelight and likes to have so much flair in her acts to suddenly shy up about stuff like this. it's odd because she's (not yet?) used to it? because there's no purpose save for the memories she claimed them for?

(it isn't really for memories, after all.)

don

supposes

she can lean on him for this, just a bit, this is something that can go under rule five. ]

Does the sight of me inspire creative inspiration within thy heart, Young Sinclair?

[ hm?

all that is familiarity. her weight on him, his adjusting, again, to make sure she's comfortable... and then she snaps it in two over a knee by asking that question. it— brings him back to when she asked him about confessions. just like then, he wonders about context. he blinks. quietly, cluelessly, starts with— ]

... Sorry?

[ —as buried words unearth instinctively.

looks may mean little, save for it becomes something you'd like to preserve and protect; that a bright smile could bring to mind a painting of a clear day, free birds; that the inspiration isn't solely creative, when he'd made it clear previously how he envied the ways she said what she did, did what she said. she had framed it as merely acting on her beliefs, but... isn't that the most difficult thing? to find the path to one's self, and then follow it? buried deeper, still, his disjointed discomfort with all of it.

sinclair shifts. ]

It- I mean, it could.

[ could. like some things could. like some other people, too, could, even though the answer is really yes, hidden within the maybes until he's sure what she's looking for. ]

That question's a little... [ ah, he's not even sure how to describe it, ] Are... you trying to figure out what people see when they look at you?

[ it could... even with him. maybe it's nothing special then, which is--

... fine, maybe, it means it isn't such a big deal, but it digs a bit into her chest for some reason anyway. it's good though, that it isn't? right? the surprise of the question is the reason for all else, and she gasps at his own, sitting up. ]

Yes! Perhaps I am! I was asked to be painted recently, [ on this very post, ] but I do not understand exactly why; I do not think I acted very much differently than normal, and the picture that thou hath taken of me proved as much as well -- it is as I always am.

[ so

what had made it different, or was it something that was bound to come up? don shakes her head of the thoughts, but doesn't settle again. ]

So I wished to know thine opinion.

[ ... someone asked to paint her? that admission pushes against him as her movement, that gasp, does, his head tilting slightly in response. wouldn't... the best person to ask for that be the one in question?

he considers that, and wonders. ]

You're acting differently right now.

[ just... an observation, at first, added to the ones he quietly and not so quietly makes about don quixote. less shy, less uncertain, less reserved; here, questioning, seeking an answer indirectly. when she'd thought about something he said, about a comment on a heart, she had merely asked him. now, again, she asks... but it's not about him.

so, what makes it different? ]

Sometimes even if it seems the same, it... isn't.

[ though the reverse is true, too. he knows it all well. ]

I don't know what the person who asked you was thinking. [ since she's asking his opinion to find out theirs, isn't she? even if she'd asked him directly about his thoughts, it was... ] But, it's— not only appearances. Experiences change what you see, too.

[ you're acting differently right now, he says, and

perhaps she is, a little, looking for answers from someone it isn't. but that's because... sinclair always knows how to put it in a way she gets, is certain not to shy too much from the topic if she's curious, and-- and maybe she'll have to ask netzach then. as embarrassing as it is, but... not embarrassing so much to ask sinclair, even if she'd

...

no, she'd been embarrassed then too, but only because of what it had followed, right? but she still had asked, because she'd wanted to know, because she'd wanted to understand him. because he's...

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm she's flopping back on the couch. ever moving, this one. safer, for some reason, farther off. even if it's different. sinclair knows when she's forcing something at this point. ]

Thou'rt speaking in riddles. [ rich coming from her. ] What do thee mean?

[ rich coming towards him, too, considering how often he's been on the other side. hearing that is enough to furrow his brow, slightly, coupled with the way she moves... more things he notes, more things he wonders about.

sinclair leans back a little himself to look at her properly, to attempt to relax into someone who could answer her questions. if he- could be someone like that, without fail, he doesn't know.

he'd make an attempt, at least. to work it out with her, whenever she needed it. ]

It means...

[ a glance away to the side, in thought.

how does he explain it? it's something that's somewhat instinctual, to him, yet still foreign and novel. something he hasn't quite tried to voice out loud. understanding it coherently in order to communicate it properly, like a lot of things, wasn't... he didn't need to. he hasn't often been the one asked. ]

I don't think you've acted or looked any different from the first time I've met you. You're Don Quixote, and you've been Don Quixote.

[ to begin, a beginning.

it isn't a bad thing, and he doesn't say it as such. it was overwhelming, at first, but he's used to it. it's- what he likes, actually, though it doesn't come out in the explanation, though it's merely a thought that makes him pause. as if somehow don quixote could hear that. as if it wasn't... something that she couldn't already know. they were friends, now. they weren't then.

ah- carry on, sinclair. ]

But what you've done before, we've done before... moved what I might have thought, into other things. Even if you think you're the same, even if you are the same, you can't always see what's changed. It's-

[ seen with something else. the things that time changes, that memories change. it's still a muddy concept. he's not certain it's coming out properly. or perhaps it is, as much as he clumsily grasps at it... ]

-Maybe something like that happened with the person you're talking about, is all, and that's why they asked. But that's... a riddle, too.

[ one he couldn't really answer for anyone. the don quixote they see will be unique to only them, after all. because the time they spent together is unique, too. ]

[ it's muddy, but she gets it. things that sinclair doesn't know about helps that along. the foot she has off the couch kicks idly, but don herself remains where she's at. ]

I suppose the kiss may have moved something, duty though it was.

[ casually dropping that in here nbd ]

But as ever, my friend, thou'rt an excellent speaker! At least, [ she moves to sit more like she had been now, ] for me thou'rt, for I can always trust that thee can put it in a way I may grasp well. It is a riddle, but one I shall ask the person in question; I thank thee for the insight regardless.

[ because he's always the first person she wants to reach out to to ask things, whether it's about or for or whatever else may come to mind. because at some point, something shifted too and the emil sinclair she knew, the emil sinclair she knows, is the same but different. because she likes him, just as he may like her.

they're friends, after all. at least now they are. her very best, she tells everyone -- her very dear, her most important, her good wonderful friend sinclair. ]

I am always at ease when I am around thee, Young Sinclair. Thy words are a soothing balm upon the heart.

[ and, true to her words, she does seem to be more relaxed now. ]

[ oh, there's so much.

there's so much there that although he can agree with the sentiment that don provides some much needed comfort to him, too, there's- also the contradiction of this. the odd feeling blooming from being told he's an excellent speaker tangling with the warmth and awkw...ardness? what is that? of that aforementioned comfort being mutual, set aside by the still processing realization of a kiss that she mentions, overlapping the quiet nervousness following saying so much.

the feeling he has in response to the notion of a kiss is... odd, too. but it's a different shade. perhaps because he didn't expect her to have so casual a response to that? or- no, she might not be. is that not why...

this might be another one of those experiences, shifting the color of things. ]

That's... You also do that for me. [ wait ] Sometimes. But-

[ sometimes don quixote is a stomach ache and a half, born from a place of care, walking towards a place of care, and he knows she would know that "always at ease" is an impossibility for him.

the but is not for that. ]

Can I know what you think about them?

[ the but is for how that mutual comfort may be mirrored in mutual changes, mutual unseen things. the but is for how this isn't really about him, or the things that put her at ease. it's about the things that do the opposite. the-

-well, does he have to know, if she's already seeking her answer from the source? he asks regardless, as a finger picks at the side of his thumb, stopped midway once he realizes. ]

Pardon?

[ just an initial reaction, surprised, for some reason, that he should like to know, and she rests her head against the cushion.

there's so much. their mutual comfort, something so little can ebb at and make her feel the opposite, the way he asks. there's a nuance in can i rather than just asking what they're like, and her gaze dips to her hands.

it's strange, being asked. she hasn't really been before. the words come out a little hesitant, more in the sense of someone who isn't sure how to format it over someone who doesn't want to talk about it, but she does speak softly. ]

Ehm... Yes, of course. They are a nice person, kind and comfortable to be around, with whom I have enjoyed many conversations with -- an artist, as one may have gathered, who I find the smile of pleasant. They do not shy from pressing a point if worthy of pushing it, [ though she dislikes that, too, as someone who wants to deflect, ] and have a gentle demeanor. Truthfully, they--

[ share a lot in common with sinclair, and she catches herself from staying so. is that weird? it isn't, is it? of course she'd be comforted by someone who shared traits with someone she found important. there's a similar desire to help despite their supposed weaknesses, wanting to reach out even if they might not know how, though of course the differences were important, too.

speak, don quixote. ]

They bring me a similar comfort to thee, when we speak. Or did. They do, yet at the same time-- not always. If that makes sense. Not in the way that I worry thee, though.

[ the more she thinks, the more tied up about it she feels -- leisure is nice, but this is too much. ]

[ she's... nervous, maybe? more muted. it's an indulgence of his own curio...sity? that he won't push too far in respect of that, or something more. he won't make assumptions.

he does smile in response, a small thing, brighter than normal. ]

... I get it. [ it's the unique thing that don has with them, similar yet not quite, because sinclair isn't the same. no one is. ] I'm happy you found someone like that.

[ earnestly, he is. he's very actively aware of his hands, now, placing them gingerly on his lap in an attempt to avoid fiddling too much. ]

You... don't have to mention more if you don't want to. But you can-

[ ... ]

-Talk to me, like this, if you ever need it when you're confused again. Remember?

[ a tiny gesture of his head goes towards the board, towards their fifth rule, an itch rising within him for many reasons. this is another earnest thing regardless.

regardless of... ]

[ she does remember, of course, but she hadn't brought it up before now and she

realizes

she may not intend to bring it up again, for her own sake. it isn't sinclair's place to answer questions meant for someone else either, even if few others she could turn comfortably to and will in the future for what may come, and besides. is it really okay? when they won't remember anything anyway? when it doesn't necessarily matter if they do or not, when the library is blasted out of bounds the way angela spoke and there's no guarantee their itinerary will bring them out that way besides?

don pushes the thoughts aside and scoots back closer to him, finally, desiring the closeness and comfort unique to sinclair alone. a familiar line of warmth by her side, little difference in their height, a too-bright smile that nags at her in a way that feels a little like missing a step on the stairs up. ]

Truthfully, I do not think it is wise to let it flourish.

[ something she hasn't told anyone, of course, that she speaks so freely to him instead. ]

It matters little if I am hurt, [ to her anyway, it matters little; it matters more to the person in question, to the person beside her, ] but I wish to avoid that particular fate for them, since the whims of this city are even more impulsive than mine own!

[ a little bright, a little teasing at one of her own flaws oft brought up, but she never thinks it a bad thing to be impulsive. it's just a fact that she is.

however it annoys others. ]

We shall not end up in the same place, and even if we were to we would not recall the time we spent together. [ it's different, with any of those beyond their city.

it's different, with sinclair. ] It is for the good of all if that attachment remains remains firmly unattached.

[ ...

isn't it? the quiet question, the quiet validation left unspoken. she isn't asking for it, really, but it lingers in her mind, in the way she twists the loose threads of her clothes. his hands, her hands, they mimic each other in a way when they're not thinking about it. they tell too much, sometimes. ]

[ it's for the good of all.

is that unwise? is that right?

emil's gaze trails down to her fiddling, to her face. the familiar frustration towards the ease at which she shoulders every burden is a double-edged knife that she drives into him at the same time she defends him with it, with the distance they've decreased in so many ways. the smallest of breaths, released, for so many things that are not.

(it's not about that. it's not, and sinclair reminds himself of that. it's not the time.)

it matters little. to that, he'll always, always mirror— ]

It matters a lot.

[ —and she knows that's what he'll say. what he'll continue to say, on a path before a sacrifice she made, leading to the sacrifices she'll continue to make. that hurts, too. but is looking away in fear of that right?

it's clearer for him to deny that, yet he hesitates to offer that defiance so easily, alongside the gestures that have become more common, but no less important. one hand on his lap moves. not to grasp hers, but to settle closer to her as she settles closer to him, a palm up for her to take.

the thought that they simply won't remember any of it — he can't accept that, even if it's a truth for now. he can't offer validation for that, and the need to vocalize the misalignment bubbles over it all.

quietly: ]

I want it all to matter.

[ for that, it's not that it should matter. in this instance, with her feelings, the feelings of that other person... forcing what he thinks there, it isn't- he's tired of that, too. ]

If it did flourish... how would you feel? Without- everything else.

[ it matters a lot, mirroring her as ever. her counterpoint, resting against the grain, palm upturned that she lays her own against. i want it all to matter, her own feelings spoken through his voice. she wants it to matter, too. the feelings she has for others, the feelings she has for him.

quiet they may be, coverted no less, the warmth and comfort and longing to be at least one of the reasons he smiles. just like any other friend, surely. ]

I do not know. [ frankly, honestly. ] I haven't given it thought.

[ but he's asking her to, in his own way, with implications that from anyone else would fluster her; it warms her cheeks, thinking of it, though she doesn't know what would change.

what would she do? what would change? in novels, there isn't any word about the after; they are partners, through thick and thin, but the romance is in the trust, in the small things they share, the things that become normal and never too grand. her fingers curl between sinclair's and she wonders if it would be anything like this.

...

how is it different? because it's sinclair, and netzach is not sinclair. that's the difference. ]

The books I have read do not detail much, but I think I would be content -- just as I am right now, with thee.

[ if she could feel half as at ease, half as content, even a quarter as comfortable -- then that would be nice, even if it works something in her chest she can't, won't put a name to; it's because it's sinclair, that's all. ]

[ that kind of... directness could be embarrassing. less so, when spoken from don. it's— more a given. a truth spoken aloud, simply existing; one that pulls at drops of warmth from within him left to settle, spreading them out along a canvas, painting a picture where sinclair could provide contentment.

she doesn't lie. he can believe her, and yet some part of him pulls. don't say it like that. not now. it thrums within him for a moment, for a reason he can't quite describe.

unvoiced, of course. undisturbed, to sit beside the good. he would never tell don to stop being her, and this is her. the fingers felt curling between his, the little rays of light that snuck in through the cracks of his shell. at some points blinding. at other points— ]

Then... if you think that, one day...

[ —inspiring scraps of courage and faith, rising with the breaths he collects to speak. ]

It wouldn't be wrong to let yourself feel that one day... right? Because you want to. Because it would make you content. Right then, you'd remember it. It would matter. And, after...

[ like now, it— matters. like now, he's— he persists, quelled, even among the anxieties and the things that push and claw at his mind. it would be this in a different form, but it would...

she had told him once that her life wasn't his to lose. her feelings weren't his to risk, either.

even still, that possibility is something he'd like for her. ]

... We'll find a way to remember those things.

[ she thinks of her confession to netzach (i think i should like to fall in love someday, if it is as wonderful as the stories say, for all the pain that may come tied to it) and

yes, she wants to. she doesn't, but she does; if it was anything like this, but different somehow, then she wouldn't mind it. it would make her content. it would ease her, a simple call of her name (don quixote) would bring a smile to her face. a hand in hers, head rest against their shoulder, don breathes out softly. it weighs at her heart at the same time, though, and she sets it aside.

it's easy to, with his hand in hers. her head resting on his shoulder. ]

We shall make certain of it, for I should like to remember this [ a squeeze of his hand ] as well.

[ them, like this. taking silly pictures and speaking frankly about things that don't, but do, matter.

... they're friendly back home, but this... it's not this, and don doesn't think it could be. she doesn't know if she wishes it could be. but she wants to remember anyway. something's different here. changed, in a way. colored by their experiences. she gets it. ]

And what of thee? One cannot speak advice without being expected to take it themselves, so I should like to see thee endeavoring the same -- if it comes up.

[ though

as easily spoken as it is, because it's true: she does want him happy, if he sees someone he likes and wants to court them it's his right and she'll always stand by it, she'll even help out... her stomach flips regardless, a creeping feeling wedged between her back and the safety of the cushion. there's no explanation for it, and she doesn't ask for one. ]

[ ah?

did don not get the mental memo where he's repeatedly focused on the fact that it's not about him? though of course she turns it back. the slight shift of his body and the way his fingers move between hers aside, he can't be too surprised.

this is where he feels the tug of a fluster. not in the gentle squeeze of a hand or under the weight of someone who's been present through— not everything, but a lot. rather, it's the unknown, the unthought of. the shapeless form those emotions would take, towards whoever they would be directed to. ]

You can't... "what of thee" me. We're talking about you.

[ not in the way that says he's moving away from it. he's not tethered by her hand, but anchored.

so it's quiet, when he responds as truthfully as she had, moving together. ]

If it comes up, I'll try.

[ if.

if. he'll try. to feel and reach for whatever emotion he'd get from such a thing, if it ever bloomed through the cracks before he realized it, like a solitary flower.

like this. ]

[ the imitation of herself makes her giggle, but she's quiet in return as she lets him think, grin more from biting back the rest of her laughter than anything else. gentle sinclair's always thinking too much. there's a lot that goes on, that stays or moves his hand, and while don likes to give it a push or pull him anyway-- she lets him think, just as she would their missing seatmate.

they're so alike, those two. she misses yi sang. ]

So long as thee promise.

[ not that she'll make him swear on it, since she can't even swear herself she'll let her own feelings -- surprising as they come, forcefully tugged from the shadows and brought to light by this word, by that action -- do anymore than flourish (fester) in her heart.

but at least they're there, maybe. acknowledged very reluctantly, bashful as the woman herself can be. ]

I should go. Miss Fearne shall be expecting me.

[ and yet.

she doesn't move, lulled by familiarity and the quiet in her mind. it's rare, and it's always, always... right here, beside her. don knows he'll still be here when she comes back, that lingering isn't like her, but her hand feels weighed by the words shared.

half as content, as at ease, as she is now. whoever could match it? ]

[ promise... well, he hadn't so directly. but he had spoken it aloud, a truth, and in that way he supposes he had promised. for whatever unclear thing is in front of him— rather, the possibility of that unclear thing being in front of him, at whatever point in time, and reaching for it.

imagining it, planting it, caring for it, is left to the background for now. would it be something that makes him content? calm? more details will fall in the silence of don's absence, surely, though that doesn't come when she mentions it.

what color would the petals be? ]

Mm.

[ she should go. sinclair is the one who nags, after all. this is the point where his quiet agreement evolves into the polite thing, into not keeping people waiting.

the idle hum of agreement, like don quixote, lingers. she should go, and his hand doesn't move either. ]

... She might worry if you're late. [ no, no, that's him. ] I can walk you there.

[ so if there's more things she wants to say that keep her here, at his side, she can say them.

(or if she wants to stay within the contradiction of going and remaining, she can do that, too.) ]

Oh, I shan't impose on thee so.

[ walking her, though it's no imposition. don lingers a little more though, slow and reluctant in her stand, their hands still connected however loose. ]

I shall be alright now. [ because of him, a quiet squeeze in gratitude. ] Whilst I am gone, I shall fetch food. Have thee a craving for anything in particular, Young Sinclair?

[ a gentle shift back to normal, though the warmth still lingers against her side, her cheeks and heart. no colder, no emptier, no lonelier -- but don quixote finds herself thinking that she'd like to return as soon as she can, too. ]

[ normalcy, with reassurances. the "now" is... it feels as if he's done something for her, even if it wasn't much at all, with his arm pulled along with don quixote when she stands. he stands shortly after her, lead, taking in the question with a delayed blink as if it registers a second too slowly in his mind.

was he thinking of something else there? ]

Um... Not really. I haven't been thinking about it, so... Anything is fine.

[ the demure gf response, of course,

which is kind of true. he's in a trying enough mood that maybe even picking the meat off chicken wings won't end in failure. but, um, beyond that... the important thing is to add— ]

It's— not imposing, you know. I offered.

[ yeah. ]

I knew thee would say so.

[ consistent, but in the way that people used to each other are. both things, the demure gf response and also that. don holds something behind her smile (not in a bad way; it makes her smile wider, even, whatever the thought) and tips her head away, wiggling their fingers together tighter.

what if she doesn't want to let go once they get there?

... what if he doesn't?

the thought stops there; don doesn't know what to make of either, or the way something tightens in her chest, and it's a bad idea to go together. the answers to those questions feel... a little, after the conversation. a little something.

but he followed, so he wants to go. ]

Make sure thee dress warmly, Young Sinclair, the chill has truly begun to settle in.

[ they can go together. ]

[

he needs his hand for that, doesn't he? he doesn't... linger too much on how the distance between their fingers lessens with the shift in position. and if there's a thought there spared for why that might be, the reasons behind don's wider smile, it's only just because.

he had helped, hadn't he? he'd helped her, and the light in his chest is due to that, quiet and whispering and natural.

it's not cold at all. ]

Okay.

[ or— perhaps he does linger here. he presses their hands closer again, until he pulls gently, more of a question than an action; a gesture mumbling reassurances. ]

Let me get a scarf and a jacket, and then we can go.

[ together, ]

M-Mmhmm.

[ the action, the gentle press of closeness catches something in her chest again and she lets go a little quickly maybe, using the time when he moves to grab what's needed to check her hand curiously and then tuck it behind her, rocking on her heels. she doesn't need anything extra, warm-blooded as she is, but she knows he'll say something anyway.

that's just how he is, after all. anything else is kicked into the corner like she used to do, moving things in and out as time goes on; this, too, is a shift in their relationship, a closeness she wouldn't give away, couldn't.

and of course because she's warm-blooded, forgive the pink in her cheeks. ever fidgeting, the way she can't stay still. ]

Thee do not have to wait with me once we have arrived, for she shall be soon after I am sure. And there would be no point to the lesson if she were to do it herself.

[ really, this is to make sure she doesn't skip out on him like her feet want her to do, the rocking ensuring they're doing something besides running away (from what? from who? not sinclair, surely,). ]

[ well, of course he'll say something anyway. split to pull out a scarf and a jacket from the closet in the hall, as he said, though he'd never specified who would wear what.

what they've talked about lingers somewhat still, surely, and she's slowed down for him. that's why she's fidgeting... waiting for him to grab this, the scarf he's gotten for her, knowing the other would be too much. unneeded, plenty warm already... which he's not surprised about at all. yet the unnecessary always settles on top, fragments of each other overlapping, as these things do.

he stretches out to settle one such fragment around her neck. with that done, he pulls both ends forward to give her a kis

haha just fucking kidding. he's stretching the scarf out towards her. ]

Here. At least this.

[ in a way that says they will really not leave the apartment until At Least This.

and, the other things which he's, like, not really following. because conversations were Not Read. ]

You're learning something?

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icanfixer - 2023-10-31 04:45 (UTC) - Expand

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