An exaggerated oof at the press of shin. Impossible to an feign: The prickle of skin behind her hand. Duller, here and there, across some old line of scar. Dull, and not gone.
(It's different now, she says, and doesn't say it's easy. The hard things wear her face, sometimes. Others walk in like strangers.)
Gela doesn't fight, waves pen before sword. And still, there's a notch in her ear to mark his own. There's the divot of flesh where full lips pull and part, the way they do when she's really pleased with herself. The pink press of tongue tip through teeth.
"Dunno if I ever stop worrying," He admits, and thinks how much cleverer this would be to drop. Better to thread an arm through that elbow and haul her in close again. He'd like that. Has some evidence by now that she likes it, too. Least when he finds the right spot. "Maybe 's just looking for problems."
For some way that it isn't better, being here. Gela's warm. Gela's happy. Selfish to puncture that, and maybe that's why he says it now. Just that it feels safe enough to.
"For some way 's not better, being here."
Better, and hard, and her skin is soft when he cages knuckle under palm.
"I know." She has noticed this about him — he looks to people he's thinking of and watches them, brings them into conversation, skirting around questions nobody wants to answer. He'll knead it slowly out of them once they relax a little instead and it's hard to do a thing like that, Gela should know. It makes you worry-prone. Once you know people enough you can notice when something's off. Intimacy is nice, has a price tag to match.
His brow is furrowed. She can see a line she'd put her thumb on if he didn't choose that moment to heap their hands together — his feel good, strong. Kind. Like he wouldn't press on a bruise unless he had to.
And yet he's missing half an ear; anchors himself the ground in armor; once left plates of food just outside her room.
"Tell me more?"
She could use the point of connection to pull him closer. She wants to. She could put her chin on his shoulder and skirt her knee up his hip and over it but that would cease, quickly, to be listening. And she wants to look at his eyes while he's talking anyway.
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(It's different now, she says, and doesn't say it's easy. The hard things wear her face, sometimes. Others walk in like strangers.)
Gela doesn't fight, waves pen before sword. And still, there's a notch in her ear to mark his own. There's the divot of flesh where full lips pull and part, the way they do when she's really pleased with herself. The pink press of tongue tip through teeth.
"Dunno if I ever stop worrying," He admits, and thinks how much cleverer this would be to drop. Better to thread an arm through that elbow and haul her in close again. He'd like that. Has some evidence by now that she likes it, too. Least when he finds the right spot. "Maybe 's just looking for problems."
For some way that it isn't better, being here. Gela's warm. Gela's happy. Selfish to puncture that, and maybe that's why he says it now. Just that it feels safe enough to.
"For some way 's not better, being here."
Better, and hard, and her skin is soft when he cages knuckle under palm.
no subject
His brow is furrowed. She can see a line she'd put her thumb on if he didn't choose that moment to heap their hands together — his feel good, strong. Kind. Like he wouldn't press on a bruise unless he had to.
And yet he's missing half an ear; anchors himself the ground in armor; once left plates of food just outside her room.
"Tell me more?"
She could use the point of connection to pull him closer. She wants to. She could put her chin on his shoulder and skirt her knee up his hip and over it but that would cease, quickly, to be listening. And she wants to look at his eyes while he's talking anyway.