[ A deliberate echo in her cadence rather than his, a gossamer layer of affection.
The fact is that he's never wanted anything that was easy, from Zaun's liberation to his love for her, fatal as it is. But it'd be misleading, too, to say that the difficulty is what makes such endeavors worth it. Rather, he's not the type to snatch the first shining thing that's flashed in front of his face. Things that last require a little more work than that. And his love for her has carried through his death, into uncharted territory.
In the morning, they wake with the liquid amber rays of the sun. Light cuts slices across her pale skin, illuminating the clouds tattooed across her arms and torso, setting the blue of her hair into pale flame. All it takes is for her to roll over, as though to begin getting out of bed, for his arms to wind around her and draw her back, slow and warm and gentle in a way she knows he hides and stows away, hints at a soft, vulnerable underbelly that's been scarred before.
Before, they've traded off the reins, one in control while the other submits, but here it's— level. He looks at her with his eyes rounded, glazed over with affection. She's something precious, to be treated accordingly — it doesn't matter that she wouldn't break under pressure. And he wants her to know— that he loves her, treasures her, wants her, feels for her a devotion that had placed her above even the city he loved so much. He knows her thoughts have a tendency to scatter, that she doesn't see herself the way he does. Perfect, always. Best to tell her again (and again, and again) while they have the luxury of time.
For now, despite his earlier guess that they'd merely be late: ]
no subject
[ A deliberate echo in her cadence rather than his, a gossamer layer of affection.
The fact is that he's never wanted anything that was easy, from Zaun's liberation to his love for her, fatal as it is. But it'd be misleading, too, to say that the difficulty is what makes such endeavors worth it. Rather, he's not the type to snatch the first shining thing that's flashed in front of his face. Things that last require a little more work than that. And his love for her has carried through his death, into uncharted territory.
In the morning, they wake with the liquid amber rays of the sun. Light cuts slices across her pale skin, illuminating the clouds tattooed across her arms and torso, setting the blue of her hair into pale flame. All it takes is for her to roll over, as though to begin getting out of bed, for his arms to wind around her and draw her back, slow and warm and gentle in a way she knows he hides and stows away, hints at a soft, vulnerable underbelly that's been scarred before.
Before, they've traded off the reins, one in control while the other submits, but here it's— level. He looks at her with his eyes rounded, glazed over with affection. She's something precious, to be treated accordingly — it doesn't matter that she wouldn't break under pressure. And he wants her to know— that he loves her, treasures her, wants her, feels for her a devotion that had placed her above even the city he loved so much. He knows her thoughts have a tendency to scatter, that she doesn't see herself the way he does. Perfect, always. Best to tell her again (and again, and again) while they have the luxury of time.
For now, despite his earlier guess that they'd merely be late: ]
I trust you'll be fine until lunch.