[The issue as it stands is he's acting like he did without her. If this wasn't an argument with her, about her loss, he'd think maybe he'd forgotten somehow; like his brain had slipped back to a place where he didn't know her kindness, her love. Because this was always his reaction when something hurt in those years apart- he'd take his own hand, seeking something he couldn't place. And here he is now rejecting it anyway having to be right at some expense. At what? At what fucking expense?
He doesn't move. He can't. He's shaking and messy and the only motion he has is to revert to that broken comfort, drawing his other arm up to his chest, clasping them together over his heart. You did this, part of him reminds himself. You did this.
Except, another ugly twisting thing responds, no you didn't. She did. Lucretia did. This problem wouldn't exist without her. There would be no apart, no alone, if she had not forced it. Is he so fucking wrong for not wanting to deal with that? Is he really this fucking wrong for being hurt? Betrayed? She doesn't know. She doesn't get it, nobody fucking gets it, nobody's even taking the time to do a god damn fucking thing.
So he stands. Lets the sound of the door slamming hit his ears as it happens, and doesn't move a muscle other than to let his nails dig into the back of his hand, into his chest, into his heart.
It's better this way, when he can only hurt himself.]
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He doesn't move. He can't. He's shaking and messy and the only motion he has is to revert to that broken comfort, drawing his other arm up to his chest, clasping them together over his heart. You did this, part of him reminds himself. You did this.
Except, another ugly twisting thing responds, no you didn't. She did. Lucretia did. This problem wouldn't exist without her. There would be no apart, no alone, if she had not forced it. Is he so fucking wrong for not wanting to deal with that? Is he really this fucking wrong for being hurt? Betrayed? She doesn't know. She doesn't get it, nobody fucking gets it, nobody's even taking the time to do a god damn fucking thing.
So he stands. Lets the sound of the door slamming hit his ears as it happens, and doesn't move a muscle other than to let his nails dig into the back of his hand, into his chest, into his heart.
It's better this way, when he can only hurt himself.]