[ The edges of his smile soften, up until she answers him, and then it fades altogether. She pulls back at the same time he does. He feels the tension return to his body, the sharpness eating through the lazy haze that'd come over him, and he thinks: What the fuck is he doing?
He's right. It is the question he's afraid to answer. He sits up, arms resting on his knees as he stares ahead. He can see where the candle holder is turned not quite where he'd left it, the flame flickering. Which Yennefer is this coming from? The one who can't remember enough of him to be angry with him or the one that's somewhere in there, with that lingering knowledge they all have? If only it were as simple as her not recalling a thing at all. If she looked at him without recognition. But in the same way he'd fallen into old patterns with Jaskier, the two of them weaving in and out of each other's days as if they'd been friends for all the years they held no memory of, he can tell she feels. A pull. Familiar, tugging and sitting perfectly right inside. Perhaps it's the wish, gripping them even here. Or it's more.
He wants to say, he's not second-guessing. He wants to tell her she's wrong; that he hasn't got a problem with good things. It's only that he's aware they won't last. A matter of reality. But what comes out is not what he means to admit. ] I don't know how to keep it.
[ It makes no difference, whether it's here in the Horizon, outside in Cadens, far off back on the Continent: whatever he finds that is good, he will not keep it. The only thing it ever serves to do is haunt him. And yet. He craves them, anyway. These moments. These moments that he knows he will break before they can break him. There is an ache, curling around his heart.
He wants to give her something good. Not just for her, but also because, selfishly, he's so rarely able to. He's never learned how, has never really expected that he could, but there'd been times with her, times where he could believe he had. Where he could tell himself that he had something important to give that did not involve blood on his hands and corpses at his feet. Maybe it was never about the wish, what broke between them. Maybe it was always a case of him grasping at luxuries not meant for those like him. Like he's doing now. (One day, he'll learn how to stop.) ]
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He's right. It is the question he's afraid to answer. He sits up, arms resting on his knees as he stares ahead. He can see where the candle holder is turned not quite where he'd left it, the flame flickering. Which Yennefer is this coming from? The one who can't remember enough of him to be angry with him or the one that's somewhere in there, with that lingering knowledge they all have? If only it were as simple as her not recalling a thing at all. If she looked at him without recognition. But in the same way he'd fallen into old patterns with Jaskier, the two of them weaving in and out of each other's days as if they'd been friends for all the years they held no memory of, he can tell she feels. A pull. Familiar, tugging and sitting perfectly right inside. Perhaps it's the wish, gripping them even here. Or it's more.
He wants to say, he's not second-guessing. He wants to tell her she's wrong; that he hasn't got a problem with good things. It's only that he's aware they won't last. A matter of reality. But what comes out is not what he means to admit. ] I don't know how to keep it.
[ It makes no difference, whether it's here in the Horizon, outside in Cadens, far off back on the Continent: whatever he finds that is good, he will not keep it. The only thing it ever serves to do is haunt him. And yet. He craves them, anyway. These moments. These moments that he knows he will break before they can break him. There is an ache, curling around his heart.
He wants to give her something good. Not just for her, but also because, selfishly, he's so rarely able to. He's never learned how, has never really expected that he could, but there'd been times with her, times where he could believe he had. Where he could tell himself that he had something important to give that did not involve blood on his hands and corpses at his feet. Maybe it was never about the wish, what broke between them. Maybe it was always a case of him grasping at luxuries not meant for those like him. Like he's doing now. (One day, he'll learn how to stop.) ]