That's always a more complicated subject than people think it is, or it is for him. People want you to come up with one clear, straightforward answer, something fixed and immutable about a feeling or a situation, and he doesn't see the world that way. Everything is contingent on everything else around it, a set of factors that could change or be changed at any time. Truth is a relationship to the things you see, the things you know, and the things you expect. It's never just one point, crystallized and perfect.
He thinks that's one of the reasons he's hard to believe when he tries to be honest, besides how often he lies. When he tells the truth, it feels as much like imposing order on chaos as a lie does, and something about that must slip into his voice, his face, how he holds himself. He tells the truth he wants to believe in, knowing he can't ever be as sure as everyone else seems to be about theirs, and it's no wonder that no one ever buys it.
She didn't, anyway, and sometimes he thinks she knew more about what he felt than he did. If he couldn't convince her, then maybe she was right. Maybe the hesitations and the fuck ups and the doubts always counted for more than whatever abstract thing he felt. If you love someone, and they don't believe you - not even don't love you back, but don't believe you - does it even really mean anything? Is that true?
The tap of Noelle's claw on the back of his hand is the gentlest thing he's ever known this part of her to do. That's true. The pad of her talons has the give of firm muscle, barely skinned over with fat. That's true. Her scales are warm and smooth against his skin, and the sun's still shining, and he wants to say something true enough that she'll believe it like he does. ]
It's okay.
[ He traces his thumb over scales again, slower and more sure, pressing down just enough to feel the slightest spring back as he goes. His face has shifted without him paying close attention to it, concentration a thin line between his eyebrows. ]
You're really warm.
[ And now so are his cheeks as he wishes he'd just bit his tongue. He shakes his head, self-consciousness almost making him look away from her set expression, but he makes himself stay with her. Touching her is a lot; talking about touching her, what it feels like, is more. ]
In a good way. It's nice. Like - did you ever use those hand warmers inside your mittens? The gel ones at the rink.
no subject
That's always a more complicated subject than people think it is, or it is for him. People want you to come up with one clear, straightforward answer, something fixed and immutable about a feeling or a situation, and he doesn't see the world that way. Everything is contingent on everything else around it, a set of factors that could change or be changed at any time. Truth is a relationship to the things you see, the things you know, and the things you expect. It's never just one point, crystallized and perfect.
He thinks that's one of the reasons he's hard to believe when he tries to be honest, besides how often he lies. When he tells the truth, it feels as much like imposing order on chaos as a lie does, and something about that must slip into his voice, his face, how he holds himself. He tells the truth he wants to believe in, knowing he can't ever be as sure as everyone else seems to be about theirs, and it's no wonder that no one ever buys it.
She didn't, anyway, and sometimes he thinks she knew more about what he felt than he did. If he couldn't convince her, then maybe she was right. Maybe the hesitations and the fuck ups and the doubts always counted for more than whatever abstract thing he felt. If you love someone, and they don't believe you - not even don't love you back, but don't believe you - does it even really mean anything? Is that true?
The tap of Noelle's claw on the back of his hand is the gentlest thing he's ever known this part of her to do. That's true. The pad of her talons has the give of firm muscle, barely skinned over with fat. That's true. Her scales are warm and smooth against his skin, and the sun's still shining, and he wants to say something true enough that she'll believe it like he does. ]
It's okay.
[ He traces his thumb over scales again, slower and more sure, pressing down just enough to feel the slightest spring back as he goes. His face has shifted without him paying close attention to it, concentration a thin line between his eyebrows. ]
You're really warm.
[ And now so are his cheeks as he wishes he'd just bit his tongue. He shakes his head, self-consciousness almost making him look away from her set expression, but he makes himself stay with her. Touching her is a lot; talking about touching her, what it feels like, is more. ]
In a good way. It's nice. Like - did you ever use those hand warmers inside your mittens? The gel ones at the rink.