He's noting the path of her eyes. The way the same, soft emotion settles. Lazy and warm in the lines of his body. Only to stir up again as she moves to sit beside him. Feeling, if a little more acutely, the faint dip of the mattress - this closeness. Proximity. Emotionally, and no. (And it takes a moment to place it. To name it. Too airy; light to truly pin down. Kicked up under attention. The faint brush of question; a blend of endearment. And, fluttering - just within his grasp: Affection.)
And it is something that he had known. Does know. Intimately. Lingering there, on the corners of his consciousness. Cropping up with her, with others. But, hers had maintained that difference. Had become unique. Become stronger. Something more potent. Though, and he does know, it is pressing; this morning, it is something that seems dominant. (And in some manners, he rationalizes. This day is important. Something he had not known he would make it to. Knowing life had been brief. Briefer, before. Restrained. And what time and what moments and what seconds he had piled up around them. Around himself. Were borrowed. Taken. Stolen; and though he does not remember the cause of his focus, the first time – that leash and that constraint; he had never been certain that he had – And he cannot remember it. Not entirely. Not yet.)
And even so, it is something he is gently pushing back. For the moment. For this instance. Letting, instead – a warmer smile curve up the corners of his lips. Still a little groggy, but there is an alertness. That rests in his posture. The way of his focus. And though he is not failing to note her irritation. The resigned nature of her sigh, he’s speaking. A jest:
“It does not appear to be particularly malicious, thus far.”
And it colors his voice. Syllables rounded. And though there is a faint relief in that observation, it is disguised beneath it. (It had not done a thing, yet. Besides provide a minor inconvenience. A fainter distraction. A tug on his finger, on the occasion. Each time she crooks her finger. Pulls back her hand.)
And he’s letting his eyes travel down, absently studying the thread. On his hand and hers. For a moment or two, before murmuring. Almost thoughtful. (And he’s remembering something. A story. As he moves, just a bit closer. To better study the gap that lies between the two ends. The way it is tied, beneath her first knuckle. Like his.)
no subject
And it is something that he had known. Does know. Intimately. Lingering there, on the corners of his consciousness. Cropping up with her, with others. But, hers had maintained that difference. Had become unique. Become stronger. Something more potent. Though, and he does know, it is pressing; this morning, it is something that seems dominant.
(And in some manners, he rationalizes. This day is important. Something he had not known he would make it to. Knowing life had been brief. Briefer, before. Restrained. And what time and what moments and what seconds he had piled up around them. Around himself. Were borrowed. Taken. Stolen; and though he does not remember the cause of his focus, the first time – that leash and that constraint; he had never been certain that he had – And he cannot remember it. Not entirely. Not yet.)
And even so, it is something he is gently pushing back. For the moment. For this instance. Letting, instead – a warmer smile curve up the corners of his lips. Still a little groggy, but there is an alertness. That rests in his posture. The way of his focus. And though he is not failing to note her irritation. The resigned nature of her sigh, he’s speaking. A jest:
“It does not appear to be particularly malicious, thus far.”
And it colors his voice. Syllables rounded. And though there is a faint relief in that observation, it is disguised beneath it. (It had not done a thing, yet. Besides provide a minor inconvenience. A fainter distraction. A tug on his finger, on the occasion. Each time she crooks her finger. Pulls back her hand.)
And he’s letting his eyes travel down, absently studying the thread. On his hand and hers. For a moment or two, before murmuring. Almost thoughtful. (And he’s remembering something. A story. As he moves, just a bit closer. To better study the gap that lies between the two ends. The way it is tied, beneath her first knuckle. Like his.)
"...It is likely a legend, however.”