How do you say something like after I lost you I shut down and became an empty vessel of depression and waiting to die became my entire personality to somebody in a way that isn't fucking awful? He could probably find a way, if he sat down for a while with a keyboard or a pen. He's a writer. Not to toot his own horn, but when he tries, he can be pretty fucking poetic.
But he doesn't have a keyboard, he doesn't have a typewriter, he doesn't have a pen. He wants to tell her now, but he doesn't want to say the words. He's communicating it the next best way: with his lips, but silently.
He will never know if he's a good kisser, but he did get good at kissing her specifically.
(Only her. Only ever her.)
Maybe she understands, or maybe she already knew and she didn't need him to tell her. He's not sure. She's always been good at reading him — he used to take that for granted. He got too accustomed to somebody seeing through his muted affect, knowing him without him needing to say it, this late in life his brain forgets not everybody else can.
Which doesn't actually matter anymore, because she's back, she can. She can speak him fluently, she's the only person alive that can translate for the rest of the world.
Maybe that means-- maybe now things will get better.
I missed you so much.
She pushes onto her toes, she pulls him in; he wraps his arms around her waist, lets everything else fall-
Wait, fuck, oh shit, no, that's them falling. He totally forgot how weak he still is physically from the pit; his bad leg wobbles, his prosthetic clumsy, and he breaks away from her mouth just in time to say, "Shitfuckcrap-"
And then they're both sprawled on the grass.
Blithely, it occurs to him that this is not as sexy or as romantic as it probably would be in movies.
From the flat of his back, he turns his head to look at her.
"So, um... this is probably a good time to mention that I got slightly incredibly fucked up for... a few weeks in a monster pit full of mushrooms and bone serpents, and I'm, like, barely functionally managing my own body weight. When we replay this memory later, can we pretend I didn't immediately drop you?"
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But he doesn't have a keyboard, he doesn't have a typewriter, he doesn't have a pen. He wants to tell her now, but he doesn't want to say the words. He's communicating it the next best way: with his lips, but silently.
He will never know if he's a good kisser, but he did get good at kissing her specifically.
(Only her. Only ever her.)
Maybe she understands, or maybe she already knew and she didn't need him to tell her. He's not sure. She's always been good at reading him — he used to take that for granted. He got too accustomed to somebody seeing through his muted affect, knowing him without him needing to say it, this late in life his brain forgets not everybody else can.
Which doesn't actually matter anymore, because she's back, she can. She can speak him fluently, she's the only person alive that can translate for the rest of the world.
Maybe that means-- maybe now things will get better.
I missed you so much.
She pushes onto her toes, she pulls him in; he wraps his arms around her waist, lets everything else fall-
Wait, fuck, oh shit, no, that's them falling. He totally forgot how weak he still is physically from the pit; his bad leg wobbles, his prosthetic clumsy, and he breaks away from her mouth just in time to say, "Shitfuckcrap-"
And then they're both sprawled on the grass.
Blithely, it occurs to him that this is not as sexy or as romantic as it probably would be in movies.
From the flat of his back, he turns his head to look at her.
"So, um... this is probably a good time to mention that I got slightly incredibly fucked up for... a few weeks in a monster pit full of mushrooms and bone serpents, and I'm, like, barely functionally managing my own body weight. When we replay this memory later, can we pretend I didn't immediately drop you?"