Re: The Quiet Lives Of Baron Saturday
Posted: Sat Sep 18, 2010 9:51 pm
Neither of them said anything for a long time. Raidon could not bring himself to look at her; to look at the girl he'd just threatened so casually to kill, all curled up beneath the covers.
Never been with a girl at night, he reflected, smiling. At least, not alone. A few girls, here and there in his years at debate, had attracted his attention, but he had never found it in him to make a move. He was well aware of the foible that accounted for this--that years of loss had bred in him an aversion to closeness and affection--but he had been content to let it rest. There were some things a person could not change about themselves, things they had only to accept.
Perhaps that would make all this easier. Perhaps it would only make it harder.
She shifted, placed her hand on his. He stiffened and started to draw it away but then stopped himself. Why pull away? Hadn't he come in here? Hadn't he been the one to apologize.
She sang a soft, sweet tune, two lines, then asked him he knew the rest. He smiled weakly. "Sorry," he said. "My mother...my mother wasn't much of a one for lullabies." A sharp pang, sharper than he'd felt for years; how long had it been, since he'd had anyone but himself?
Years of loss.
He tightened his grip upon Mizore's hand. "You don't belong here, Mizore Soryu," he said softly.
Never been with a girl at night, he reflected, smiling. At least, not alone. A few girls, here and there in his years at debate, had attracted his attention, but he had never found it in him to make a move. He was well aware of the foible that accounted for this--that years of loss had bred in him an aversion to closeness and affection--but he had been content to let it rest. There were some things a person could not change about themselves, things they had only to accept.
Perhaps that would make all this easier. Perhaps it would only make it harder.
She shifted, placed her hand on his. He stiffened and started to draw it away but then stopped himself. Why pull away? Hadn't he come in here? Hadn't he been the one to apologize.
She sang a soft, sweet tune, two lines, then asked him he knew the rest. He smiled weakly. "Sorry," he said. "My mother...my mother wasn't much of a one for lullabies." A sharp pang, sharper than he'd felt for years; how long had it been, since he'd had anyone but himself?
Years of loss.
He tightened his grip upon Mizore's hand. "You don't belong here, Mizore Soryu," he said softly.