#v.clemency

"Of course I do. You're soaked." there is a soft sternness to her voice, like she's disappointed, worried maybe. If he continues to do such things he may become ill.

“...of course.” He is suddenly so aware of the chill running through him. He has lost some mass since the war...he’s skinnier now, more susceptible to cold, to weakness. He begins his shiver as he struggles to his feet, frowning at the mud on his pants. It is a poor time for him to realize he is fond of her, so covered in filth. Pity is no way to earn adoration. 

But, bravely, he takes the umbrella from her, holding it over both of their heads. He looks down upon her with trembling, parted lips. 

“M-my place…?” He stumbles after her, toes and fingers hot and numb. He’s dizzy with it, as if he’s never kissed anyone before. He is not all that experienced, but it ought not to feel so new, so exhilarating. Maybe it’s because he hadn’t expected it. Maybe it’s because his feelings are vague and lustful, rather than deep and caring. “It’s quite small.”

Nonetheless he guides her to it, striding swiftly as if on a mission. God, the longer he thinks about it the more desperate he is to bed her. Mercilessly and full for penance. To see her skin, to peel back her clothes and have his lips upon her every inch— he twitches already, and he is glad of the twilight masking their journey.

Admittedly, the tenth division was the last place he ought to want to be. But he felt a little aimless, more so than ever. There was simply nothing for him here, it seemed. When not surrounded by those who had come to tolerate him, he was still an enemy of the state, so to speak.