MyΒ museΒ deliberatelyΒ leansΒ inΒ closerΒ justΒ toΒ seeΒ yourΒ museβsΒ reaction. (felicity & yanni :βD )
a Big shoutout to wherever that meme went | @stillresolved
Yannick doesn't believe in the concept of tests sent by spiritual higher-powers. He'd rather not. He thinks the concept is too easily exploited by all sorts of odd people to justify never, ever straying from whatever path their detrimental mentality and the shit sources that grants it to them has guided them on.
He wasn't raised religious. But he met a few of those who were along the way. Be it small branches that inevitably lead back to the Roman Catholic Church, or people who proudly pronounce their Christianity only to then turn around and do everything in their mind to actively remind you why so many people freeze when the word is mentioned, he's seen everything there is to see.
He's been around the block, as some might say. He doesn't believe, or doesn't want to believe, that anything laid before him, behind him, or thrown directly into his face, was ordained by something greater than the people involved.
Which becomes very complicated a thought process to parse through when it involves her.
His first instinct is, of course, to lean away. Even if he were stronger than he is as a person - and seemingly has never been - to have her so close so suddenly would probably startle most into trying to recreate what distance had been taken from them.
The blessing of being friends with Felicity can be found in... well... most of her, really, from primary traits to hidden details, but one he could not be more grateful for is that usually, when he's dealing with her, he's dealing with an adult. Even if they'd met young, and even if depending on who's asked they might be younger still, he's never had to worry about the kind of nonsense he's been perpetrator of himself.
Never with her, of course.
He doesn't know how many of his unspoken truths permeate the air between them like that subtle note of something you don't recognise in a mixture of scents you've smelled a thousand times before. He doesn't know if she's ever turned the wrong way and accidentally seen it, and ever so kindly, or merely politely, had done them both a favour and gone blind and amnesiac for that moment alone.
Or maybe the charred tips of her fingers she'd burned on that other dipshit that had made her smartly turn the other way quickly enough to spare them both.
He also doesn't know how close he's ever come to accidentally blurting it out himself. He loves her. And he's not snowed in enough to not tell her. Because he does. Beyond what he doesn't articulate, he's always loved her as a friend. It doesn't taste acrid when he tells her. He can love her as much. There's nothing to lose in loving her just so.
Maybe the problem is missing what he's never had. The awkwardness of walking on a thin layer of ice because there are lines he can't cross when he feels too many kinds of love.
He chews on the inside of his cheek. It's not like he's never seen her up close. The cut of her eyes, the curve of her mouth, the shape of her nose. He's torn between staying where he is and leaning closer, and between turning away and shoving at her.
For a moment, just so, he looks like he blames her for something. Like he wants to argue. There's something in the look of her eyes that he doesn't want to call a challenge, but finds he has no better synonym to wedge into the space between them. And it tastes like eating snow and accidentally chewing on pebbles hidden in the white.
"Looking for something Price?" he asks, and for a second the bite in it is too hard, his gums hurt, and he exhales very, very slowly. He can't smile, but he can pucker his lips and pretend he's amused.
"You're not going to pickpocket me, are you."
