It's impossible to explain - or justify, even to himself, regret sharp and gnawing away at the edges of his resolve, already - why pretending to be somebody else doesn't extend so far as accepting her friendship. They were never really friends to begin with, and though two years ago, he would've jumped at the invitation- Things have changed, since then. Or haven't, enough, for him to say anything.
He still isn't strong enough to keep his promise (who'd want an infantryman in lieu of a SOLDIER?); he can't come home until he is. And he doesn't deserve even the false shadow of her affinity until then. It won't stop him from trying (few things in life have ever attained that lofty goal), doing what he can under the guise of detached anonymity, until this grueling trial is over. But that doesn't make this, here, now feel any less damning. Beneath the enduring numbness, that is.
When his coat slips off her shoulders, he's already turning (creakily) back to sit down again. If he huddles over his knees like before, he might be able to keep in a little bit of body heat, in spite of his newly bare arms. He can drape his scarf around his shoulders and probably scoot a little closer to the fire in the stove, and-
And he can't do any of that with the quiet echo of that seemingly innocent shuff of heavy fabric sliding to puddle on the floor behind her ringing in his ears. Any little sound is so much bigger, in this eerie silence, with the wind playing the constant backdrop, and he hesitates a second before shuffling back around. Maybe the cold's gotten into more than just his skin and his most distal points, because another few seconds tick by before he's able to comprehend what's happened - the jacket's fallen off, because he didn't set it over her right, and she must be too cold (or too angry) to want to reach for it.
It's understandable.
Leaning over again to collect the discarded article of clothing, he straightens it out and reaches up carefully to settle it over her shoulders, again. It's difficult to touch her, even though he can't feel much, any longer, but he starts with an effort to be a little more careful, this time. Just because they're not talking doesn't make him any less intent on trying. At what, exactly, he isn't totally certain, anymore. But that's never stopped him, either.
no subject
He still isn't strong enough to keep his promise (who'd want an infantryman in lieu of a SOLDIER?); he can't come home until he is. And he doesn't deserve even the false shadow of her affinity until then. It won't stop him from trying (few things in life have ever attained that lofty goal), doing what he can under the guise of detached anonymity, until this grueling trial is over. But that doesn't make this, here, now feel any less damning. Beneath the enduring numbness, that is.
When his coat slips off her shoulders, he's already turning (creakily) back to sit down again. If he huddles over his knees like before, he might be able to keep in a little bit of body heat, in spite of his newly bare arms. He can drape his scarf around his shoulders and probably scoot a little closer to the fire in the stove, and-
And he can't do any of that with the quiet echo of that seemingly innocent shuff of heavy fabric sliding to puddle on the floor behind her ringing in his ears. Any little sound is so much bigger, in this eerie silence, with the wind playing the constant backdrop, and he hesitates a second before shuffling back around. Maybe the cold's gotten into more than just his skin and his most distal points, because another few seconds tick by before he's able to comprehend what's happened - the jacket's fallen off, because he didn't set it over her right, and she must be too cold (or too angry) to want to reach for it.
It's understandable.
Leaning over again to collect the discarded article of clothing, he straightens it out and reaches up carefully to settle it over her shoulders, again. It's difficult to touch her, even though he can't feel much, any longer, but he starts with an effort to be a little more careful, this time. Just because they're not talking doesn't make him any less intent on trying. At what, exactly, he isn't totally certain, anymore. But that's never stopped him, either.