philancer | Inbox: Abraxas

[ His response to that statement is swift and succinct. He shifts, toppling her onto her back on his bed so he can crouch over her, his hands braced to either side of her head as he cages her in. Giving her no avenues left to evade him.

He hovers close overhead, close enough that he can feel her breath on his face as he holds her gaze. ] That is not something you have to worry about, sweetness. My opinion is not so easily swayed. I know who you are, Hilda. I happen to like who you are a great deal, exactly as you are. And so does you-know-who, when he's not being an asshole and blinded by his own hurt feelings.

[ His hand slides inward, brushing his thumb against her lips as his hand cradles against her jaw, the touch tender. He'd felt the way her hurt had flared and knew he'd tripped over something he hadn't intended with his words. He only hoped it hadn't closed her off to what he had to say entirely. ] I'm not going anywhere, Hilda. You can't get rid of me that easily. And I'm not going to lie about the fact that I enjoyed our night in the maze together very much. I hoped it was you. I wanted it to be you.

[ Her world view flips and for a minute she feels breathless as his face fills her field of vision. Hilda hadn't looked closely at him since the night of the masquerade and before that the night on the roof when she had found him trying to breathe; maybe she had been worried that what she'd see there were disgust at the person she had been towards Claude. He's dangerously close to her and she feels her cheeks flare up at the proximity.

It's not often she finds herself at a loss for words. There's always a quick quip on her lips, something to diffuse a situation or try and bring some levity but she can't find any words to fill the silence that follows what he says. Internally she grapples with his kind words and the earnest desire that they held. She wants to tell him that she enjoyed it too. Had hoped and wanted it to be him - but the words are caught in the teeth. Want is a desire she's familiar with; there had been no shortage of want that hadn't gone unanswered growing up whether it came to objects or whims. But it had become increasingly difficult when it came to her affections. Some part of her still grappled with wanting to be with and having deep care and feelings for more than one person, but more than that, she feared that the redhead would eventually change his mind too when he figured out she was as obtuse and unremarkable as Claude had implied.

Her eyes have to slide shut for a brief moment but her hands rise, slowly tracing the curves of his face. Even with her eyes closed she knew them well. She had been stupid not to admit that much to herself in the maze. Longing courses through her but she bottles it back down. When she speaks again its quiet, laced with that same hurt and longing coursing through her body. ]

But you shouldn't. I'm not anything like Claude.

[ He lets her touch, turns his face into it. Lips press kisses to each of her fingertips as he watches the emotions play out across her face. Pays attention to what she feels. He hates that there’s still so much hurt layered there, but he doesn’t miss the longing, either. ]

And why should you be? Whoever said you needed to be anyone other than yourself?

[ Her eyes remain resolutely closed, still worried that she'll cry if she does. There's nothing wrong with being herself, she thinks absently as his kisses send small sparks through her fingers and up her arms. She likes herself for the most part. Sure, she wishes that she didn't drool in her sleep, wanted her toes to have slightly bigger nail beds so she could use more nail polish, that she had less battle scars, that her whims weren't so flighty all the time and that she had stronger convictions instead of being so scared - but she generally liked herself.

But just because she liked herself, didn't mean that comparisons didn't happen. People were going to be different from one another - that's why they were so wonderful. But in that same astute observation, she still didn't think she measured up to someone born to shatter expectations. When she looked at them side by side it made sense. ]

Because if anyone is interested in Claude why would they be interested in me?

[ She doesn't intend to fish for compliments; it's a rhetoric question that she's already answered in her mind. She's great for a good time, but anything serious, anything more, would never make sense aside from the politics of it all. ]

[ The question has him pausing to stare down at her, because there’s something raw in her voice. And it’s a vulnerability he recognizes all too well.

He gives a soft huff of laughter, but the sound is more sad than humorous. Leaning forward, he rests his forehead against hers. ]

Sometimes I think you and I are far more alike than either of us are probably comfortable with. So let me turn it around on you, Hilda. If you’ve been so interested in Claude, how could you possibly want me?

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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