She'd considered hiding her eyes as a jest, peeking out behind them, but it's too cheerful for the solemn expression this new face wears. He's beautiful like well bred gentry, fine-featured and sharp-eyed. Why is she surprised by that? Why does she feel the urge to turn her face away, to hide it.
Why you can stand me, I don't know.
She opens her mouth, willing to say something, but nothing comes out. Closing it, she looks down-- how stupid, how silly-- and studies the grass instead. Her hand snakes away. She can feel a storm inside herself, billowing heat lightening between her ribs, but instead of the usual rage, it all feels distant.
She can't square with that, so it's set aside. Look at him, no matter how it makes you want to squirm under that gaze. No bloody wonder he called himself a judge.
"You..." she murmurs, hating the fleeting tone in her voice, almost shy-- except she'd burnt that part of her away long ago. A hand reaches up, moving toward him, only to flick back when she realizes what she was doing on instinct. She wants to touch him. She doesn't want to touch him. She wants to scream at him. She wants to live in this moonlight silence until the end of everything.
"You should be in paintings. A bloody museum, for you. Don't you know..." She looks down at herself. "I can't understand it. You. I don't."
no subject
She'd considered hiding her eyes as a jest, peeking out behind them, but it's too cheerful for the solemn expression this new face wears. He's beautiful like well bred gentry, fine-featured and sharp-eyed. Why is she surprised by that? Why does she feel the urge to turn her face away, to hide it.
Why you can stand me, I don't know.
She opens her mouth, willing to say something, but nothing comes out. Closing it, she looks down-- how stupid, how silly-- and studies the grass instead. Her hand snakes away. She can feel a storm inside herself, billowing heat lightening between her ribs, but instead of the usual rage, it all feels distant.
She can't square with that, so it's set aside. Look at him, no matter how it makes you want to squirm under that gaze. No bloody wonder he called himself a judge.
"You..." she murmurs, hating the fleeting tone in her voice, almost shy-- except she'd burnt that part of her away long ago. A hand reaches up, moving toward him, only to flick back when she realizes what she was doing on instinct. She wants to touch him. She doesn't want to touch him. She wants to scream at him. She wants to live in this moonlight silence until the end of everything.
"You should be in paintings. A bloody museum, for you. Don't you know..." She looks down at herself. "I can't understand it. You. I don't."