{her fingers pull back, curling to tuck into her hand, hand retreating to curl against her chest over the sluggish beat of her heart.
He's right. Smelling the smoke from the fire, hearing its crackles as it struggles to hold off the darkness, she knows he's right. They can't stop here, no matter how much this place has become a mausoleum yet again for loss and emptiness. There's still a madman on the loose, still a world to save. Aerith's world... a world to save for Aerith. They need their sleep, even if it comes without rest and he's still damp and chilled. It's time to return to being practical. She can do that. She's good with practical things. She's always been better with practical things. It's just a matter of straightening and pulling away from him and out of his arms. Leaving him on his own.
she can't do that...
She's never been able to do that. So instead she shifts over and pushes up to her knees facing him, cupping his face in her hands to search for his eyes with her own. Hers may be red and swollen, their usual wine color almost lost in black - but they're clear. The tears he let her cry have washed them clear and even though the wound is still fresh and raw, the poison's been flushed out of it. Touch light, barely there, she strokes his cheek, and then carefully nudges in to rest her forehead against his, eyes closing on an exhale. One slim arm wraps around his shoulders but her other hand shifts to his hair.
Somethings are more important than being practical.}
no subject
He's right. Smelling the smoke from the fire, hearing its crackles as it struggles to hold off the darkness, she knows he's right. They can't stop here, no matter how much this place has become a mausoleum yet again for loss and emptiness. There's still a madman on the loose, still a world to save. Aerith's world... a world to save for Aerith. They need their sleep, even if it comes without rest and he's still damp and chilled. It's time to return to being practical. She can do that. She's good with practical things. She's always been better with practical things. It's just a matter of straightening and pulling away from him and out of his arms. Leaving him on his own.
she can't do that...
She's never been able to do that. So instead she shifts over and pushes up to her knees facing him, cupping his face in her hands to search for his eyes with her own. Hers may be red and swollen, their usual wine color almost lost in black - but they're clear. The tears he let her cry have washed them clear and even though the wound is still fresh and raw, the poison's been flushed out of it. Touch light, barely there, she strokes his cheek, and then carefully nudges in to rest her forehead against his, eyes closing on an exhale. One slim arm wraps around his shoulders but her other hand shifts to his hair.
Somethings are more important than being practical.}