[ Bastien, dressed greys and a little blue and the muted style that lets him not particularly stand out no matter what level of the city he’s in, smiles when he sees her.
He would smile whether he meant it or not, of course, but he does. (There’s a weight, not a pain, and he can feel more than one thing at a time.) Before he sits he stops alongside her chair to hold out a hand for hers—to kiss the back, if she’ll play along, with a friendly peck that’s not a nearly so daring as a hug. ]
It will be you, [ he says, mindful of the volume this time. ] Even if we were not embarrassing him. It is like looking into the sun.
no subject
He would smile whether he meant it or not, of course, but he does. (There’s a weight, not a pain, and he can feel more than one thing at a time.) Before he sits he stops alongside her chair to hold out a hand for hers—to kiss the back, if she’ll play along, with a friendly peck that’s not a nearly so daring as a hug. ]
It will be you, [ he says, mindful of the volume this time. ] Even if we were not embarrassing him. It is like looking into the sun.
[ You look nice is for Marchers. ]