[ you will save her. there's the occasional shake in his confidence, not because he'd ever change his mind over what he'd choose to do, but because he wonders if he could end up failing, if this could be another notch in the post of how many lives he'd failed to save, how many loves have become mere graves in his memory.
so often, he'd had the conviction of making sure to abide by it, to prevent death, but the doubt has been in his mind in quell's voice — that would be a change for you, she'd said, simply voicing his own subconscious thoughts — and even now, there's so much he doesn't know about whether his price will even be enough to keep clara alive.
but alina looks at him without a faltered stare, and the strangest thing he finds is the trust he holds for those words — you will — how he knows she isn't saying it simply for the sake of flowery comfort. maybe it's because he knows they won't lie to one another; that conversation in his bedroom was a testament to that, to looking beyond the filter he so often wears as a curtain through hazy smoke, and understanding the scars they both hold as reminders to stay strong.
for a moment, he simply stares to her, unguarded in his own eyes, hinted with the weight of his losses, of his shadows, but brightened by the light of her promise.
slowly, he leans forward, his forehead touching about hers gently, silent vulnerability in a simple gesture. so often withholding himself, he grants her access to a different corner of himself just in that shared touch, whispering as he closes his eyes. ] I believe you.
[ he wants to. he so desperately wants to. and he trusts in her not to lie. ]
no subject
so often, he'd had the conviction of making sure to abide by it, to prevent death, but the doubt has been in his mind in quell's voice — that would be a change for you, she'd said, simply voicing his own subconscious thoughts — and even now, there's so much he doesn't know about whether his price will even be enough to keep clara alive.
but alina looks at him without a faltered stare, and the strangest thing he finds is the trust he holds for those words — you will — how he knows she isn't saying it simply for the sake of flowery comfort. maybe it's because he knows they won't lie to one another; that conversation in his bedroom was a testament to that, to looking beyond the filter he so often wears as a curtain through hazy smoke, and understanding the scars they both hold as reminders to stay strong.
for a moment, he simply stares to her, unguarded in his own eyes, hinted with the weight of his losses, of his shadows, but brightened by the light of her promise.
slowly, he leans forward, his forehead touching about hers gently, silent vulnerability in a simple gesture. so often withholding himself, he grants her access to a different corner of himself just in that shared touch, whispering as he closes his eyes. ] I believe you.
[ he wants to. he so desperately wants to. and he trusts in her not to lie. ]