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( how rude. paul huffs a laugh, small and genuine, paternally smoothing alina's hair back down her skull, twisting the ends around the knuckles of his first two fingers, braiding it like a ring around him. he wonders what alina's expression would look like, if he asked for a lock of her hair to have on him always — he imagines equal parts wry and endeared, and smiles dumbly at himself, tilting his head down to nose into her hairline.
he also wasn't listening, so it takes a second to play catch-up in the conversation. then, on auto-pilot — )
They don't. Zapodidae do though, and they're a little like the kangaroo mice of Arrakis.
( responsibly, he picks up her offered goodies and tears open the pull tab of the plastic, more than a little amused she couldn't do that much — but also a little warm and soft and humbled he gets to take care of her even in the small, silly ways. he fingers through lesser flavors at the top of the bag and picks out a strawberry pink bear, holding it in front of alina's mouth for her to eat. he gets another one ready for her, whenever she wants it, pinched between his pointer and thumb finger.
and, since he imagines he'll have to be the one to broach the subject, he injects it a little clumsily, )
How do you feel about the memory-share now?
he also wasn't listening, so it takes a second to play catch-up in the conversation. then, on auto-pilot — )
They don't. Zapodidae do though, and they're a little like the kangaroo mice of Arrakis.
( responsibly, he picks up her offered goodies and tears open the pull tab of the plastic, more than a little amused she couldn't do that much — but also a little warm and soft and humbled he gets to take care of her even in the small, silly ways. he fingers through lesser flavors at the top of the bag and picks out a strawberry pink bear, holding it in front of alina's mouth for her to eat. he gets another one ready for her, whenever she wants it, pinched between his pointer and thumb finger.
and, since he imagines he'll have to be the one to broach the subject, he injects it a little clumsily, )
How do you feel about the memory-share now?
Oh, of course. How could I forget the illustrious — ( her cough-scratched voice drops into childish, haughty mimicry. ) "Zapodidae".
( sometimes, she's struck by a suspicion that paul would happily read an encyclopedia back to front, and miraculously retain room for it in his brain. that's fine with alina — it's nice, for a change, to not be expected to have answers for every single question that crosses her desk. no need to undergo the metamorphosis resculpt had tried to cocoon her in, like larvae not yet ready to emerge, no need to be — better than what her raw form is. so, she's not the brightest lantern in the room. so, her knowledge doesn't illuminate every corner of what there is to know of the world. she can pluck her know-it-all paul from a shelf and flip through his pages, completing her where she's incomplete.
endeared, she nips the ends of his fingertips as she retrieves the sugary bear from him, all scraping and indelicate teeth. the next, too, more like a pampered housecat than she'd like to admit — if she isn't careful, she'll forget how to use her claws, a domesticated and dependent wretch. )
It's been ten minutes. Was I meant to run away? ( she squints through her chewing, which quickly progresses to the distracting task of sucking on paul's fingers, knowing there's no trace of gelatin stuck to them. some tangible proof, maybe, that her limbs are loose — that she isn't tensing to bolt, now that he's cornered her. now that the threat of having his mind meld into hers like water pouring into a vase is inescapably real. her heart spasms in her chest, a trained impulse against the thought of invasion. still, she presses a kiss to the cool marble of his hands, before draping them over a cheek. ) I promise I'm okay. Just — guide me through it, while you're doing it.
( aleksander had never warned her before ripping her open. neither had alia, before tiptoeing in uninvited. it might be nice to hear him knocking at the door, asking her aloud to let him in, making himself known not as an intruder but a guest. )
( sometimes, she's struck by a suspicion that paul would happily read an encyclopedia back to front, and miraculously retain room for it in his brain. that's fine with alina — it's nice, for a change, to not be expected to have answers for every single question that crosses her desk. no need to undergo the metamorphosis resculpt had tried to cocoon her in, like larvae not yet ready to emerge, no need to be — better than what her raw form is. so, she's not the brightest lantern in the room. so, her knowledge doesn't illuminate every corner of what there is to know of the world. she can pluck her know-it-all paul from a shelf and flip through his pages, completing her where she's incomplete.
endeared, she nips the ends of his fingertips as she retrieves the sugary bear from him, all scraping and indelicate teeth. the next, too, more like a pampered housecat than she'd like to admit — if she isn't careful, she'll forget how to use her claws, a domesticated and dependent wretch. )
It's been ten minutes. Was I meant to run away? ( she squints through her chewing, which quickly progresses to the distracting task of sucking on paul's fingers, knowing there's no trace of gelatin stuck to them. some tangible proof, maybe, that her limbs are loose — that she isn't tensing to bolt, now that he's cornered her. now that the threat of having his mind meld into hers like water pouring into a vase is inescapably real. her heart spasms in her chest, a trained impulse against the thought of invasion. still, she presses a kiss to the cool marble of his hands, before draping them over a cheek. ) I promise I'm okay. Just — guide me through it, while you're doing it.
( aleksander had never warned her before ripping her open. neither had alia, before tiptoeing in uninvited. it might be nice to hear him knocking at the door, asking her aloud to let him in, making himself known not as an intruder but a guest. )
Manipulate shadow matter.
( the thing is, alia's not very good at it, and alina isn't willing to be for her what baghra was for alina: sharp-handed with discipline, gruelingly unforgiving in her teachings. unethical, one might say, if not for the results she'd gotten. if not for the reasons she'd pushed alina too fast, too far, too hard, expecting her to run before she'd ever learned to walk or crawl with her power. )
In theory.
( the thing is, alia's not very good at it, and alina isn't willing to be for her what baghra was for alina: sharp-handed with discipline, gruelingly unforgiving in her teachings. unethical, one might say, if not for the results she'd gotten. if not for the reasons she'd pushed alina too fast, too far, too hard, expecting her to run before she'd ever learned to walk or crawl with her power. )
In theory.
Edited 2025-02-13 20:38 (UTC)
( he blushes, teased, but happy for it, acting the part of an abruptly feral animal to snuffle and snort at her, bending down and nipping at her cheek. it's easy them, to bully alina onto her back, paul maneuvering like a warm breeze over dunes to slide between her legs, propped up on his knees, catching kettlewing by his back before he can splash hot soup all over alina and the bed. the bird gets resettled against her side, paul shrugging while he positions her knees on his hips, caging him in. )
Maybe. Well — not running away, but changing your mind is allowed. It's still allowed.
( hands curve over her bony knees, sliding down the tops of her freckled thighs, landing at her hips, loosely covered by lazy sleep shorts. paul edges up the hem of his sweatshirt, just enough to stroke his thumbs against her stomach, wondering if he might be able to cash in his learning ravkan reward now, after all. well — nowish. first things first. )
You know ... Okay. Imagine a hard-boiled egg. ( he gives her a look. ) Just stick with me. You know, if you push your thumb against it, there's some give, but when you take your thumb away there's no imprint. In this case, your mind is the hard boiled egg, and my memory is the thumb. It'll fill a gap, long enough for both of us to see it, and when it ends, it'll just be you again. ( cozying down, he props his chin up between her breasts, weight distributed down her middle, a little like an oversized cat finding the most comfortable and inconvenient spot to lounge on. ) Okay?
Maybe. Well — not running away, but changing your mind is allowed. It's still allowed.
( hands curve over her bony knees, sliding down the tops of her freckled thighs, landing at her hips, loosely covered by lazy sleep shorts. paul edges up the hem of his sweatshirt, just enough to stroke his thumbs against her stomach, wondering if he might be able to cash in his learning ravkan reward now, after all. well — nowish. first things first. )
You know ... Okay. Imagine a hard-boiled egg. ( he gives her a look. ) Just stick with me. You know, if you push your thumb against it, there's some give, but when you take your thumb away there's no imprint. In this case, your mind is the hard boiled egg, and my memory is the thumb. It'll fill a gap, long enough for both of us to see it, and when it ends, it'll just be you again. ( cozying down, he props his chin up between her breasts, weight distributed down her middle, a little like an oversized cat finding the most comfortable and inconvenient spot to lounge on. ) Okay?
( not distinctly true — for one, alina would liken her brain to a soupy broth, at the moment, overheated from fever. for another, cracking open her skull runs the risk of having it all pour out into the basin of his palms, alina-shaped chunks flavored with — something more, something other. it's never been just her, alone in her head; even now, she can sense the hum of the amplifiers, a constant static she barely notices anymore. the seawhip coiled defensively around her brainstem, filled with righteous anger. morozova's stag looms watchfully, a protective guardian in the sacred grove of her thoguhts.
not for the first time, she finds herself grateful she's a pliant puddle of limbs under paul's lean body. less of a risk their minds clash rather than meld like a runny yolk. she squirms and stretches up into him, spurts of puffy exhales at his fingers teasing the ticklish skin of her belly, dangling in that dreamy void between sleepiness and consciousness. lazily, her toes dangle and draw down the backs of his legs, a softspun hum in her throat. a finger trails down the bridge of his nose, tapping freckles in her mental count. one, two, three, before she loses focus and has to start the process again. )
I don't mind you in my gaps. ( pun intentional, judging from the bleary, tranquil smile on her face. it's nice thought, isn't it? to be filled in all places, mind and body and soul. she lifts a hand, carding it through his curls, nails raking against his cat, like scratching a beloved cat under its chin. ) But I should warn you it won't only be me. I don't know how ... different my mind might feel, to you, but my power knows you're no threat. I won't let it harm you.
not for the first time, she finds herself grateful she's a pliant puddle of limbs under paul's lean body. less of a risk their minds clash rather than meld like a runny yolk. she squirms and stretches up into him, spurts of puffy exhales at his fingers teasing the ticklish skin of her belly, dangling in that dreamy void between sleepiness and consciousness. lazily, her toes dangle and draw down the backs of his legs, a softspun hum in her throat. a finger trails down the bridge of his nose, tapping freckles in her mental count. one, two, three, before she loses focus and has to start the process again. )
I don't mind you in my gaps. ( pun intentional, judging from the bleary, tranquil smile on her face. it's nice thought, isn't it? to be filled in all places, mind and body and soul. she lifts a hand, carding it through his curls, nails raking against his cat, like scratching a beloved cat under its chin. ) But I should warn you it won't only be me. I don't know how ... different my mind might feel, to you, but my power knows you're no threat. I won't let it harm you.
( in terms of 'unexpected texts from unexpected people' — this ranks highly. it's only a handful of minutes scrubbing her hands free of paint enough to tap back a response. )
We made do. And I've a distinct lack of appetite for raw brains to show for it.
Is the manor still in-tact? I've barely visited since.
We made do. And I've a distinct lack of appetite for raw brains to show for it.
Is the manor still in-tact? I've barely visited since.
( why must men return to haunt her about things she's been actively trying to repress. )
Legally? Probably not binding.
Spiritually? I think we’re safe unless the Saints have a sense of humor I don’t want to test.
Though if you start referring to me as your ex-wife in front of people, I will set something on fire. Possibly you.
Legally? Probably not binding.
Spiritually? I think we’re safe unless the Saints have a sense of humor I don’t want to test.
Though if you start referring to me as your ex-wife in front of people, I will set something on fire. Possibly you.
( paul lays beside alina for bed, but he doesn't sleep. hasn't been sleeping since the whole debacle with spike went on, not because he's haunted by insecurities, but because he's haunted by his actions. he wanted spike dead, and buffy, and anyone in his way at the time. was it so long ago that he was a boy in the sand, weeping over jamis? his first kill, now a distant memory. sometimes he still dreams jamis, like a bridge across a river that flows red and buring — and sometimes he's a vision in the distance of his sleep memory, an outline of a man, a man with a head, a head shaking no. wrong. it was wrong, to get so emotional. paul supposedly has divinity in his veins where the rest of the fremen hold water. but when he lays next to alina, he's just a boy hopelessly in love with her, who doesn't know how to contain all his feelings like that of an overflowing oasis. water to drink, of course. but it's bad news for the flowers at the shore. )
Alina. ( whispered, quiet, his chin against her shoulder, body cupping hers. staring at her intently, with his bright, strange, spice-colored eyes. ) Are you awake? ( whether or not she was, she will be, because paul gives her a small shake, kissing her shoulder. discomfort makes his words come out formally. ) May I say something to you?
Alina. ( whispered, quiet, his chin against her shoulder, body cupping hers. staring at her intently, with his bright, strange, spice-colored eyes. ) Are you awake? ( whether or not she was, she will be, because paul gives her a small shake, kissing her shoulder. discomfort makes his words come out formally. ) May I say something to you?
( she isn't proud of her first instinct to feign sleep through the brimming of paul's anxiety. a coward's impulse, or maybe a mouse's — hole away in the walls when the scent of a storm salts the air, safe from the rain pattering your door. evidence, she thinks, that she's not deserving of the atreides name; a hawk can endure the turn of the weather with grace on caladan, unblinking, wings unfurled. but alina? she's just — earthbound, stuck.
spiritually, she's molting certainties. physically, she spends more time scouring her skin with scrubbing, relentless hands than she does sleeping, like the stain of betrayal will seep into the sheets, ooze out onto paul. like she can wash away another hold over her body, watch it circle the drain, when the collar prodding her neck proves how well she manages freedom. just as irremovable as her shame.
there's a critical error in that tactical plan, besides: paul has calculated her the precise tempo of her breathing, the fall and rise of her chest. a mentat's skill and a lover's knowledge — he has to know she's awake. so, she braces for impact like a soldier waiting for the blow, instead — stares off into the shadowed spaces of the room, despite how much she's never liked confronting the darkness, fearful of what she'll find watching back. knowing what the fold took from her, what it made her. still, tonight, it seems a safer bet than whatever lurks in paul's eyes, surely. )
Do you have to? ( a child's whine, soft and cracking. alina's throat clicks with a swallow, bobs. tries again. ) If it's something terrible, wait until morning.
spiritually, she's molting certainties. physically, she spends more time scouring her skin with scrubbing, relentless hands than she does sleeping, like the stain of betrayal will seep into the sheets, ooze out onto paul. like she can wash away another hold over her body, watch it circle the drain, when the collar prodding her neck proves how well she manages freedom. just as irremovable as her shame.
there's a critical error in that tactical plan, besides: paul has calculated her the precise tempo of her breathing, the fall and rise of her chest. a mentat's skill and a lover's knowledge — he has to know she's awake. so, she braces for impact like a soldier waiting for the blow, instead — stares off into the shadowed spaces of the room, despite how much she's never liked confronting the darkness, fearful of what she'll find watching back. knowing what the fold took from her, what it made her. still, tonight, it seems a safer bet than whatever lurks in paul's eyes, surely. )
Do you have to? ( a child's whine, soft and cracking. alina's throat clicks with a swallow, bobs. tries again. ) If it's something terrible, wait until morning.
( he's bothered her, he can tell — though whether it's from the uptick in her heartbeat or the far more obvious consequence of waking her up, is anyone's guess. paul frowns and sets his nose to her shoulder, moving his head back and forth, nuzzling her. epiphanies don't exactly follow waking hours, and paul hasn't been following them either, recently. his body's clock is out of sync. the stars are out and he's awake with them, half still in his meditative prophecies, toes en pointe though dusting of clouds. sand dunes. memories with alina like veils of gossamer, like beans of sun cutting through the dusty shadows — her face when they each came clean about alia. the offering of a toe. paul's butler admittance of being attracted to alicent. his threats to spike.
shortcomings by the name of paul atreides. alina's hair makes inky curls on the back of her satin pillowcase, and paul curls his fingers through one of them, turning it into a spiral. on one end is paul, and on the other is his heart. tangled, messy. walking the same predestined lines. )
It isn't terrible.
( or maybe it is. paul is terrible. terrible men have the thoughts he does, blood soaked and fire singed, parallel lines of corpses guiding to destiny, to that great green paradise. alina is at the end. freedom is at the end. but the way there is thorny, is burning sand on your bare feet, is bloated harkonnen heads squished free of their water. how do you get off the path? how do you follow where she leads?
languidly, he sits up. she can stay asleep — a hand finds her hip through the cloak of the covers and pats her once, sliding up and down her thigh. paul finds talking to her when she's unconscious soothes him, too. )
I wanted to apologize. To you. So I will. ( there are shapes in the darkness of their room, alina is right about that. paul can see it. thousands of bene gesserit faces, reverend mothers sneering their scorn at him, staring at him. he stares at them, and it looks like he's seeing nothing, when the opposite is true. ) I'm sorry, for how I react to things. I do not want to be that person. I just want to be — your Paul.
shortcomings by the name of paul atreides. alina's hair makes inky curls on the back of her satin pillowcase, and paul curls his fingers through one of them, turning it into a spiral. on one end is paul, and on the other is his heart. tangled, messy. walking the same predestined lines. )
It isn't terrible.
( or maybe it is. paul is terrible. terrible men have the thoughts he does, blood soaked and fire singed, parallel lines of corpses guiding to destiny, to that great green paradise. alina is at the end. freedom is at the end. but the way there is thorny, is burning sand on your bare feet, is bloated harkonnen heads squished free of their water. how do you get off the path? how do you follow where she leads?
languidly, he sits up. she can stay asleep — a hand finds her hip through the cloak of the covers and pats her once, sliding up and down her thigh. paul finds talking to her when she's unconscious soothes him, too. )
I wanted to apologize. To you. So I will. ( there are shapes in the darkness of their room, alina is right about that. paul can see it. thousands of bene gesserit faces, reverend mothers sneering their scorn at him, staring at him. he stares at them, and it looks like he's seeing nothing, when the opposite is true. ) I'm sorry, for how I react to things. I do not want to be that person. I just want to be — your Paul.
( for how i react to things. she doesn't seek clarification — only thinks of paul's mind detached from his spirit, severed from his heart chambers, firing off thought without first consulting the organ in his chest. a perfect series of logical replies, until they aren't. alina doesn't dare voice what comes to mind: that she prefers the bone-melting scorch of his desert anger than the icy ravkan tundra of his methodical thinking, like he's parsing down the meat of a problem to solve it, a butcher hacking away at the extraneous fat. that makes her the terrible thing in the dark.
his touch isn't one that beckons her to follow; alina is reminded of patted horses, easily spooked, as his fingertips smooth up and down the line of her legs, parted from the silken drape of a rich nightgown. like it isn't her duty to be the source of sunlight, the comforting glimpse of a horizon at the end of a tunnel. a sigh gusts from her, quieter than the rest, as her eyelids flicker shut — a curtain of privacy, playing pretending at being a confessional booth. )
You are my Paul.
( she says it the way saints speak of suffering: with reverence, with certainty. as if it's the only truth that's ever held her up. she forgets how young he is, sometimes, until he says things like that. i just want to be your paul. a boy housed in the divine vessel of a prophet. what a cruel thing it is, to be built for someone else's salvation, and never your own. )
I didn't marry a perfect man. I married you. I've stood through worse than getting cut on a man's rough edges. It's not like — ( her voice pauses, lowers, but doesn't falter. shame blurs the edges, softens the focus. a shake of her head across the pillow. ) It's not like you weren't right. About all of it.
his touch isn't one that beckons her to follow; alina is reminded of patted horses, easily spooked, as his fingertips smooth up and down the line of her legs, parted from the silken drape of a rich nightgown. like it isn't her duty to be the source of sunlight, the comforting glimpse of a horizon at the end of a tunnel. a sigh gusts from her, quieter than the rest, as her eyelids flicker shut — a curtain of privacy, playing pretending at being a confessional booth. )
You are my Paul.
( she says it the way saints speak of suffering: with reverence, with certainty. as if it's the only truth that's ever held her up. she forgets how young he is, sometimes, until he says things like that. i just want to be your paul. a boy housed in the divine vessel of a prophet. what a cruel thing it is, to be built for someone else's salvation, and never your own. )
I didn't marry a perfect man. I married you. I've stood through worse than getting cut on a man's rough edges. It's not like — ( her voice pauses, lowers, but doesn't falter. shame blurs the edges, softens the focus. a shake of her head across the pillow. ) It's not like you weren't right. About all of it.
( it's hypnotic, this wall of scorned, angry women — intimidating, even scary, if paul was the type to be scared. no, that's not fair. there's plenty that scares him, and plenty that used to. the bene gesserit may have at one point been on that list. now? he wonders at the spot where his mother could or should be, about where his lines blur with hers, theirs, ours, we. he could stare at the women for hours, memorizing a thousand of them. he has, in the past. but now?
he casts them away, blinking for the first time in a few minutes, head rolling as he falls back into himself. out of the galaxy, off starlight paths, back to the floral line of fairy lights that guide him right back to alina. he turns, hand to her arm and the top of her head, encouraging her to roll on her back. she doesn't have to, if she doesn't want to. regardless, paul bends to kiss her head, scooting back against the headboard.
i didn't marry a perfect man. i married you. maybe the kindest thing paul, the prophetical messiah and destroyer of the known world, has ever been told. )
I think ... it's alright to be angry. ( he loves her hair, the way it feels between his pinched fingertips. like the silk of fresh leaves. like mouse fur. like a secret. ) But it's not alright to be cruel. I don't want to be someone that hurts the people I love.
( one day he will be, he thinks. there is a certain inevitability to his cruelty. but, if he can manage one thing, let it be maintaining the softness between him and alina here tonight — cultivate it, protect it like a soldier. no darkness will seep in here, where alina is light and love and the axis by which his world tilts, singing alina, alina at the center knot of his heart. )
I didn't marry perfection, either. But I love you, my Alina, and I always will.
he casts them away, blinking for the first time in a few minutes, head rolling as he falls back into himself. out of the galaxy, off starlight paths, back to the floral line of fairy lights that guide him right back to alina. he turns, hand to her arm and the top of her head, encouraging her to roll on her back. she doesn't have to, if she doesn't want to. regardless, paul bends to kiss her head, scooting back against the headboard.
i didn't marry a perfect man. i married you. maybe the kindest thing paul, the prophetical messiah and destroyer of the known world, has ever been told. )
I think ... it's alright to be angry. ( he loves her hair, the way it feels between his pinched fingertips. like the silk of fresh leaves. like mouse fur. like a secret. ) But it's not alright to be cruel. I don't want to be someone that hurts the people I love.
( one day he will be, he thinks. there is a certain inevitability to his cruelty. but, if he can manage one thing, let it be maintaining the softness between him and alina here tonight — cultivate it, protect it like a soldier. no darkness will seep in here, where alina is light and love and the axis by which his world tilts, singing alina, alina at the center knot of his heart. )
I didn't marry perfection, either. But I love you, my Alina, and I always will.
( a soft snuffle, half-smothered by the rustle of sheets, breaks the quiet — alina flips onto her back with all of the thudding grace of a capsized duck. not the wet snort of a sob, shockingly — just a whisper of resigned laughter, clogged in her throat, like she doesn't know how to unstopper it. not after the ruinous catastrophe of the last week, the forgotten note of how to let joy rise without guilt to join it. )
It's blasphemous to deny a saint's perfection, ( she drawls, bland as biting into a stale cracker left at the back of a first army ration's tin. sankta alina is of stained glass eyes and a marble spine, never bent, never misshappen. ) Blessed be her light, her sacrifice, her seasonal martyrdom. I could have your head.
( her eyes drift, as if she's reading the engraving on a epitath — the legend they tried to make her. the truth doesn't offend — it just means paul sees her where she's chipped, eroded by her own effort to chisel herself into an ideal, the years she spent sanding herself down into something beloved, otherworldly, righteous. it just means he loves her, anyway, without taking his hands to her to shape her imperfections into something more palatable. a simple kind of love, for all that the pair of them aren't.
she doesn't say that perfection appears different to every eye — he has to know it as well as she does. mal had wanted her smaller; the darkling had wanted her so vast that she would eclipse ravka in her shadow, blot out the sun. perfection is only a story for those naive enough to still disappoint themselves. she shifts again, nosing her way onto his hip, plunking her head there like an overgrown cat. a deep breath, and the release of it, slow like a stirring wind. )
I think I've hurt everyone I've loved. They've never quite forgiven me for my mistakes. ( softer: ) It's inevitable, isn't it? Maybe that's the price of loving anyone. But maybe that's also the proof — that we try. That we're brave enough to care, even knowing how much it might ache.
It's blasphemous to deny a saint's perfection, ( she drawls, bland as biting into a stale cracker left at the back of a first army ration's tin. sankta alina is of stained glass eyes and a marble spine, never bent, never misshappen. ) Blessed be her light, her sacrifice, her seasonal martyrdom. I could have your head.
( her eyes drift, as if she's reading the engraving on a epitath — the legend they tried to make her. the truth doesn't offend — it just means paul sees her where she's chipped, eroded by her own effort to chisel herself into an ideal, the years she spent sanding herself down into something beloved, otherworldly, righteous. it just means he loves her, anyway, without taking his hands to her to shape her imperfections into something more palatable. a simple kind of love, for all that the pair of them aren't.
she doesn't say that perfection appears different to every eye — he has to know it as well as she does. mal had wanted her smaller; the darkling had wanted her so vast that she would eclipse ravka in her shadow, blot out the sun. perfection is only a story for those naive enough to still disappoint themselves. she shifts again, nosing her way onto his hip, plunking her head there like an overgrown cat. a deep breath, and the release of it, slow like a stirring wind. )
I think I've hurt everyone I've loved. They've never quite forgiven me for my mistakes. ( softer: ) It's inevitable, isn't it? Maybe that's the price of loving anyone. But maybe that's also the proof — that we try. That we're brave enough to care, even knowing how much it might ache.
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