( it feels like the sort of thing that she's meant to be quiet for--so she does just that, sits with her legs folded together under the weight of the skirt of her dress, with her hands in her lap, with her gaze focused on the horizon which, rather than betray any hint of light, has become something so dark that it's starting to get impossible to see the lights of the city proper, in the distance, or maybe it's just that it's that late. she's never liked the sky: it's a terrifying thing, having that wide expanse of nothing stretched out above her; she's used to the metal shadow of the plates in midgar, to feeling neatly concealed, covered, as though nothing could swoop down and take her. troubled, her gaze falls to her lap.
the way he says it almost sounds like poetry. the words come out soft and slow, measured almost, by a meter that she doesn't know and likely he doesn't, either; the flow of his thoughts put to his tongue and then out in the air to be shared between them. she knows some of those feelings: some of them, but the rest are foreign, almost forlorn in a way that makes her want to reach out and touch him, but she hangs back. she doesn't want to interrupt him, doesn't want anything to get in the way of him getting this out.
a sad dream. mostly? not entirely. but it's like the way a book gets damp and the pages start to bleed into each other.
at least, with the way he's turned, she can lift her gaze to stare at him instead. it takes a lot of effort to hold herself back, but she does it out of respect for him, respect for his feelings, and her hands wring together in her lap, twisting her fingers over each wrist over and over. at least he's taken the bottle from her. )
Happiness? ( she blanches a little at that--only because it's a surprising question. )
...The people I love, smiling. Unharmed. The planet, healthy. Freedom, to make choices, for others to not be weighed down by fate or what's been decided for them. I don't know what some of these things are like, truly, but they would be happiness.
( there's a soft laugh, but she's looking down at her lap again. )
Do I make you happy?
( that's not the question she meant to ask, but it's the question the alcohol has her blurting out despite herself. )
no subject
the way he says it almost sounds like poetry. the words come out soft and slow, measured almost, by a meter that she doesn't know and likely he doesn't, either; the flow of his thoughts put to his tongue and then out in the air to be shared between them. she knows some of those feelings: some of them, but the rest are foreign, almost forlorn in a way that makes her want to reach out and touch him, but she hangs back. she doesn't want to interrupt him, doesn't want anything to get in the way of him getting this out.
a sad dream. mostly? not entirely. but it's like the way a book gets damp and the pages start to bleed into each other.
at least, with the way he's turned, she can lift her gaze to stare at him instead. it takes a lot of effort to hold herself back, but she does it out of respect for him, respect for his feelings, and her hands wring together in her lap, twisting her fingers over each wrist over and over. at least he's taken the bottle from her. )
Happiness? ( she blanches a little at that--only because it's a surprising question. )
...The people I love, smiling. Unharmed. The planet, healthy. Freedom, to make choices, for others to not be weighed down by fate or what's been decided for them. I don't know what some of these things are like, truly, but they would be happiness.
( there's a soft laugh, but she's looking down at her lap again. )
Do I make you happy?
( that's not the question she meant to ask, but it's the question the alcohol has her blurting out despite herself. )