What is he to say, that this is a comfort to him? In so many ways it is not: he is unused to companionship, to conversation, to the concept of comfort itself, and it is so often the case in regards to humekind that the strongest of salves are drawn only from familiarity alone.
But somewhere beneath the rest he can still faintly remember what it was to think shared warmth a restful mercy. Associated with his brother, true, but such perceptions can be altered with experience.
"Am relieved to hear it, then. And trust that if I had more dislike for the experience, I would make such grievances plain."
He exhales thinly, the edge of his mouth drawn tight as he thinks for a beat longer, before adding:
You don't wanna hear about it, is what she thinks, but when you say something like that, people just want to know more. And the reasons no one should want to hear about it are things she's spent all her time here trying not to talk about. Empty streets and abandoned homes, corpses everywhere--the knowledge that she would've been one of them, if she hadn't been shot in the head.
"It's gone," is what she says, trying to will the tension out of her body. (She's managed to shrink into herself just a little bit more at the thought of talking about it; she's like a stone beside him, the kind that used to be earth until pressure made it immovable.) "We lost everything, over and over. Every time it happened, I always thought...that's it, this is everything. There's nothing else I can lose. And I was always wrong."
You don't wanna hear about it. Beth forces her back to uncurl a little, her head to lift. Their brows nearly touch, or her brow and his cheek, and God, he's so handsome. This close, it's impossible not to notice. She doesn't draw back--she'd stay there, foreheads bumping against each other, if he let her, though she has the feeling he'll straighten up, too, back into the Gabranth who hides his sad eyes and sharp nose inside a helmet whenever he can. "But it was nice while it lasted."
“That is the way of it.” He concedes, comprehending that she has told him of little aside from the pain of concurrent loss, something he understands all too well. They are scars that do not mend, that do not fade, and perhaps it is always the dead that recognize this simple truth more than the living ever possibly could.
Yet he does not retreat. The opportunity is there, the weighted pressure clinging to the air around them— frigid as death— but he only listens, refusing to mask what has already been revealed.
“Was there nothing else worth remembering from your own world?”
The question surprises her, but maybe it shouldn't. Maybe, she thinks, what he wants is to hear about it, all the parts of their lives that weren't ruled by fear and death. Judith's smile and the ring on Maggie's finger, fresh berries along a path and the snap of a campfire on a cold (if not this cold) night. They're all twined up with the worst things, though, shot through with stories she can't or won't tell--not with the kind of detail that would explain why any of them happened.
It's hard to explain a disaster when you don't want anyone to know what caused it in the first place. She's been letting everyone think it was a war, or a famine, or whatever they want to imagine. One of these days, she might try out telling someone it was a Blight. Not yet, though. Talking about it feels like digging up the dead.
He's still there, so close that she can feel the warmth radiating from his skin, and she probably shouldn't, but she goes on instinct: she closes the distance between them and kisses his cheek, just a little too close to the corner of his mouth to be entirely platonic. (Just kiss him, part of her says, but it's answered immediately with You know what it feels like when someone kisses you and you don't want them to, don't do it.) "Maybe I'll tell you tomorrow."
She’s so small. She has always been small. In voice, but not presence. In build, but not strength.
There is a difference between the space she takes up, and the space she takes for herself. And near as she is to him— her breath the only warmth that battered, frigid space provides— he is possessed of too little restraint: she controls herself, and he does not.
His head turns, his mouth fully upon her own, feverishly hot compared to the blanketing storm outside, grip gone tight around her shoulders.
It is not his place to impose upon her. To take what she has not given. Yet he has never been a decent man. A good man.
What really matters is that he lets her get away with not telling him more than I'm not going to tell you. He could've kept on with it like a hound treeing a raccoon - she's seen him like that before - but he doesn't.
Of course, it isn't actually saying anything that does it; it's not the promise of another day, maybe that sways him. And that's no minor shock in itself.
Maybe she just didn't expect him to want to kiss her back.
But he does, and she makes a little sound against his mouth - surprised, not upset - before kissing him back, meeting and matching his intensity. (Or trying to, anyway. Beth's not sure anyone in the world - any world - is as intense as Gabranth.) She's about to reach up and touch his cheek; there's hesitation in her frame as she changes her mind and pulls off her glove first. Her bare fingers are probably cold against his skin, but the reverse is true, too. Everything's cold tonight. But she can rest her hand against his jaw, fingertips brushing over his weird old-fashioned muttonchops, without wet wool getting in the way.
It sees them through the night, the warmth they trade throughout the storm. The intermingling of hands and breath across skin. Come morning, Gabranth is the first to stir— one arm draped heavily about her shoulders, cloak tucked in a shroud across it, to keep her warm as she sleeps against unyielding metal.
An uncomfortable resting place, but somehow, he doubts she finds fault with it given the heat still clinging to the both of them. Outside the snow has settled above the edges of their tent, forming a sort of visible pit in breaking daylight.
With his thumb and forefinger he nudges her, almost pinching the edge of her shoulder.
She sleeps all right that night - cold, but not as cold, and though she keeps waking up, she can get back to sleep. (It's being outside - some old instinct assumes she has to keep watch, since she can't hear the jingle of trash strung up around her.) One time, she lies there in the dark, trying to see if she can catch the outline of his face. She wants to see what he looks like asleep, if it makes his face less severe. But the moons don't shine brightly enough to come through the tent's fabric.
In the morning, she starts awake, sucking in a sharp breath. She's reaching for her knife before she realizes she doesn't need it.
"Jeez -" she mutters, tipping her head away from him, like that might get the stiffness out of her neck (or her neck out of his reach). "What was that for?"
“The storm is broken. We can ill afford to squander this opportunity.”
Whether it is short lived or not, neither of them can say with any surety; they’ve supplies to pack, and steep snowfall to contend with while daylight lasts. If they cannot break through and finish descending the mountain slopes before nightfall, it is possible they will only trap themselves once again here—
"I'm not squandering it," Beth mutters, curling up her toes in her boots for just a moment or two before she makes herself start moving. This might be the warmest she feels all day - she wants to savor it for just a breath longer, remember it down to the soles of her boots. Gabranth lying there, his armor inexplicably warm, the stale air of the tent, all the silence of a snow-covered morning around them.
Then she forces herself to sit up, and then she decides that she can see if last night was a fluke or not. See, Gabranth, she's awake. She's so awake that she leans over and kisses him good morning, her lips brushing his just for a moment.
And then she starts untying the tent flap like she didn't do anything of the sort, talking all the while. "We've gotta be pretty close. They said it was a chateau in the mountains--" this with a bad approximation of an Orlesian accent, and then--"Oh, my God, it's so bright."
If she imagined he would shrink from the affection, she is quickly proven wrong; though he almost imperceptibly stiffens under the softer brush of her mouth, it is only the fainter influence of an eternity without touch.
And truth be told, he is a rigid man even without the matter of contact welling between them.
"Between the storm's perpetuity and the longer stretches of nightfall, your eyes will need time to adjust." Poetic. Beautiful. He speaks with the grace of a man dedicated wholly to gathering their supplies without so much as glancing towards the daylight streaming in from where she peers out into the snowpack.
That's Gabranth: he knows what he wants to do, or has to do, and he does it. No time for anything else. She rolls her eyes at the snow, then turns back to put away her bedroll.
"It's pretty, isn't it?" Even if he's not actually going to answer, she can't help but keep trying. The tone isn't pointed, but the intent kind of is. Acknowledge everything out there. Have a conversation with me. Beth figures he'll tolerate it, if he'll tolerate being kissed. "I've never seen snow like that, only in - " movies - "stories. Did they have snow like this, where you're from?"
Some of the supplies get rolled up with her canvas and bedding, some stuffed into a bag. And then there'll be the tent, and they probably won't have time to wait around and catch breakfast - they can eat some of their rations on the way to their destination. She's thinking it all through as she talks.
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no subject
What is he to say, that this is a comfort to him? In so many ways it is not: he is unused to companionship, to conversation, to the concept of comfort itself, and it is so often the case in regards to humekind that the strongest of salves are drawn only from familiarity alone.
But somewhere beneath the rest he can still faintly remember what it was to think shared warmth a restful mercy. Associated with his brother, true, but such perceptions can be altered with experience.
"Am relieved to hear it, then. And trust that if I had more dislike for the experience, I would make such grievances plain."
He exhales thinly, the edge of his mouth drawn tight as he thinks for a beat longer, before adding:
"Tell me of it, your home."
no subject
"It's gone," is what she says, trying to will the tension out of her body. (She's managed to shrink into herself just a little bit more at the thought of talking about it; she's like a stone beside him, the kind that used to be earth until pressure made it immovable.) "We lost everything, over and over. Every time it happened, I always thought...that's it, this is everything. There's nothing else I can lose. And I was always wrong."
You don't wanna hear about it. Beth forces her back to uncurl a little, her head to lift. Their brows nearly touch, or her brow and his cheek, and God, he's so handsome. This close, it's impossible not to notice. She doesn't draw back--she'd stay there, foreheads bumping against each other, if he let her, though she has the feeling he'll straighten up, too, back into the Gabranth who hides his sad eyes and sharp nose inside a helmet whenever he can. "But it was nice while it lasted."
no subject
Yet he does not retreat. The opportunity is there, the weighted pressure clinging to the air around them— frigid as death— but he only listens, refusing to mask what has already been revealed.
“Was there nothing else worth remembering from your own world?”
no subject
The question surprises her, but maybe it shouldn't. Maybe, she thinks, what he wants is to hear about it, all the parts of their lives that weren't ruled by fear and death. Judith's smile and the ring on Maggie's finger, fresh berries along a path and the snap of a campfire on a cold (if not this cold) night. They're all twined up with the worst things, though, shot through with stories she can't or won't tell--not with the kind of detail that would explain why any of them happened.
It's hard to explain a disaster when you don't want anyone to know what caused it in the first place. She's been letting everyone think it was a war, or a famine, or whatever they want to imagine. One of these days, she might try out telling someone it was a Blight. Not yet, though. Talking about it feels like digging up the dead.
He's still there, so close that she can feel the warmth radiating from his skin, and she probably shouldn't, but she goes on instinct: she closes the distance between them and kisses his cheek, just a little too close to the corner of his mouth to be entirely platonic. (Just kiss him, part of her says, but it's answered immediately with You know what it feels like when someone kisses you and you don't want them to, don't do it.) "Maybe I'll tell you tomorrow."
no subject
There is a difference between the space she takes up, and the space she takes for herself. And near as she is to him— her breath the only warmth that battered, frigid space provides— he is possessed of too little restraint: she controls herself, and he does not.
His head turns, his mouth fully upon her own, feverishly hot compared to the blanketing storm outside, grip gone tight around her shoulders.
It is not his place to impose upon her. To take what she has not given. Yet he has never been a decent man. A good man.
And she knows this already.
no subject
Of course, it isn't actually saying anything that does it; it's not the promise of another day, maybe that sways him. And that's no minor shock in itself.
Maybe she just didn't expect him to want to kiss her back.
But he does, and she makes a little sound against his mouth - surprised, not upset - before kissing him back, meeting and matching his intensity. (Or trying to, anyway. Beth's not sure anyone in the world - any world - is as intense as Gabranth.) She's about to reach up and touch his cheek; there's hesitation in her frame as she changes her mind and pulls off her glove first. Her bare fingers are probably cold against his skin, but the reverse is true, too. Everything's cold tonight. But she can rest her hand against his jaw, fingertips brushing over his weird old-fashioned muttonchops, without wet wool getting in the way.
no subject
An uncomfortable resting place, but somehow, he doubts she finds fault with it given the heat still clinging to the both of them. Outside the snow has settled above the edges of their tent, forming a sort of visible pit in breaking daylight.
With his thumb and forefinger he nudges her, almost pinching the edge of her shoulder.
"Wake."
no subject
In the morning, she starts awake, sucking in a sharp breath. She's reaching for her knife before she realizes she doesn't need it.
"Jeez -" she mutters, tipping her head away from him, like that might get the stiffness out of her neck (or her neck out of his reach). "What was that for?"
no subject
Whether it is short lived or not, neither of them can say with any surety; they’ve supplies to pack, and steep snowfall to contend with while daylight lasts. If they cannot break through and finish descending the mountain slopes before nightfall, it is possible they will only trap themselves once again here—
And if that occurs, they’ll not survive.
Or at the very least, she will not.
no subject
Then she forces herself to sit up, and then she decides that she can see if last night was a fluke or not. See, Gabranth, she's awake. She's so awake that she leans over and kisses him good morning, her lips brushing his just for a moment.
And then she starts untying the tent flap like she didn't do anything of the sort, talking all the while. "We've gotta be pretty close. They said it was a chateau in the mountains--" this with a bad approximation of an Orlesian accent, and then--"Oh, my God, it's so bright."
no subject
And truth be told, he is a rigid man even without the matter of contact welling between them.
"Between the storm's perpetuity and the longer stretches of nightfall, your eyes will need time to adjust." Poetic. Beautiful. He speaks with the grace of a man dedicated wholly to gathering their supplies without so much as glancing towards the daylight streaming in from where she peers out into the snowpack.
Which is precisely what he is.
no subject
"It's pretty, isn't it?" Even if he's not actually going to answer, she can't help but keep trying. The tone isn't pointed, but the intent kind of is. Acknowledge everything out there. Have a conversation with me. Beth figures he'll tolerate it, if he'll tolerate being kissed. "I've never seen snow like that, only in - " movies - "stories. Did they have snow like this, where you're from?"
Some of the supplies get rolled up with her canvas and bedding, some stuffed into a bag. And then there'll be the tent, and they probably won't have time to wait around and catch breakfast - they can eat some of their rations on the way to their destination. She's thinking it all through as she talks.