[ if he could just stay in this wrap just a little bit longer, because something aches in chest despite being reassured. falco lets his weight be guided back to the chair he sat in regardless, but the phantom touch still brushed his cheek where paul had cupped his hand. he was no longer a paleblood, but there was . . . a sense of foreboding hanging close to his head. worry. it was the same feeling he had before war would break and he’d find himself in the middle of the battlefield searching desperately for his squad, colt, and when they were all gone— gabi.
it’s a feeling, and sad comprehension, that despite their words to be true to each other, it might not always happen the way they’d expect it to. whenever there’s battle in the picture, one might not find the other among the living. the risk is there— that was the bane that involved combat. falco attempts a smile, a weak one that he wished he could’ve made stronger for his elder friend the same way he’d made himself for falco.
he nods his head and agrees, but the melancholy awareness sits behind his soft agreement, too sympathetic, and a little bit selfish, to ruin it. he wants to enjoy the time paul is offering with him, too. this pastry, a story, his milk and paul’s coffee. he doesn’t want to feed the future he doesn’t know clearly, but he’ll be there to aid in shaping it however he could.
and he would find paul, wherever he was. ]
I’d like all of those. [ talking about the thing that’s dated to arrive, to prepare better, talk about something else— and the story. but, after a pause, falco brings honesty into a meek rise: ] Maybe a story, first.
no subject
it’s a feeling, and sad comprehension, that despite their words to be true to each other, it might not always happen the way they’d expect it to. whenever there’s battle in the picture, one might not find the other among the living. the risk is there— that was the bane that involved combat. falco attempts a smile, a weak one that he wished he could’ve made stronger for his elder friend the same way he’d made himself for falco.
he nods his head and agrees, but the melancholy awareness sits behind his soft agreement, too sympathetic, and a little bit selfish, to ruin it. he wants to enjoy the time paul is offering with him, too. this pastry, a story, his milk and paul’s coffee. he doesn’t want to feed the future he doesn’t know clearly, but he’ll be there to aid in shaping it however he could.
and he would find paul, wherever he was. ]
I’d like all of those. [ talking about the thing that’s dated to arrive, to prepare better, talk about something else— and the story. but, after a pause, falco brings honesty into a meek rise: ] Maybe a story, first.
[ any kind. ]