philancer | Inbox: Abraxas

What is that supposed to mean?

[ His question prompts her to splutter a mirthless laugh, shoving her hand lightly against his face in protest as she finally opens her eyes.

It's partly a stalling tactic as she searches his face. Confusion settles lightly atop her other myriad of feelings. Did he think that way about himself when it came to Claude too?

Knee jerk denials are on her lips, ready to fire off: she isn't interested in Claude. She doesn't want Sylvain like that, Both stem from the fear that admitting as much could break open the lock she had firmly placed on any possibility of something more with either of them. And it's for that reason that she offers up a weak answer one that is neither admission or denial of anything feelings. ]

Because that's different.

[ He just arches an eyebrow when she tries to shove his face away. But he's not about to budge. Not now. ]

It's not. I'm nothing like Claude, either. So either your excuse works or it doesn't. Tell me, Hilda. Be honest with me. Look me right in the eye. Tell me you're not interested. That you don't want me. Wouldn't.

[ You are, she thinks with a clarity and certainty of someone who knows – knew – Claude that well. She could write lists of how they're both wonderful, have overlapping qualities and qualities that would compliment the other. But what he said moments ago echoes in her mind: they more alike than either of them would be comfortable with. Would he even be receptive? Would he see himself the way she and Claude see him? The words don't make it past her lips.

Panic bubbles in her chest, flooding to the edges of her body as she's pressed for an answer that she doesn't want to give. Or maybe the better way to put it is that she's too afraid to give. Uncertainty creeps in, a fear of being seen for what she is and what she isn't, of expectations and impressions that he's made that aren't entirely true. She speaks without recklessly said without half of the conviction that she had used earlier when she had told him she thought he and Claude were alike. ]

I - [ Her voice catches in her throat, eyes only resting on his for the briefest of moments before looking away. ] don't want you like that.

[ Because I'm scared of what will happen if I say I am. Because if I do admit it, are you just going to turn me down? ]

[ For a moment, he's all too still above her, staring down at her, lips slightly parted on words that die a quick death on his tongue. For a moment, he gives a slow blink before he pulls back. Pulls away. Turning to perch on the edge of the bed again.

Turning so she wouldn't see how deeply that cut, left a wound in its wake that seeped an all-too-familiar pain. He takes a breath, relieved that he gets it in and out again without it shuddering. ]

I guess I asked for that.

[ His voice is light, laughing, but there's something hollow in it now. He rubs a hand over his face, struggling to drag his composure back into place. The mask it was safer to hide behind. ]

[ The moment the words leave her lips, Hilda feels like she's made an awful mistake. It's not unlike the feeling she had felt when she had told Claude that none of their friends were fighting by his side willingly. It was a lie; she had lied to Sylvain even though that was the one thing she had said she wouldn't do.

Her heart sinks into her chest as he leaves her field of vision and she's left staring at the ceiling, eyes misting like her body is telling her this is wrong. Her fingers clutch at the bedsheets under her as her mind reels back and forth about why she had just said what she'd said, and why Sylvain's voice sounded so devoid of any of its usual warmth. This was the right thing, wasn't it? In time, this would make he and Claude both happy. This way, he'd never realize how wrong he is about her.

Panic turns to shame, forcing her gaze away despite wanting nothing more than to reach out, to apologize. Instead she's quick to push herself up from the bed, rushing towards the door willing herself not to look back. ]

I think I should go. I'm sorry.

[ He doesn’t make a move to stop her this time. She’d successfully scraped over far too many of his own insecurities with that answer, leaving him feeling raw in the aftermath.

He felt stupid now, for expecting a different answer from her. For hoping that all those exchanges had meant something. The night of the gala, the night on the roof. The night in the maze. Even more foolish to forget the fundamental truths he’d lived most of his life by.

Wishful thinking, after all. He thought he’d cured himself of that a long time ago, but apparently not.

He lets her get to the door before he calls after her. His voice is low and solemn, but at least there’s nothing else in it to give him away. ]

Hilda. You can’t avoid him forever. Sooner or later you two are going to have to face this problem looming between you. And the longer you put it off the harder it will be.

[ He takes himself out of the equation this time. He didn’t have a place there, not really. ]

Inbox: Abraxas

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