Blake does, in fact, find himself very nearly chest-to-chest with Geralt. Or, well, close enough (and doesn't that couple of inches make a hell of a difference?). Stopped just short, he can feel the heat that gathers between them, that's how close they are, and with Blake having to look up, it would be easy to feel three inches tall. Maybe he does.
"Oh, uh," he manages with a single step back, and he finds his hand scrubbing at the back of his neck a moment later. There's a scar there, too, and he scrapes a nail at it like a reminder. "No, I—" His eyes are pinging up and down but he doesn't manage to meet Geralt's eyes again.
(He's always had trouble making friends, more so keeping them, and yet he's still surprised every time it happens that he isn't accepted. When his easy smile [made uneasy due to recent events] isn't effective, it's certainly not his personality bringing people in. Too tense. Too squirrely. Too judgemental. He usually has more tact.
And where had his spine gone, anyway? Had he left it in the pit, broken and tangled like his thoughts? Two months ago, he would have crinkled his forehead and asked what was wrong. Two months ago, he would have asked how can I help and he wouldn't have stopped without doing just that.)
"You're right," Blake agrees and he's reminded of another cascading interaction he'd had lately, tumbling the idea of friendship right into the dirt. Even reminding himself everyone has extenuating circumstances doesn't take the knot from his chest. Blake clears his throat and it tastes like kicked-up dust. "My bad," he croaks, hands up in surrender as he backs away.
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"Oh, uh," he manages with a single step back, and he finds his hand scrubbing at the back of his neck a moment later. There's a scar there, too, and he scrapes a nail at it like a reminder. "No, I—" His eyes are pinging up and down but he doesn't manage to meet Geralt's eyes again.
(He's always had trouble making friends, more so keeping them, and yet he's still surprised every time it happens that he isn't accepted. When his easy smile [made uneasy due to recent events] isn't effective, it's certainly not his personality bringing people in. Too tense. Too squirrely. Too judgemental. He usually has more tact.
And where had his spine gone, anyway? Had he left it in the pit, broken and tangled like his thoughts? Two months ago, he would have crinkled his forehead and asked what was wrong. Two months ago, he would have asked how can I help and he wouldn't have stopped without doing just that.)
"You're right," Blake agrees and he's reminded of another cascading interaction he'd had lately, tumbling the idea of friendship right into the dirt. Even reminding himself everyone has extenuating circumstances doesn't take the knot from his chest. Blake clears his throat and it tastes like kicked-up dust. "My bad," he croaks, hands up in surrender as he backs away.