[ When's the last time he's had a night off? And hell, at that, the last time he's cracked a grin and possibly even bellowed out laughter— memories are plagued with nothing but opaque images of those he's lost, a carousel much similar to the one that swirls in the distance behind them, boasting it's fluorescent lights and fading, childish giggles. It's easy to lose himself to it; really, it's easy to lose himself in her: how her mouth carries the taste of cotton candy throughout the night, how he uses it as an excuse to dip in for more; the teddy bear he'd nearly just paid the guy for given the entire system was rigged.
It dawns on him, once she'd gotten him to the top of that ferris wheel that with her, with Clara, he had such little power. She was the fracture in his facade, the ache to own softer hands, rather than those filled with callouses if only to hold her a little gentler- treat her as well as she deserved. It never takes long for him to spiral down that warred mental path, even with the dazing festival colors flaring within those wide hues of hers, staring up at him now as realization hardens across his features.
It was easier, this thing they did, without the titles. Because with titles came expectations, and all the more room for him to disappoint her, and such hope glimmered right there in the way she looked at him, like a plea she's too fearful to voice. He isn't naive enough not to know why. He's a runner. Always has been, and so maybe she's become sick of it. Their ghosting around feelings, meeting up as if it were just for a satiable fuck, nothing else.
It had always been something else. Everything else. Doesn't mean he can let himself have it.
Palms remain at her sides, though the music around them has fallen to a hush at the tumult of panic that envelopes him. There's a furrow of his brow, and it's like a knife lodged right into his chest, the way her tone slips to something melancholy. Longing. ] Clara...
[ It's almost a warning, but he bites his tongue. He doesn't want everything to turn hard, doesn't want to ruin a night that's been too good to him. It couldn't last though, could it? Nothing could. ] If it was just a dance, y'wouldn't have to say so.
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It dawns on him, once she'd gotten him to the top of that ferris wheel that with her, with Clara, he had such little power. She was the fracture in his facade, the ache to own softer hands, rather than those filled with callouses if only to hold her a little gentler- treat her as well as she deserved. It never takes long for him to spiral down that warred mental path, even with the dazing festival colors flaring within those wide hues of hers, staring up at him now as realization hardens across his features.
It was easier, this thing they did, without the titles. Because with titles came expectations, and all the more room for him to disappoint her, and such hope glimmered right there in the way she looked at him, like a plea she's too fearful to voice. He isn't naive enough not to know why. He's a runner. Always has been, and so maybe she's become sick of it. Their ghosting around feelings, meeting up as if it were just for a satiable fuck, nothing else.
It had always been something else. Everything else. Doesn't mean he can let himself have it.
Palms remain at her sides, though the music around them has fallen to a hush at the tumult of panic that envelopes him. There's a furrow of his brow, and it's like a knife lodged right into his chest, the way her tone slips to something melancholy. Longing. ] Clara...
[ It's almost a warning, but he bites his tongue. He doesn't want everything to turn hard, doesn't want to ruin a night that's been too good to him. It couldn't last though, could it? Nothing could. ] If it was just a dance, y'wouldn't have to say so.