Who: Fever, Helena, and those threading with them What:January non-event things. When: All month. Where: Across the isle. Warning(s): To be noted in threads individually
She nods slowly, taking in his answer. Her hands find each other on her lap, needing to hold, to touch something, and the look in her eyes is more distant. Every time she says it, it becomes a little more real.
"I'm not."
Perhaps it's horribly unfair, coming to him like some people go into that confessional in the Temple. But she knows she lacks the shame she should bear, just another item on the list that indicates she's less than a person. Another thing absent from her body.
"There's so little there for me, and so much here. Even if that's taking the easy way out."
He would tell her, this is what friends are for. Allies. That's what they are to each other.
Artemy just gives a simple nod.
"It's your choice to make." He says softly, "No one should be able to tell you that it's a wrong decision to make. We have led entirely different lives, and if being here allows you to start over without the past tugging at you, then so be it."
There's a long moment there, where she picks up the tea that's now noticeably cooled and sips it, telling herself to stop. Stop. The endless things she could say, she'd exhaust even his patience, and she has to close the gates, keep the river back again. Silence. Get hold of yourself. Be grateful you were indulged so long.
"...thank you, Artemy."
That's what you should be saying. That's the only thing you should be saying.
Absurd as it seems, she finds herself rising slowly, taking steps towards him. It's silly, isn't it - and she's awkward when she's close enough to reach out, trying to figure out how to fit her arms around him. Stiffness and tension, wound up to keep it all together.
(It'd be too much to fling herself at him, at someone's arms and sink in the way she wants to. Too, too much. Don't cry, don't collapse. A new plant needs to sink roots into the earth or it shall die. Don't be pathetic.)
Harder to do this than to contemplate how much force would be needed to crack apart her bones, what knife to score the flesh. Pain is always easier to manage and take, measure and breathe through. Pain is understood. Familiar. This feels like the sanctuary of a hiding spot opened up, but there is no way to fix it.
Because in the end, she does want it, even if it's hard to say.
Artemy wraps his own arms around Fever as soon as she wiggles hers around his frame. He's a good hugger. Not too tight, but tight enough to feel secure. He smells of burnt leaves and autumn and a tinge of blood.
He probably could crack her bones if we're being honest enough. He's certainly large and strong enough. But he understands his own strength, he's in control, from giving hugs to knowing exactly the pressure required to sever flesh under a knives blade.
Artemy grew up comfortable and okay with physical contact and somehow that does come through. His father was strict, but not unloving.
Despite all her resolutions, when they do embrace, some of the tension bleeds out of her. The contact makes her breathe easier, relax some, a steadiness with her feet back on the ground. A longing satisfied, a heart soothed. She breathes in his scent and thinks, this is my friend.
A friend that she had told the truth to, and he did not turn away. Who she had cracked in front of, and he had spoken reason enough to soothe her -
And while there had been the desire to lash out, to strike something, even herself, there had been no overwhelming pressure to resist, no deep contemplation of how everything in the room could be used to slay him or what he would sound like as he dies to drown any other thought. Such a wonder to only feel impulses so.
She finds, at the heart of it all, a profound relief. He's safe.
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no subject
"I'm not."
Perhaps it's horribly unfair, coming to him like some people go into that confessional in the Temple. But she knows she lacks the shame she should bear, just another item on the list that indicates she's less than a person. Another thing absent from her body.
"There's so little there for me, and so much here. Even if that's taking the easy way out."
no subject
Artemy just gives a simple nod.
"It's your choice to make." He says softly, "No one should be able to tell you that it's a wrong decision to make. We have led entirely different lives, and if being here allows you to start over without the past tugging at you, then so be it."
no subject
"...thank you, Artemy."
That's what you should be saying. That's the only thing you should be saying.
no subject
So he holds out his arms.
For a hug.
Yes he is offering her a hug.
no subject
He must be.
Absurd as it seems, she finds herself rising slowly, taking steps towards him. It's silly, isn't it - and she's awkward when she's close enough to reach out, trying to figure out how to fit her arms around him. Stiffness and tension, wound up to keep it all together.
(It'd be too much to fling herself at him, at someone's arms and sink in the way she wants to. Too, too much. Don't cry, don't collapse. A new plant needs to sink roots into the earth or it shall die. Don't be pathetic.)
Harder to do this than to contemplate how much force would be needed to crack apart her bones, what knife to score the flesh. Pain is always easier to manage and take, measure and breathe through. Pain is understood. Familiar. This feels like the sanctuary of a hiding spot opened up, but there is no way to fix it.
Because in the end, she does want it, even if it's hard to say.
no subject
He probably could crack her bones if we're being honest enough. He's certainly large and strong enough. But he understands his own strength, he's in control, from giving hugs to knowing exactly the pressure required to sever flesh under a knives blade.
Artemy grew up comfortable and okay with physical contact and somehow that does come through. His father was strict, but not unloving.
no subject
A friend that she had told the truth to, and he did not turn away. Who she had cracked in front of, and he had spoken reason enough to soothe her -
And while there had been the desire to lash out, to strike something, even herself, there had been no overwhelming pressure to resist, no deep contemplation of how everything in the room could be used to slay him or what he would sound like as he dies to drown any other thought. Such a wonder to only feel impulses so.
She finds, at the heart of it all, a profound relief. He's safe.