And his hand is moving. Reflexively. His fingers are curling, softly. And he can feel the sharpness of her nails. He can feel each movement. Minutely. Can feel the way she breathes in. Out. Can feel flesh and blood. Bone. (And he can feel the absence of feeling. He can feel the numbness of palms. Can feel the phantom of sensation. Prickling. And he finds himself looking, silent. Discreetly. To affirm his presence there, at all. To affirm his being there, at all.)
And his voice is soft. His voice is softer, still. Coming from within deep silence. A gulf, unable to be bridged. (And no matter how he might cup his hands. No matter how he might hold himself to the sound of his own voice, it has never reached. Entirely. Has never been caught, entirely. And he knows. He knows. He might have, always. Might have -- )
"... All right."
He can feel the energy go. He can feel the way his body shifts, slow. He the fainter lean of something, slipping. The fainter lean of his shoulder. The deepening of a slouch. And he can feel something go, without title. Without definition. Can feel her anger. Her sorrow. Her defeat. Lapping against the shores of his own body. Lapping against the crumbling channels of thought. Of defense. Trenches, dug out. Uncovered. And he feels the rounded sound of her. Feels the tension in her shoulder go. His own, resting. Almost too lightly. Almost too gently.
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And his voice is soft. His voice is softer, still. Coming from within deep silence. A gulf, unable to be bridged. (And no matter how he might cup his hands. No matter how he might hold himself to the sound of his own voice, it has never reached. Entirely. Has never been caught, entirely. And he knows. He knows. He might have, always. Might have -- )
"... All right."
He can feel the energy go. He can feel the way his body shifts, slow. He the fainter lean of something, slipping. The fainter lean of his shoulder. The deepening of a slouch. And he can feel something go, without title. Without definition. Can feel her anger. Her sorrow. Her defeat. Lapping against the shores of his own body. Lapping against the crumbling channels of thought. Of defense. Trenches, dug out. Uncovered. And he feels the rounded sound of her. Feels the tension in her shoulder go. His own, resting. Almost too lightly. Almost too gently.
Almost there and not. At all.