And it is something quiet that he builds around himself. Something silent that he builds around himself. (And in that stillness, he can feel the pressure of her hand. And in that stillness, he can feel the hard dig of her nails. The way it murmurs sharply against walls he cannot find their way around. Cannot pull their way around. Cannot scale or claw through, soundly. Without some resistance. Without some deep resistance. Unnamed and unnameable. And he cannot see around it, clearly. He cannot sound the words to her, clearly. Though he hears her. Though he has always heard her. Though he had wanted to lift what he might. Lift what he could. Though --
Don't speak of yourself. Don't speak of more than you'll have to.
And his fingers loosen, slow. His fingers curl into themselves. And he follows her eyes. He follows the fall of her gaze. He slouches, gently. Until he might glance up at her. Until he might see her face. Until: )
"Do you remember what it was I had happened to say?" and in his peripheral vision, there is the red of her hair. There is the shape of her words, unformed: "Such a thing has not come to change, Asuka."
(He would not take it back. He would not take such a statement back. He did not intend to leave her alone. He did not -- and it comes, a little more quietly. A little more softly. With the clearing of expression. With the shuttering of eyes. Lowering. After a moment. He knows what this takes. He has always know what it must take. He -- and he holds both their hearts, as gently as he might.
As gently as he always could.)
"... Even so, thank you. For granting what it is that you might, I happen to mean."
no subject
Don't speak of yourself. Don't speak of more than you'll have to.
And his fingers loosen, slow. His fingers curl into themselves. And he follows her eyes. He follows the fall of her gaze. He slouches, gently. Until he might glance up at her. Until he might see her face. Until: )
"Do you remember what it was I had happened to say?" and in his peripheral vision, there is the red of her hair. There is the shape of her words, unformed: "Such a thing has not come to change, Asuka."
(He would not take it back. He would not take such a statement back. He did not intend to leave her alone. He did not -- and it comes, a little more quietly. A little more softly. With the clearing of expression. With the shuttering of eyes. Lowering. After a moment. He knows what this takes. He has always know what it must take. He -- and he holds both their hearts, as gently as he might.
As gently as he always could.)
"... Even so, thank you. For granting what it is that you might, I happen to mean."