redheadcarrier | [DDD | 042

There was something to be said for best laid plans.

And he had realized that early on. No matter how careful one might be, the chance for error was always there. Always present. Nothing was invulnerable. Unpreventable. Nothing too safe nor too secure. (Though, he had realized he had lost himself in that comfort. Once or twice. Something unanticipated. The weight of feeling. Consequence. Options taken and options spent. Options he had not thought available. Options that would never be.)

And it was something he had realized. (Again. Last week. The sudden appearance of Misato. The sudden need for locks and filters. No longer free to post without checking, checking again.) And it was something that he had realized. (And even though he had asked of them not to mention Third Impact - it was not a guarantee. Asuka had spoken of Angels. Had slipped in new details. Had forgotten. And yet -)

And it was something he had again come to realize. Last night. (And no amount of locking had covered it. And no amount of explanation had prevented Minato from asking her. Questioning her. Each word of sentiment captured and caged in the walls of his room. Each thread and each note of some heavy uncertainty. Each - And it was something he had hoped they would not ask. And part of him wished that Minato had not spoken it. And part of him knew it was something he had come too think on. Something he would, again.)

And today had not proved to be different. (He had barely made his deadline, despite his attempts. Had become distracted by Misato updating, again. Had realized that he was close, now. In her timeline. One left. And -) And it was something that he hoped would prove different. (A small break in tension. A small breath of air.) And it was something that he hoped would prove different, as he rose from the kitchen chair. Sent the last e-mail. Checked it once. (And once more, again.) As he quietly let out a breath. (Felt as his back clicked into place. As the knots in his shoulders began to loosen. Untangle. Relax.)

And it was something he had hoped would prove different, when his hearing hooked into the faint sound of the television set. Just beyond the door. (The clear voice of some announcer, and the proclamation of "goal!" -- and it was something that twinged a small part of his interest as he quietly headed into the living room. Paused, to wonder over what exactly it was he was watching, though -)

And it was as he predicted. (She had turned it on.) And it was a moment before he decided to take a seat a careful distance from her. (Debating. Though, to avoid was to incite - And to incite was to worsen. And he considered it better than what might come of joining her. Knowing, that such persistence was what had once pulled for aggression. Had pulled for her defenses - though, he had always understood it.)

Something he remained to understand.

Asuka glanced up as Kaworu sat down and she curled her legs up underneath her, turning her attention back to the game. At least she tried to. She was still thinking about Minato's questions the other night. How... awkward that had made her feel (and there was anger, too). She didn't like being asked those kinds of questions. It meant examining things she'd rather leave alone and letting people know how she felt. She fidgeted, shifted her weight again and tried to focus on the game.

He caught the glance. (Caught the way she had amended it. The sudden shift of posture. The way that she had fidgeted.) And he caught the sudden need to refocus. (Felt some unease settle tangibly between them. And part of him wished to curl his fingers into it. To quietly disentangle it. To clear it. But, that would require speaking what had been ambiguous. Had continued to be. And that would require realizing and analyzing what it was that Minato's statement had unearthed. Stirred up. Distilled.)

And he was quiet, for a long moment. (Attempted to discern what rules it was this game followed. Football - Proper, as she had mentioned once before.) Before settling his hands deeper into his pockets. Expression quiet, neutral. (And there was a soft touch of curiosity lingering at the corners. True and not. Flickering into existence as someone was penalized. As some regulation was bent.) And he pulled for some softer edge to this. Question rising before he had realized he had spoken it.

"What rule was it that he had broken?"

Edited 2009-08-05 04:09 (UTC)

Asuka has been absorbed in the game, trying to forget. She was leaning to one side, chin cupped in one hand. The question caught her off-guard and she blinked, glancing over to Kaworu again. Oh yeah, he was here, wasn't he?

"Off-sides. He was off-sides. Don't you know anything about football?"

He felt her eyes before he met them, his fingers flexing subconsciously as he allowed his attention to be drawn away from the television. Drawn away from what they were amending, the quick and easy movements of another game he had not fully watched nor grasped, though the basics were coming quickly.

And it is a partial glance, the irony of his previous statement pulling up at the corners of his lips. Though, he's morphing it too quickly into the constant, practiced smile.

"Not much, I am afraid," and he's returning his attention to the television, for a moment, before he's glancing back. There was no use of hands. No direct contact. A careful avoidance. He had always caught the sounds of it. The energy of it. But, he had never done more, than listen to it. It was easy to forget, he knew, that he had not been permitted opportunity to try much, before. To view much. To hear much, beyond the low thrum of voices and the low voice of music. "Perhaps the basics."

"Well, you have to learn! Ugh, I swear, you're helpless," she snorts and leans back against the couch, watching him. The way he moves is... different. In fact, everything about him always seems slightly off from a normal human (and she has to shake that thought away before it digs too deep). She rubs at the back of her head and sighs.

That smile he seems to wear most of the time can be endearing, at times. At others, downright creepy. She tries to avoid the creepy factor.

"So. Uh...."

Awkward.

And there's a faint relief in the familiarity of the statement. In the marked line of frustration. Something that deviated from the awkwardness. That deviated from the quiet. The heaviness of reluctant and unspoken sentences. Sentiments. And it is something that he holds to, for a moment, before it lapses. Before his answer quiets in the wake of it. Though, there's a faint humor that rounds the practiced edges to his smile. Only there, for a moment, before it falls again. Before it quietly moves back into something more thoughtful.

(He can feel her monitoring him. Can feel the pause settling, somewhere. Too aware of his own movements. Too aware of the palpable uncertainty. And it takes a moment, before he's subconsciously mirroring her. Answering her movement. Leaning back a bit more.)

Instead of pulling for answers, more questions, he's withdrawing his hands from his pockets. Opting to settle them on his knees. And it takes another moment, before he's permitting himself to glance over. To look at her more directly. (And he could not recall the last time it had been this heavy. This quiet. And he's stifling the urge to press against it. Waiting on something to unravel or give way.)

"Mm?"

She shifts again, glances at the television. Watches it for a brief moment, then turns to look at Kaworu again for a long moment. She's confused. How should she feel about him? Quite honestly... he makes her feel sort of safe. It's a stupid thing to feel and she almost hates herself for enjoying it, but it's a feeling of comfort, of belonging. Of having someone there to help her (even if she doesn't want or need it most of the time, she tells herself).

"...so, people think we're dating now."

Great idea, Asuka.

He's blinking once, against the statement. Shifting once. Letting his gaze drop, as she's looking back to the television. Minato's query, his assumption, had delved into corners of thought he had not wished to touch. Had not wished to dust off. At least, initially. (And there's a faint twinge of reluctance that surfaces as he shifts through what he does feel, what he doesn't.)

Like before, she had been a constant. (And he had always admired her intelligence. Admired her drive and her ambition. What threads of conversation they were able to dredge up. The frequent nights of duets, paused for the moment. Paused now. He had empathized with her. Then. Initially. Now. And there was the faint intolerance of loneliness. How it felt. How he had promised not to leave her. To ever leave her.) Unlike before, she had been closer. (He can remember the evening she had nodded off. How he had not minded. How he had waited for her to wake up, to stir. Willing to sit still the whole night if she required it.)

She had become a comfort. (When she touched him, it was becoming steadily less jarring. Something he was beginning to accept.) Someone that he welcomed in the evenings. Someone he enjoyed the company of.

And like before, he had found strength in her seeming vulnerabilities. Had accepted what weaknesses she had revealed. (Relieved to find she still was able to voice herself, to him. Regardless of how vague or distorted. Relieved to find that he could help. Could assist.) And like before, he accepted her anger. The violate nature. The way that she defended herself. Continues to. (Occasionally, only occasionally, letting the wall down enough for him to see what it is that he might find. Might comfort or lull or shift.)

Though, unlike before - he was slightly more honest. (And she was slightly more intuned. Able to pick through his smiles. Occasionally mark them. The same he shared with Shinji, now shared with her. And that had sent a flicker of surprise through him. At first, but now -)

He's studying the soft rise of his own knuckles, before he's glancing up again. Voice thoughtful. Quiet.

"For so I have heard," and they're without edges. His words. An honest observation. And he's shifting again. Almost undetectably.

It was difficult to miss the conversation. He was in the middle of it, after all.

Edited 2009-08-07 14:47 (UTC)

She sits up, curling her legs against her chest, hugging them to herself. It's a comforting gesture - something to give her a bit of security, an imaginary defense against the discussion she knows is going to come eventually. She could drop it now, retreat behind her walls, and let it lie untouched again. She'd gotten used to that. She sort of enjoyed it. It was ambivalent. No commitment - it was... comforting like that. It was something she could avoid and dance around. Something left unsaid and easy to pretend.

She shifts slightly, watching him quietly. She wasn't sure what she wanted or even if she wanted to go that extra step. She wasn't sure if she wanted to affirm it like that. It feels like she would be pushing things, letting someone in too close (but Kaworu has been that close and he's been there for her) and she can't have that. She can't quite imagine how that would be. Would it be the same as it was now? What if things changed? What if it didn't work out? She doesn't want to think about that and she doesn't want to find out. And at the same time she wants to take that risk, she wants to finally let it all out into the open - but she doesn't want to end up alone again.

So she shifts again, fingers drumming against the couch, "...what do you think about that?"

He does not miss the shift in posture. The sudden press of tension.

He has seen that gesture, before. Many times back in Tokyo-3, in what comfort his apartment he could provide, he had watched Shinji take on a similar position. One of the first that he had grown familiar with, to see it mirrored again in Asuka was not surprising. Was not entirely unexpected. (A means of defense. A means of protection. And she is walling herself off, again.)

He is aware of what it takes to ask or state these questions. Aware of what an effort it is to bring them into light. At risk of unwanted answers. Unwanted questions. At risk of uncertainty and certainty - overlapping and intertwining. Too entirely vulnerable.

And he had heard these questions, once. Months and months go. Back in the dorms in Iwatodai, late into the night. He can remember the way she had queried him then. The same topic, once again unearthed. And he had remembered his answer then. He had remembered granting it chance - though, they had then forgotten it. It would be months before they had stumbled back upon it. An odd reluctance and the constant avoidance, and he could not blame her for it. Could not blame himself for it. It was never particularly simplistic. Was never particularly easy. (The first discussion had been virused, and he had realized then how raw the concept was.)

Even now, part of him is only scraping at the edges of what it is that he might want. Even now, he can taste the the air of indecision (his or her own, he cannot distinguish).

And even now, to answer in one manner or the other was to press against defenses. If such a thing were to lead to what they had possessed before, there was a chance of failure. To reject what they had had before, was to lead to unease and awkwardness. In either manner, her reaction could not be entirely predictable. (However, regardless --)

He's thinking, for a moment. His eyes flicking back to the television set, not hearing nor seeing the voices or scores.

"...Such a thing is expected, I suppose. To make assumptions based upon interaction is natural, regardless of whether it is based in fact or fiction," and he is shifting. He can feel her eyes upon him. Can feel the way that she watches him. And he's careful to meet her gaze, after a beat. Two. "However, it is also true that assumptions are not always made without some means basis." And he's pausing, again. Letting the observation sink in. Fill the stubborn gaps in the quiet. "... Why is it you ask?"

(He possessed no intention of breaking his promise. He would not leave her alone.)

"...I'm just curious."

There's a sudden snap in her voice, her shoulders tensing. She doesn't want to answer that quite so truthfully yet. It's too dangerous, too much risk. She doesn't want to open up to him that much, even if she's done it before. It's not easy and she hates it. She hates admitting to herself and to others that she actually cares. The faint touches, the easy conversations - those are easy. But saying it, getting the words out into the open are another matter entirely.

She almost regrets her tone a moment later, but she shoves that way. She doesn't need to be sorry. Kaworu should be the one answering her questions, not the other way around. He needs to come clean first. She needs to find out what he really thinks. Because she isn't going to say anything first. She's not going to risk herself again. She's tried it only a few times before and every time it's ended up hurting. Except with him. But she's still not sure, still afraid of what might happen. What will change, what will stay the same. Of how she'll change (and the time she has left is slowly ticking down, somewhere inside of her - but she doesn't think about that).

"...besides, that didn't really answer my question!"

When in doubt, attack.

"That's not your opinion, that's just an observation! I'm not stupid!"

Edited 2009-08-09 05:27 (UTC)

And he can almost feel her bristling, almost feel her tensing. Can almost taste the sharp edges to her words. And he's not flinching nor faltering, his gaze steady and careful. He knows this not easy for her. He knows that she, herself, hates this. The idea of another treading closer, the idea of needing another. Of requiring another. The idea of wanting to lean on another.

And he knows she does not like this vulnerability. And for it, he accepts her answer. For the moment. Monitoring the lines of tension in her shoulders, the way she draws further back and further away from him. (To hurt is easier than to be hurt, and it is something that he has come to learn. Has something he has come to understand. Comprehend.) Even so, he has come to admire what steps it is she has taken. What steps she may continue to take.

However, his expression is void of any sting or ounce of deeper contemplation when speaks. (Careful to hold her eyes. Careful to keep his gaze steady.) Words quieter, softer, than he had anticipated.

"I do know," and he can feel the tug. The faint curve to his lips. But it ebbs, after a moment. "You are not foolish."

And it is another, before he speaks again. Before he is slipping his hands, too absently, back into his pockets. (And there's a flicker of reluctance, but it is too quick to capture. To register. Seize.)

"... I did not take offense to it," he's rolling a shoulder. Weighing and measuring the next words of his sentence. Before beginning again, deciding. "It did not bother me."

Edited 2009-08-09 06:32 (UTC)

"Oh, well, it's a good thing you weren't offended. I'd hate to think that the idea of me insulted your or something!"

Again, there's a snap behind the words (but this time, there's ab it of relief). She's a bit less tense, slightly more relaxed. It's a start, anyway. It's better than wondering (wondering? she knows he likes her in some way). She slowly slides her legs down, sitting cross-legged now. She leans back against the couch, still half-listening to the forgotten football game.

At least he's making eye contact - although that almost makes her want to look away now. She feels like her face is burning, that she's giving away too much just by looking at him. He does, after all, have that look that gives the impression that he's simply looking straight through her, looking past everything, and seeing he stripped of everything; naked. She hugs her arms 'round her chest and continues to glare.

"But how do you feel about it, huh?"

And his hearing is hooking into the shift in the her tone. The soft, slight variation. He can feel the relief before he ever hears it. Before he ever sees it. Just before the uncoiling of limbs and the slow adjustment of her position. (There is an ease that was not here before, like the soothing weight of fingers. Clearing up some greater tension. Smoothing it away. (Like the warmth of her own fingers, like the warmth of his own.) Seeping in, though barely. But, enough to speak more comfortably. Still cautiously. Controlled.

And it was that answer that had triggered it. (A small swarm of relief.) It was his answer that had pulled for it. To know that he was not repulsed --
And he is meeting the glare with a measured levelness. Half-listening to the sound of the game, likely coming toward a close.

He can feel the clearer notes. A building sense of some discomfort. The way she holds herself against his stare. The hints of a blooming flush. And he is not missing it, as he shifts. Once. As his fingers flex. Delve deeper into his pockets.

Like before, there is a quiet certainty. The itch of an idea. (And it is not an terrible concept. And it is not unfavorable. He knows he has come to like to be beside her. He knows he has come to like her company. Has come to like the touches she bestows, and yet --)

There is a beat, before her answer.

"It is not a bad concept."

That's one thing she'll never truly under - how his stare can be so eerie and oddly reassuring at the same time. She wonders (briefly) if Shinji ever felt like this. She wonders why his eyes are so red, what caused that? Why is he different from the First in so many different, subtle ways? Her shoulders drop a bit and she continues to glare, a bite still in her tone. She's getting frustrated with this. Why can't he ever give a straight answer?

"Be specific!"

Specific.

He does not miss the set of her shoulders. The sudden dip in her tone, again. The way she files her words, the sharp and hooking points. Though, he is not shrinking back. (And his posture is shifting discreetly, and he fights down the urge to roll his shoulder, again. Soothing the quick lick of surprise, the hazier note of reluctance. The fraction of some quiet --)

"... It is the same as before," he can hear the game ending - and it is a soft realization that breaks into his focus. He can hear the loud proclamations and the elated cheers. He catches himself, before he follows it. Before he shifts again. "I did not take offense, nor did I think it a bad concept." There's terms for this, he knows. He toes the line between their usage, but he keeps it quiet, instead. How did he feel, precisely? To hear it? To hear the accusations? Part of him had wished, initially, that he had not asked, but now - He's pausing. "I did not protest. I was not unhappy with it."

Edited 2009-08-09 08:57 (UTC)

She scowls at him again, "So, did it make you happy? How do you actually feel about it, Kaworu? Stop... stop playing around like this! You're so impossible sometimes, I swear!"

To be pulled at, tugged at, was difficult. He had known with Shinji. He had known his feelings. And it was easy, to admit that he had liked him. To admit that he had loved him. To wish to want to date him. To remain by him.

It had been easy, but he had lost him. Even so, to be around him was enough. Even so, now that he was gone, now that he had not heard for him - Had seen him, had - Even now, it was the same concept. Was it not? If that were to happen again, would it not be the same? He had no wish to leave her. He had felt comfortable around her, feels comfortable around her. He is content when he is with her. There's a faint note of some stability in her presence. A sort of grounding. A note of some warmth in her small touches, and her proximity. And he's -- And he's nodding, gently. He has no means, but to answer. He does not wish to be dishonest, and yet - it would have been easiest, he realizes. But, to avoid and dodge endlessly was not feasible, nor possible.

"... Yes," and he's not shifting, though he's lowering his gaze. After a moment. If only briefly, before meeting her eyes again. "I suppose that is how you might place it. It was not a bad feeling," and he's treading into territory he was not certain of, like he had done the first time. Like he had done, before. He knows she is determined to draw an answer, but cannot be as certain in her own feelings. He own cause. "After all, it was not ... Something I had regretted, the first time. I had told you what it was that I had thought, then. I had agreed."

For a moment, all she can do is stare at him. Watch him. Hear his words and try to process it all, try to figure out if they mean what she thinks they mean (hopes?). He said... yes? She fidgets a moment, toying with a strand of her hair, trying to figure out what to do and what to say. The words come, eventually. Slowly and then in a rush.

"Well... that's... good, yeah? That's good. That's really, really good!"

He could feel the faint fingers of relief threading through him before he could place it, before he could name it. There had been no negative reaction. There had been no talking further on that subject. There had been only been the soft pause, the moment of fidgeting, and her words. Spoken slowly, at first. Then tripping up. Tangling up.

She had said it was good. She had said it was really good. And to hear that - It was not a sort of loneliness in that thought, then.

And the feeling is just as warm and airy as it was, the first time. Was just as comforting and just as elating. To have such a thing be mutual was ... Still odd. Was still something he was not too used to. Too accustomed to.

And his lips are quirking up, almost unconsciously, and he cannot suppress it as he answers. As his posture loosens almost imperceptibly. As his posture relaxes.

"It is," and there's a small chuckle that bubbles up. That winds its way up. Quiet, though audible. "I cannot say I disagree."

Edited 2009-08-09 15:35 (UTC)

The tension seems to slowly drain out of her and she leans back into the couch, letting a slow breath she hadn't really been aware she'd been holding in. And slowly, she smiles. It's small at first and then it simply turns into something big, something genuine. Not mean-spirited, not arrogant, not the facade she keeps up. Just a warm, pleasant smile. Her legs stretch out again and she sprawls over the couch.

"Why do you always have to speak in riddles, Kaworu? It's like you have to be mysterious or something," her tone is teasing and she jabs a finger at him from her position at the couch, drawing little circles in the air with the tip, "You really ought to try being more direct. At least people will understand what you're trying to say."

She's not quite ready to bring up her own unspoken uncomfortableness with PDAs, but she has a feeling Kaworu knows about that already.

He's easing back a bit, leaning back a bit, as he catches the playful note of her jab. As he remembers how it had felt to have this lack of tension. How it feels, now.

"Perhaps," and it's a faint admission, as he pulls his hands from his pockets. Settles them comfortably back on his knees. Fingers drumming once, absently. Some note of playfulness seizing his words before he can round it. "Though, sometimes it is true such things provide a bit of interest."

The smile hasn't faded. And he can feel it settle into something easy. Much more honest. Something much more open. (And it is not chancing on practiced. On something placid. Artificial.) And it is warmth that sticks, that morphs it into something softer. Something much more quiet. Something calm and comfortable. Natural. Earnest.

And these he saves for few, and these he cannot imitate. Cannot model nor shape. And though he has tried - But, he understands her qualms, her own note of discomfort. For it, he does not nudge her, does not aim to push her. To drag into light unanswered quirks or unspoken uneasiness.

Asuka rolls over onto her stomach, feet propped up on the arm of the couch as she laughs at Kaworu, "Yeah, if by interesting you mean confuse everyone!" She smiles and shakes her head, "Really, you could stand to be less obtuse. Maybe then we'd get along better."

The last is a tease, a playful jab. She can see the smile on his face and although she's not really that great at reading people, she can tell there's something a bit different about it. She lets her unease and uncertainty go, buries it for some later point in time, shoves it away and instead just soaks in the warm glow of knowing someone is there. Knowing that she's accepted. Noticed. Recognized. Liked. Unforgotten. It's a good feeling and it's one she's been searching for. It's one she's wanted since she was a child and received very little of.

The shift in proximity is not lost on him, and he's letting himself sink down, just enough, to meet her eyes more easily. And there's a comfort in this that he had missed. A sort of gentleness he had misplaced, for a time, found again and unraveled. Spilling into the corners of his thoughts. Lulling and soothing what has fallen and what has come to light months and months back, weeks and weeks back. Days and days. And those thoughts, those plans - too heavy and too frayed, are rounded down, again. (Just for a while.)

"It is a possibility," and he's not disguising the soft laugh. And though it is for both, he's throwing the playful jab right back. Showing he is not incapable of following suit. He knows these games. He has seen the others play them. He has often played them, himself. (Once learned, he had teased others gently. Once let out of the facility, he had used what he had learned. Took all that he had learned. Erased what he thought had once been important, only to replace it with something new. And now, and then, he did not regret it.)

Now, he focuses on the warmth this brings. What warmth this carries. New, but not new, and just the idea of being here - just the idea of being by others, by her - it is a good feeling. To know that this is mutual, to know this is growing into something comfortable. A sort of closeness he had not possessed, before. (And he's welcoming it. And he's curling his fingers into it.) Something he had never received, like this, before. (And it registers and settles. And it is contentment.)

She rests her chin in her hands, feet kicking back and forth as she watches him laugh, watches him smile He is almost too human. Not human enough, at times. For all of that, he's what she has left. He's someone she trusts, someone she has found she actually cares for. It's difficult to adjust to it, sometimes; she finds that she can't keep her walls up all of the time anymore, at least not around him. Sometimes, that frightens her. Other times it's nice to not have to worry, to not be afraid, to not feel like she wants to lash out at everyone around her.

For a moment she pauses and then she finds herself shifting forward and she presses her forehead against his, arms sprawled on either side of him, "I don't want to tell anyone yet. This..."

She offers a small, sly smile, "This is ours, right now."

He had felt the shift, before she had moved closer. Before he had paused. Accustoming himself to this sensation. This closeness. Suddenly aware of how different this scenario was, compared to months and months ago. How much this all has shifted.

(How he finds himself more honest. In degrees. How he finds himself more earnest. How much he has come to care for her. And sometimes, it is odd to realize. And sometimes, it is a comfort. And through this, he finds a soft sort of grounding. She's what he has left, of that world. And often, it is this new thread of ease. This new thread of calm, that surprises him. That, in the end, is not unwelcomed.)

And he is aware of her proximity. The sudden shift of weight. And he is aware of her position. Aware of his own. And he's welcoming this, after a moment. (And he finds that he quite likes this, this sort of contact. He finds he quite likes the smooth brush of her hair. The color of it. The peaking awareness of how blue her eyes are, at this distance.)

And through it, he can feel himself relaxing. Can feel the soft heat of her body and the soft brush of her breath. And he's mirroring the smile. Not sly, though it is gentle. Something quiet. Something rarer. And he's making a low sound of assent. A low sound of agreement. His voice is warm, though it is quiet.

"It is."

She stares at him from this distance, eye to eye. His are a red, like Ayanami's. That's something she prefers not to think about though. She doesn't like thinking about what was, would could've been, what happened back on the old world. She does remember the first time she spoke with him, over the network. That was almost a year ago, she realizes. Almost to the day, now. She never would've guessed, never would've believed that she would end up here, like this. That so much would've changed by now.

Then again, time and events have a way of surprising her, of surprising everyone. She doesn't regret that she's come to feel affection for him, that she's come to care. A year ago, she would've. A year ago she wouldn't be this close to him. A year ago she wouldn't be this close to anyone (unless she counted that one time, with Shinji).

Shinji. That twinges a still-open wound. And for a moment she falters before she shoves it down, buries the thought. Shinji is gone. He left their lives months ago and in the end... he didn't care for her the way she had for him. At least he said he hadn't, in so many words.

It gets shoved away and she lets their foreheads touch, warm skin against skin, her hair falling over her shoulders. This reassures her. At the very least he is real and he's promised not to leave her alone. She smiles at him, murmurs a reply, "Good," and then, almost hesitantly (this isn't something she's done often), she presses her lips against his in a small, gentle kiss.

Time has a way of creeping up on man. Creeping up on them all. And he can feel, can understand the way it pulls. The way it gives, the way it takes. And he had thought there would be nothing more, beyond his death. Nothing more beyond Tokyo-3. Nothing more beyond the quiet mercy he had been granted. Two choices, and he had chosen him. Had chosen them. (And if he had been asked, he would have never thought it possible. To be here. To be in this world. He would have never thought it plausible. Feasible. He knew of his life. He knew of his purpose. Laid out for him. Everything, and nothing less.)

They hadn't anticipated love. They hadn't anticipated influence, the old men. (And it was something he contemplated, for nights on end. How quickly or how slowly the heart could change. How much it could begin to understand. Comprehend. Feel. And though he was still learning, and those he is still learning, he knows the warm reds of affection and the soft shades of deeper joys. Of those more complex. And though it had once all been for Shinji - And that is something that still gnaws at him. And for a moment, those not uncommon, he wonders where he is. He wonders how he is. What he is -)

Her voice is what brings him back. The almost tangible sound of it. And if he thinks upon it, he can feel the gentle weight, the gentle relief of a single syllable. A single word. One exhalation. Good. (And he can feel the pull of his affection for her. The way it changes the edges of his smile. How he realizes, again, how he does not wish to leave her. How he had promised. How he intends to keep it.)

And it is only a moment, an eyeblink, before he's realizing the contact. How he has never been this close, before. (And this is something much more intimate. The brush of skin and --) And expects it, and does not expect it. The sensation of her lips against his. The way he's only catching up, after a pause. Another.

This is new. And he cannot remember the last time he had been kissed. Cannot recall, too clearly, how it had felt. Lost beneath the blurry rush of memories, that they regained. Though, he can remember this sort of seizing logic. The way he thinks on it. The less than immediate realization of what most instinctively do, but he is returning it. Just as gently, when the reaction surfaces. (And this, he has only done twice. Once, on his own will. Twice, now.) Just as hesitant.

She finds herself pressed against him. It's not unpleasant. There's a warmth, a feeling of comfort. At the same time, she hasn't actually kissed that many people before. This is almost as new to her as it is to Kaworu. She's hesitant, trying make it right, trying to find out what feels good. Slowly, she pulls back, a shy smile on her face, quickly turning into something wider and teasing as she tries to cover her own inexperience.

And this is not unpleasant. This is not uncomfortable. And though it had taken him a moment to warm up to it, it is something ... Good. (He does not mind the the trip-ups, the small imperfections. It reminds him there is still much to learn. There is still many things he has not encountered. Has not felt or experienced. It reminds him that these are things he had not once thought possible, or obtainable. How little time he had had, though he had been grateful for it. More than. And - These are things he takes some joy in.)

And there's contentment, here. The warmth of her, the scent. The way this touch, this contact - it comforts. Brings on a different sort of calm.

But, when she pulls back, he's blinking. Once. Letting his mind catch up to his surroundings. And even so, he does not miss the shyness in the smile that follows. Does not miss the cover. The faint masking. But, it does not show. Does not creep into his expression. Instead, he's smiling. An almost echo. (Though, there's a warmth in his. A sort of fondness. A gratitude.)

She settles her forehead against his own again for a brief moment, then pulls back again, settling her chin in her hands and looking up at him, that same smile beaming up at him. The physical and emotional comfort of just being near someone was something she hadn't truly felt since she was a young child. Since her mother. Since Third Impact.

And there is a faint hum that bubbles up. Quiet. As she rests her forehead against his, again. And it is something that he finds he welcomes, his pause not as notable. Not as lasting.

But, he's still holding the same, soft smile as she pulls back again. When she grins up at him. (And it is the soft threads of contentment that curl into this quiet. That settle, sleep within him. And it is this contentment that is painted differently, than what he has felt before. And it is good, and it is a sort of easiness. A lazy, draping warmth.)

And it was is something he had not felt, if closely, since he had first spoken to another. Had first realized what was to be surrounded by people. The joy of being able to be so close to someone. Not so isolated. (And it takes a moment, but he's quirking his lips up a bit more. Almost tentative.) And it takes a moment, before he's carefully lifting a hand. Before he's gently brushing her hair back over her shoulder.

She's still smiling and then... she's actually surprised for a brief moment as he brushes her hair back. Kaworu is never the first one to touch her or to extend a hand first. Up until now, anyway. The surprise on her face melts away into a smile and she laughs softly, reaching up to grab his hand and just hold it for a moment, feeling the skin, the muscle, the bones beneath the surface.

It's sharp and there and real.

He's catching the surprise. Marking it. Though, he's letting it slip by with a faint edge of knowing creeping into his smile.

He knows he has not touched her first. Not quite like this. Light and rare and delicate. The press of his fingertips. Attempting to weigh and measure. Unlike those before her, she is not as predictable. He had known how to touch others, and when. Had known their reactions to the weight of his palm and the gentle brush of skin against skin. He had known.

But with her, it was not as consistent. (Not quite as -) But with her, he had dared to (and he had thought it would be fine). And with her, he is rewarded with the low notes of surprise. The higher notes of laughter. And the way she reaches up to grab his hand. The way she holds it.

And this is touch he is more familiar with. More familiar with others initiating. And for it, he does not truly pause before he is flexing his fingers. Before he is returning the momentary grip. Remembering the way he has mapped them, before. The thin bones of her wrist. The way they fit. (How much smaller and warmer they were than his own.)

It is a soft assurance that he is here. That he does not intend to budge nor go nor disappear.

She simply holds it for a few long moments, feeling the warmth and the weight of it. The bones, the smoothness of his skin. She's struck by how pale he actually is and wonders if he ever actually gets any sun (although, really, she should know the answer to that by now). She finally, quietly releases his hand and sits up, putting her back to the couch. This time, she lets her head rest on his shoulder. This time, she feels like she can stay here and just sit and enjoy this feeling.

But she's still ready to move if Minato happens to walk in.

He can feel the gentle inspection. The way she monitors him as he monitors her. The soft comparisons and the contrasts. And he's realizing, again, the draping comfort that such small touches bring - Why humans had done this all along. Why it was expected and wanted and wished for. (And he's smiling. A little more softly.)

Before he can feel her fingers uncurling. The sudden shift in proximity (a loss of nearness), before it is closed again. (And for a moment, all he sees is the red of her hair in his peripheral vision, before his sight focuses again. Before he realizes he's relaxing under the weight of her head on his shoulder. Leaning into it. Before he's gently settling down.

And in this moment, he does not feel the urge to move nor shift. Does not feel the need to speak or interrupt this. And in this moment, he contented to stay within this quiet. This feeling.

[DDD | 042 | RL] Football!

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