It's all kinds of wrong, he knows that in the back of his mind — the fact that she's the one comforting him right now. She got hurt, she got beaten down into the dirt by somebody that's supposed to be on her side, supposed to look out for her, and yet here she is turning around saying I've got you. She's the one that needs the support, she's the one that deserves to be consoled, but considering he's the one that struck her, he's the last person on the planet that ought to be the one to do it. It's messy. It's backwards, and twisted.
But all the same, he winds his arms around her waist as she drags him in. Hesitates for all of two seconds, before burying his face into her shoulder, into the place where it meets neck. There, he breathes. There, he squeezes his eyes shut and just hangs on.
For a while, for long seconds, that's all there is. Her hanging onto him, him hanging onto her, hiding in the spaces she's offering, radiating outwardly all the pain and regret and fear that's been consuming him. It comes off of him in waves, feelings so densely packed and so rarely aired, in this moment they're made palpable.
He doesn't let himself be comforted often. He doesn't deserve to be.
But god, he fucking needs it, doesn't he?
It's gonna be so hard to say goodbye to her a second time. Maybe, selfishly, he's a little glad he won't be the one left around this time to have to feel it.
Eventually, after seconds or minutes, he detaches. Pulls back abruptly, with a soft clearing of his throat, with a hand absently coming up to swipe at spilled tears beneath red eyes that roll to the ceiling, wordless. They're scrubbed away and completely unacknowledged. All he says is a rough, short, "Okay."
Okay, he has to reel himself in. Okay, he's gotta close up, or be consumed. They can't stay in that moment forever. Okay, as in they're okay — save for all the ways they're not, but he's not gonna talk about those, either.
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But all the same, he winds his arms around her waist as she drags him in. Hesitates for all of two seconds, before burying his face into her shoulder, into the place where it meets neck. There, he breathes. There, he squeezes his eyes shut and just hangs on.
For a while, for long seconds, that's all there is. Her hanging onto him, him hanging onto her, hiding in the spaces she's offering, radiating outwardly all the pain and regret and fear that's been consuming him. It comes off of him in waves, feelings so densely packed and so rarely aired, in this moment they're made palpable.
He doesn't let himself be comforted often. He doesn't deserve to be.
But god, he fucking needs it, doesn't he?
It's gonna be so hard to say goodbye to her a second time. Maybe, selfishly, he's a little glad he won't be the one left around this time to have to feel it.
Eventually, after seconds or minutes, he detaches. Pulls back abruptly, with a soft clearing of his throat, with a hand absently coming up to swipe at spilled tears beneath red eyes that roll to the ceiling, wordless. They're scrubbed away and completely unacknowledged. All he says is a rough, short, "Okay."
Okay, he has to reel himself in. Okay, he's gotta close up, or be consumed. They can't stay in that moment forever. Okay, as in they're okay — save for all the ways they're not, but he's not gonna talk about those, either.