[ As Claude recounts the moment he realized that he'd had feelings for her that went beyond the friendship that they'd had, Hilda can't help but laugh inwardly to herself - of course he remembers the exact moment. And it hadn't been some grand moment either. It had been something small and quiet but no less important. A moment tucked between larger ones, stringing them together like a link on a necklace. Knowing that is enough to make a heart sing. But to feel both awash in affection and mortified that the best she could come up with was, "before the war" has to be a new cocktail of emotions she's never felt before.
The temperature of her cheeks feels hot to the touch, she's positive her ears are turning pink, and her heartbeat races so fast that she swears she could follow it right out the door. The thought is a tempting one. Running away from anything serious has always worked in the past. But this is more than serious. It's important. It's a matter of the heart. Their hearts. Which is honestly more terrifying than any dragon or demonic beast they'll ever face.
Fighting the urge to turn tail and flee, Hilda is quick to bury her hands in her face to save herself from gawking at Claude and to spare him having to see her face contort in strange ways, unable to settle on how exactly to portray the myriad of feelings whirling inside her. That feels like a victory, even if it's a small one. Unfortunately she can't properly pat herself on the back for that. Staying in one place is the easier challenge to tackle. It's convincing herself that this is happening – that's the more difficult task. Believing it follows closely behind that. Or maybe they're one and the same.
The irony of wanting something so badly that she could wish it into existence is that she doesn't have the faintest clue what to do with it now that she's faced with it. For so long she had wondered if Claude would ever return her feelings. Daydreamed about what it would be like for him to look at her the way he looked at Petra. At Sylvain. Convinced herself that some day she'd be ready to tell him true but honeyed words instead of clunky, hollow ones strung up tight with nerves and fear.
The voice of the creature that had crawled its way out of her throat begins singing a different tune, telling her that Claude is better off with someone who could remember something about their story, someone who's kinder, smarter, everything she feels that she lacks. She lets out a soft groan of embarrassment into her hands. ]
Gods, you – if I had known I was supposed to prepare some kind of speech I wish you would have given me more notice. All I could say was a long time and that I didn't know. Now anything after this is going to come across as super insincere.
[ It's more joke than complaint. At least that's what she's trying to default to while she attempts to collect her thoughts and refrain from spilling more unpleasant insecurities. ]
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The temperature of her cheeks feels hot to the touch, she's positive her ears are turning pink, and her heartbeat races so fast that she swears she could follow it right out the door. The thought is a tempting one. Running away from anything serious has always worked in the past. But this is more than serious. It's important. It's a matter of the heart. Their hearts. Which is honestly more terrifying than any dragon or demonic beast they'll ever face.
Fighting the urge to turn tail and flee, Hilda is quick to bury her hands in her face to save herself from gawking at Claude and to spare him having to see her face contort in strange ways, unable to settle on how exactly to portray the myriad of feelings whirling inside her. That feels like a victory, even if it's a small one. Unfortunately she can't properly pat herself on the back for that. Staying in one place is the easier challenge to tackle. It's convincing herself that this is happening – that's the more difficult task. Believing it follows closely behind that. Or maybe they're one and the same.
The irony of wanting something so badly that she could wish it into existence is that she doesn't have the faintest clue what to do with it now that she's faced with it. For so long she had wondered if Claude would ever return her feelings. Daydreamed about what it would be like for him to look at her the way he looked at Petra. At Sylvain. Convinced herself that some day she'd be ready to tell him true but honeyed words instead of clunky, hollow ones strung up tight with nerves and fear.
The voice of the creature that had crawled its way out of her throat begins singing a different tune, telling her that Claude is better off with someone who could remember something about their story, someone who's kinder, smarter, everything she feels that she lacks. She lets out a soft groan of embarrassment into her hands. ]
Gods, you – if I had known I was supposed to prepare some kind of speech I wish you would have given me more notice. All I could say was a long time and that I didn't know. Now anything after this is going to come across as super insincere.
[ It's more joke than complaint. At least that's what she's trying to default to while she attempts to collect her thoughts and refrain from spilling more unpleasant insecurities. ]