[ Somewhere in it midst of it all, they've become tangled up in each other. Her fingers grasp his shoulders and his arms are around her in turn. He takes his time while they settle, while his veins hum with a pleasant buzz. Warmth floods his limbs. He doesn't quite want to let go of her, either. He wants to stay here in this moment where everything feels less heavy and he isn't—the only thing he's drowning in is her.
He's all right with that, he thinks. Drowning in her.
When they finally part, a little, he stays close. Touching. Because she will leave. They both need to leave in time (he has not forgotten the way she simply vanished in his room and did not return for weeks), but for now. For now, he can stay and he wants her to stay, too.
Slowly, he leans in to kiss her, something gentler than their hunger earlier. ] I missed you.
[ He says it, finally, out loud. Says what he's been telling her this entire time they've been together, in each kiss and brush of his hands. Not just her presence, but her. What they had. What was there before all the regrets and hurt. Before she shielded her heart so tightly from him. (Before he had, too, from her.)
Even now, even with her curled against him and her scent in the air, he isn't sure they can really have it all again. He isn't expecting things to be the same; he knows they can't. That's not how it works. But he lets himself hope, perhaps, that they can find a new path to walk. One that's not so divided. ]
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He's all right with that, he thinks. Drowning in her.
When they finally part, a little, he stays close. Touching. Because she will leave. They both need to leave in time (he has not forgotten the way she simply vanished in his room and did not return for weeks), but for now. For now, he can stay and he wants her to stay, too.
Slowly, he leans in to kiss her, something gentler than their hunger earlier. ] I missed you.
[ He says it, finally, out loud. Says what he's been telling her this entire time they've been together, in each kiss and brush of his hands. Not just her presence, but her. What they had. What was there before all the regrets and hurt. Before she shielded her heart so tightly from him. (Before he had, too, from her.)
Even now, even with her curled against him and her scent in the air, he isn't sure they can really have it all again. He isn't expecting things to be the same; he knows they can't. That's not how it works. But he lets himself hope, perhaps, that they can find a new path to walk. One that's not so divided. ]