Diva, Diva-- [He's a guppy, his mouth pleading both open and closed for a little bit of life. Ahh, she's always like this. She's always like this! And he loves her for it, he adores her above all else, but she's always like this, and he hasn't the means, right now, to temper it or her or even himself...
He lays his one hand over one of hers. It would be rotten of him to dampen her skin with his own shitty tears--he's already rotten. He knows that. But he can't sully her that way. She's all in white because she's the purest livelihood a world could manage. He takes in another gasp, trying to bury his own tears within himself. If he could swallow them, it would be better than swallowing blood. At least for Diva's sake. (Everything for Diva's sake.)
When he can speak again, his throat is raw.] G-- Good morning. Good morning, my queen. How... How have you... [How are you? How have you been? But while his hand slides down the length of hers, touching along her wrist, her forearm, he finds that... it isn't good muslin or silk, like she should be wearing. It's gauzy like bandages. These are bandages. And there's this honey to her, too.] What is wrong with you? [he asks, flabbergasted--and then he colors, ashamed. He's spent too long out of her sight. But he's frightened by the feel of her, now, and his question has a note of panic, maybe tinged with Ophelia's burgeoning madness. He's telling himself, again, not to start crying, and all his words inside himself are cruel. He does deserve cruel words.]
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He lays his one hand over one of hers. It would be rotten of him to dampen her skin with his own shitty tears--he's already rotten. He knows that. But he can't sully her that way. She's all in white because she's the purest livelihood a world could manage. He takes in another gasp, trying to bury his own tears within himself. If he could swallow them, it would be better than swallowing blood. At least for Diva's sake. (Everything for Diva's sake.)
When he can speak again, his throat is raw.] G-- Good morning. Good morning, my queen. How... How have you... [How are you? How have you been? But while his hand slides down the length of hers, touching along her wrist, her forearm, he finds that... it isn't good muslin or silk, like she should be wearing. It's gauzy like bandages. These are bandages. And there's this honey to her, too.] What is wrong with you? [he asks, flabbergasted--and then he colors, ashamed. He's spent too long out of her sight. But he's frightened by the feel of her, now, and his question has a note of panic, maybe tinged with Ophelia's burgeoning madness. He's telling himself, again, not to start crying, and all his words inside himself are cruel. He does deserve cruel words.]