[ it's a monumental sentiment for a woman that's been the target of mistrust, eyes that are arrow-sharp and critical cast in her direction. for a woman who scarcely has faith in herself, most days, peering into her reflection — plagued by the unrecognizable sight, left with the eternal question of what she's become. what she's becoming. (what she will become, at the end of it all.)
she recognizes the significance of it, too, for a man that seems to be built as weapons are. observing others like he's peering down the barrel of a rifle, waiting for the moment they make an enemy of him, waiting for the monsters to rear their head in dark corners. it means more than she can possibly express that he hasn't mistaken her for one, something unexpected and inexplicable throbbing in her chest, like a distantly buried worry has slowly begun to unknot itself at his reassurance.
the reciprocated nudge of her forehead to his is more starved than she would care to admit, beholden to an existence without much affection. without the ease of setting down her burdens and allowing herself vulnerability. she hasn't forgotten her lessons from the orphanage as her eyes close — preserve your emotional breakdowns for private, always. a watery burn rises to her eyes, anyway, torn between the acceptance of his faith and the overwhelming paranoia that she'll inevitably disappoint him until he's revoked it, one day.
her hands drift from cupping his face to pressing upon the back of his head, on her tiptoes to ease his need to lean down to meet her, as she guides him into the crook of her shoulder — gently, as to not disturb the bits of protruding antler hidden beneath the collar in jagged slashes. thank you, she doesn't say, but the gratitude is undeniable in how tightly her other arm bends over his neck to embrace him. to clutch at the fabric between his shoulder blades, wordless.
maybe it's thanks enough, to hide him away in her throat after all that he's had to witness, a little alcove to escape into. she breathes in, shaky, the scent of nicotine and blood clinging to the air — ignoring the trickling tear that splashes against the crown of his head, before she briskly wipes it away, as though it had never existed at all. ]
Are you ready to go?
[ a whisper, lost in the press of her mouth to the top of his head, ruffling through the strands there. he must know what she's asking, she tells herself, spoken between the lines of what she doesn't say — are you ready to say goodbye to your sister a second time? ]
no subject
she recognizes the significance of it, too, for a man that seems to be built as weapons are. observing others like he's peering down the barrel of a rifle, waiting for the moment they make an enemy of him, waiting for the monsters to rear their head in dark corners. it means more than she can possibly express that he hasn't mistaken her for one, something unexpected and inexplicable throbbing in her chest, like a distantly buried worry has slowly begun to unknot itself at his reassurance.
the reciprocated nudge of her forehead to his is more starved than she would care to admit, beholden to an existence without much affection. without the ease of setting down her burdens and allowing herself vulnerability. she hasn't forgotten her lessons from the orphanage as her eyes close — preserve your emotional breakdowns for private, always. a watery burn rises to her eyes, anyway, torn between the acceptance of his faith and the overwhelming paranoia that she'll inevitably disappoint him until he's revoked it, one day.
her hands drift from cupping his face to pressing upon the back of his head, on her tiptoes to ease his need to lean down to meet her, as she guides him into the crook of her shoulder — gently, as to not disturb the bits of protruding antler hidden beneath the collar in jagged slashes. thank you, she doesn't say, but the gratitude is undeniable in how tightly her other arm bends over his neck to embrace him. to clutch at the fabric between his shoulder blades, wordless.
maybe it's thanks enough, to hide him away in her throat after all that he's had to witness, a little alcove to escape into. she breathes in, shaky, the scent of nicotine and blood clinging to the air — ignoring the trickling tear that splashes against the crown of his head, before she briskly wipes it away, as though it had never existed at all. ]
Are you ready to go?
[ a whisper, lost in the press of her mouth to the top of his head, ruffling through the strands there. he must know what she's asking, she tells herself, spoken between the lines of what she doesn't say — are you ready to say goodbye to your sister a second time? ]