#snowcloud

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Stoic mystique doesn’t come from nothing. It takes considerable effort to think of exactly what may charm people into deals. And while Sylph does have a way with words, that comes with the unfortunate trait of over thinking. A devil's advocate perched on his shoulder, nitpicking endlessly. When you need to debate constantly, you master the techniques.

‘Why do you care?’, it whispers, when Frost grasps his hand, beckoning him to sit on a bench with her. And the answer comes easy, as he smiles at her: 

‘I don’t. It’s something to do. And if I don’t care either way, and she clearly does, then shouldn’t I just put up with it? She’s the easiest person to read, shockingly so. But yeah. I don’t mind. She wants something to fix and help, and while there’s nothing wrong with me that can be fixed, the effort she puts in is admirable. She only fixates on helping people because she wants someone to treat her the same way. It’s probably just a way for her to project.’ 

‘Projecting is for people who can’t get what they want.’

He remembers the shock on her face when he offhandedly mentioned not sleeping in years during their wander about Laniss. She was easy to worry, and stubborn as a mule. It was either sit on the bench for a moment, or her trying to haul him into a bed. No amount of teasing comments of exactly that scenario would have deterred her, only prolonged the inevitable– stuttering the whole time as she dug her heels into the ground as she would try throw him under the sheets, and when she inevitably trips herself from this effort, making him feel ever so slightly bad for her, and relenting anyways.

 Sylph sighs, in faux annoyance at the hypothetical (a force of habit at this point). He fails to suppress a smirk. Frost’s too pushy, despite the shyness. Might as well make it easy on them both, and humor her.

‘Not that it was all bad’, he thinks, eyes catching rays of sun over the horizon in between slow blinks, the light leaving slowly, casting a warm purple hue over the lake. Her stubbornness was less of an annoyance, and oddly endearing. Inconveniencing? Perhaps. But her unrelenting kindness, even towards those that don’t deserve it… 

‘Her motivations are selfish. She likes the praise and attention of being a good person, but can’t perceive how others feel. Only how she wants them to feel, for her narrative. You’re no more a person to her than an idea,’ the critic hisses. Sylph feels his hand twitch, squeezing her hand in his, unable to stop himself from openly reacting to– what Frost perceives– is just them holding hands on the bench, watching a sunset. It wasn’t his intention, to react to what he thought of her; the critical part that analyses everything to death. But now that he’s reacted, he needs to perform.

“You feeling better, now that we’ve rested a moment?” he asks softly, turning to look at her. He can see the vapor evaporate from where she grips the armrest of the bench, the tension in her body. She’s dissatisfied, and seems a bit nervous when his eyes meet hers. Sensation is slightly dulled for both of them, but Frost naturally is cold. He could feel her sapping the heat from the bench, chill creeping around where the two sat. 

“It’s not quite what I had in mind... I figured you’d be more… I dunno. Just not. What I thought…” She mumbles, looking askance. Ice shards prickle and melt where their hands are clasped. ‘Oh she is so obvious…’

“No? Did you figure we’d do something more on the bench? We’re still in public, sunshine, how scandalous!” he mummers softly, watching her flinch at the accusation. Despite the teasing, he reaches over before she can object, gently prying her fingers off the armrest, leaving an indent of icicles where she gripped it. Without any force, but with a smooth, and rehearsed confidence, he coaxes her into reclining on the bench more, scooching himself on the bench into a half lean, and press his face into the crook of her neck. He shushes her, half heartedly when she stammers, shepherding her fingers through his hair. They’re cold as ice, but they gently work through his hair, avoiding anywhere that would hurt if touched (like his band and bolts), finding a rhythm with little guidance. 

She is easy to rile up, and it is amusing to watch her react. But, if he acts too teasing, she’ll give up. And that’s not what he wants, just yet. 

It’s all a balancing act. 

When he’s certain she won’t stop, he lets go, letting her do as she pleases, while he shifts one last time, getting as comfortable as one can on a bench cold enough to sting. Turns out, he can get shockingly comfortable, when it’s her. And she must be too. Despite his teasing, she seems to titter to herself about getting him to relax so much. ‘She’s so easy to please,’ his mind purrs. It’s an observation, not an insult, he decides. 

Frost takes care to be still as she can aside from the hand combing through his hair, and let him rest for the first time in centuries. And as he finally stops shifting and his breaths even out into long, quiet rhythm, she can at last hear the wind rustling gently through the leaves, instead of her own heartbeat.