A sigh deflates her slightly, makes her smaller than she already is, and she sets talk of pity aside for now. She looks at her hand, at the lines Bastien traced, the same lines Derrica had traced many times before while they sat and they talked and they knew nothing of the mess they'd find themselves in mere months later. Fingers curl into a loose fist and her hand drops to her lap.
"We said we wouldn't avoid each other," she says, unsure whether it's a defense or an indictment. "She said she was sorry for doing that to me, and we agreed, back at the start, that we wouldn't do that again. She said she had to do better, to try to figure out what's best for us, but—"
But that was months ago. That was after Churneau, and since then how much effort has been spent on trying to find where they fit in each other's lives? Athessa has been trying and failing to ignore the way she feels about Derrica, trying and failing to be a good friend, to leave off any compliments or topics that stray too close to flirtation or memories of what they used to do to pass the time together.
Athessa sniffs, but doesn't allow herself to cry any more tears over this. Not now.
"—It feels like this isn't as important to her as it is to me."
Translation: It doesn't feel like I'm as important to her as she is to me.
He could tell her what he thinks she'd like to hear. It's easier. And people are rarely angry with you for giving them bad advice if it's the advice they wanted. If he loved her less, he would.
But he doesn't love her less, so he slides off the desk and holds his hand out to her again. This time to pull her up, if she'll let him. There's no good way to hug someone sitting in a chair.
"It might not be," he says. "It's—fucking miserable—" Like she said to him, after Vincent died. "—but sometimes that is how things go."
Fucking miserable is right. Athessa will let herself be pulled to standing, posture loose, gaze settled low and her features cast in quiet misery and resign.
"I hate it," she says, though her tone doesn't begin to sound as petulant as the words themselves might otherwise be. It wouldn't be unreasonable to expect It's not fair to be the next thing she says.
"I hate how much it hurts and how hard it is to let go."
"But I don't want to be alright," she says into the hug. If she returns it, if she wraps her arms around him and squeezes, she might cry. So she just lets her arms hang limp at her sides and leans.
Her limp-armed leaning is fine. He keeps his arms around her shoulders and rocks side to side, just a bit, in the faint suggestion of a dance. A slow and sad one.
"Not all the time. No one is happy all the time. And maybe not today or tomorrow, because you're hurt and sometimes you have to feel it. But after that. A little bit at a time, more and more. You'll see."
Athessa grumbles. Not words, just general sounds of displeasure at being displeased. She grumbles and she leans and heaves a great sigh.
"Somebody ought to outlaw feeling like this," she says, muffled by his shirt until she turns her head to speak into open air. "At least then I could pretend to be roguish instead of a disaster."
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"We said we wouldn't avoid each other," she says, unsure whether it's a defense or an indictment. "She said she was sorry for doing that to me, and we agreed, back at the start, that we wouldn't do that again. She said she had to do better, to try to figure out what's best for us, but—"
But that was months ago. That was after Churneau, and since then how much effort has been spent on trying to find where they fit in each other's lives? Athessa has been trying and failing to ignore the way she feels about Derrica, trying and failing to be a good friend, to leave off any compliments or topics that stray too close to flirtation or memories of what they used to do to pass the time together.
Athessa sniffs, but doesn't allow herself to cry any more tears over this. Not now.
"—It feels like this isn't as important to her as it is to me."
Translation: It doesn't feel like I'm as important to her as she is to me.
no subject
But he doesn't love her less, so he slides off the desk and holds his hand out to her again. This time to pull her up, if she'll let him. There's no good way to hug someone sitting in a chair.
"It might not be," he says. "It's—fucking miserable—" Like she said to him, after Vincent died. "—but sometimes that is how things go."
no subject
"I hate it," she says, though her tone doesn't begin to sound as petulant as the words themselves might otherwise be. It wouldn't be unreasonable to expect It's not fair to be the next thing she says.
"I hate how much it hurts and how hard it is to let go."
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"Me, too," he says. "I would do it for you if I could. But you will be all right, I promise."
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"I wanna be happy."
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Her limp-armed leaning is fine. He keeps his arms around her shoulders and rocks side to side, just a bit, in the faint suggestion of a dance. A slow and sad one.
"Not all the time. No one is happy all the time. And maybe not today or tomorrow, because you're hurt and sometimes you have to feel it. But after that. A little bit at a time, more and more. You'll see."
no subject
"Somebody ought to outlaw feeling like this," she says, muffled by his shirt until she turns her head to speak into open air. "At least then I could pretend to be roguish instead of a disaster."