[It is only natural, for his eyes to follow the motion of her hands as she gathers up the cards between them. There is very little else to focus on at the present, very little distraction, so it is only natural then to follow them as they tuck the cards away into her shed wrap. And it is only natural to watch her settle them on the cushion between them, palm up, a gentle offer in the subtle curl of her fingers.
His gaze sticks, even when she speaks. Trapped there between her open hands.
No-yes. Both, neither. How frustrating she must find him, that he would not just decide. That he lacked the fortitude to truly turn from this. He wants to set his fingers in hers, and that alone makes him want to send her away. It should be more clear- whether his purpose in this stayed true, or whether by this point it was simply habit and denial for denial's sake.
He would find no answer in the delicate winding lines of her palm. His fingers curl into themselves, a subtle shift as he tips his face back up to her.]
It is not so late, yet, and I have no particular duty to attend to.
[It is half an answer. He wonders what he would say if she demanded the rest.]
I thought to begin a new book. I do not know, however, if the story would be of any interest to you.
[Perhaps she would find it silly. He had hardly carefully vetted it, and she saw so much now that he wondered if fiction held any interest for her any longer- he thinks only of her thought of the story, he is not embarrassed to read and recite, long ingrained into him, one of those unshakable habits that had not been lost even when he became aware that it was not common among those not from his world.]
[There's a moment, full and round like a circle, where she studies him and feels the rhythm of that repetition - the cycle of one possible conversation overlaid with another. She can't find herself minding, not the parts where this is different from what it could've been - not the part where his needs and wants are divided. Those are inevitable. He will never be sure when he is so fragmented, so she must be secure for the pair of them.
At length, she draws her hands back - she leans back as well, settling herself comfortably across the arm of the sofa behind her. Cathaway knits her fingers gently across her middle, tucks her feet onto the cushion with her, and patiently settles in.]
[That is the problem, perhaps, she never demands. She never attempts to prise it from him. She knew his heart because it was a open to her as it was to him, and perhaps that was enough to her. It wasn't enough to him. So then, again, it was to him.
And for now, his only answer is to nod, slightly, to stand as she settles back into the cushions of the couch and move away from her, deeper into his rooms, into the place he slept for a moment or two before he reappears to her, book in hand. It looks old, but it is impossible to say what that amounted to on Avera.
He moves, sits on the other end of the couch, clearing his throat lightly as he opened the book, ankles crossing.]
There is no scent on any world similar to the scent of the rain of Farrow province-
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His gaze sticks, even when she speaks. Trapped there between her open hands.
No-yes. Both, neither. How frustrating she must find him, that he would not just decide. That he lacked the fortitude to truly turn from this. He wants to set his fingers in hers, and that alone makes him want to send her away. It should be more clear- whether his purpose in this stayed true, or whether by this point it was simply habit and denial for denial's sake.
He would find no answer in the delicate winding lines of her palm. His fingers curl into themselves, a subtle shift as he tips his face back up to her.]
It is not so late, yet, and I have no particular duty to attend to.
[It is half an answer. He wonders what he would say if she demanded the rest.]
I thought to begin a new book. I do not know, however, if the story would be of any interest to you.
[Perhaps she would find it silly. He had hardly carefully vetted it, and she saw so much now that he wondered if fiction held any interest for her any longer- he thinks only of her thought of the story, he is not embarrassed to read and recite, long ingrained into him, one of those unshakable habits that had not been lost even when he became aware that it was not common among those not from his world.]
no subject
At length, she draws her hands back - she leans back as well, settling herself comfortably across the arm of the sofa behind her. Cathaway knits her fingers gently across her middle, tucks her feet onto the cushion with her, and patiently settles in.]
Of course. We enjoy your stories.
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And for now, his only answer is to nod, slightly, to stand as she settles back into the cushions of the couch and move away from her, deeper into his rooms, into the place he slept for a moment or two before he reappears to her, book in hand. It looks old, but it is impossible to say what that amounted to on Avera.
He moves, sits on the other end of the couch, clearing his throat lightly as he opened the book, ankles crossing.]
There is no scent on any world similar to the scent of the rain of Farrow province-
[And so it goes.]