𝕮𝖗𝖔𝖜𝖑𝖊𝖞

And he does love the world, you know. He loves existance, he loves the world in all its complicated details, in its contained chaos. Of course, he doesn't love their current situation, with all the running away and nearly being destroyed and getting hunted again and again and again, but... Right now, right this minute? That's rather pleasant. Good, even.

Whatever sound he made before, he makes a similar, quiet one now, all the more embarassed by it. It's unbecoming, he feels, unable to quite tell what part of that thought is him and which part is all the constructed conventions of how he should behave, what he should or shouldn't do.

He's not exactly craving for anything more. The closeness, the intimacy, the love is all he wants. The freedom to make a choice, and the chance to delve on these feelings, unafraid, and not alone. To not fear that that's what's going to end them both.

And it won't. Other things definitely might. A lot of things, actually, that aren't as far away as he'd hoped, probably. But it certainly won't be the fact that they're finally talking-- well, not talking, but beginning to face this.

Shouldn't have waited. Shouldn't have walked away. Should have been braver, clearer, oh, I do love you so.