[ He almost walks away when the shift of her face stops him. His brows draw together. For a second, he's distracted altogether from the conversation, from what he's feeling (too much). There's just—a realization. He remembers teasing her—split ends?—but hadn't given it thought beyond that. It hadn't been important, in the same way it isn't important what colour hair he'd been born with. It's no longer a part of him.
Except this is a part of her, still. It has to be, if it's followed her here. He'd appeared no different in the Horizon than he did outside it. Had kept the same eyes, the same hair. But she is...
He doesn't know what it means. (He knows.)
The tension from her is palpable. Her hackles rising. It's familiar. It steadies him more than her soft curiosity had. When she firmly declares, No you don't—the same tension runs through him. She's right, in a manner of speaking. He doesn't want her as she is right now. She isn't herself. She doesn't know him, doesn't know the life she led. But some part of him can't help reading more into it. Maybe it's not so much what she's said as how she's saying it: detached, unaffected. Cold. The sharpness in his eyes rises to match hers. He isn't being fair. She doesn't know in this state, but it still feels like she should. It feels like she fucking should, when she's watching him as if she's waiting for him to give in first. As if she understands he will. (Now this is the Yennefer he knows.) ]
You don't remember me. [ His voice is quiet. Already, some of the sharpness has dulled. He's just tired. He reaches for the door, forces himself to pull away and leave. He wants this over with; if she's too stubborn to end it, then he will. ] When you do, you'll understand why it doesn't matter what I want.
no subject
Except this is a part of her, still. It has to be, if it's followed her here. He'd appeared no different in the Horizon than he did outside it. Had kept the same eyes, the same hair. But she is...
He doesn't know what it means. (He knows.)
The tension from her is palpable. Her hackles rising. It's familiar. It steadies him more than her soft curiosity had. When she firmly declares, No you don't—the same tension runs through him. She's right, in a manner of speaking. He doesn't want her as she is right now. She isn't herself. She doesn't know him, doesn't know the life she led. But some part of him can't help reading more into it. Maybe it's not so much what she's said as how she's saying it: detached, unaffected. Cold. The sharpness in his eyes rises to match hers. He isn't being fair. She doesn't know in this state, but it still feels like she should. It feels like she fucking should, when she's watching him as if she's waiting for him to give in first. As if she understands he will. (Now this is the Yennefer he knows.) ]
You don't remember me. [ His voice is quiet. Already, some of the sharpness has dulled. He's just tired. He reaches for the door, forces himself to pull away and leave. He wants this over with; if she's too stubborn to end it, then he will. ] When you do, you'll understand why it doesn't matter what I want.