the resentment he’s harbored towards his role still hasn’t hit rock bottom. picking at the bonfire, he tries to make sense of more than the trails the smoke leaves——— 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐬. what is left of home. not that he’s got much to offer, or much left of him, and her comment brings it to the surface. it translates into his breathing slowing to an erratic rhythm the moon can wane to.
he’s heard enough times feelings don’t come first. that they’re not a dagger, a needle. not a needle, a burden. ‘‘ 𝗂𝗍'𝗌 . . . ’’ 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘸: it’s impossible to keep separate from them. riveren has a point that falls flat in the end, but never on deaf ears. noctis’ sigh is obscured by a crunch in the wood,
‘‘ . . . if you don’t know, then i have no idea. ’’
@riveren gia sentences. ♡ * accepting !
