âWe all have secrets. One of mine is that I've always had a hard time leaving well enough alone.â
It seemed that his measures to keep her alive had worked, and Sora watched with wary eyes as she stirred, coming to her senses and sitting up what was likely far too quickly. He wasnât anyoneâs nurse, though, he told himself, perhaps simply to have one last ditch effort at maintaining what was becoming a farcical play at apathy. He had been told once that he wasnât made to pretend he didnât care, but of late, that illusion had been all he had to cling to, all that was keeping him going. That it looked to crumble into dust, to be washed away by the rain falling from the darkened skyâhe wasnât really sure what to do with that.
He was silent for a while, through her questions and through her accusation. He couldnât disagree, after all. He was an idiot, though he wasnât quite sure of the reasons anymore. There were so many to choose from, and some of them frankly contradicted each other. Maybe the problem was simply that he wasnât sure. Certainty had been his constant companion since shortly after the deaths of his family. Hell, heâd been certain of things for most of his life, right or wrong. But now, he didnât know. He wasnât sure if heâd done the right thing or a catastrophically stupid one.
It occurred to him then that the sharing of blood meant more to most people than it did to him. For a Tsukino, it was just food. A substance that sustained life, that one learned to live with or without. He had in the moment forgotten its other connotations. It wasnât important to him, but he may have overstepped some personal boundary of hers.
Well, so what? Heâd done it so sheâd live. That was enough. She could think whatever she wanted of him for that.
Though the color had returned to her face, he knew well enough what it looked like when someone was struggling with their hunger. Her eyes flashed that peculiar vermilion color, and she reached towards him with one hand. It was an internal battle, that one. Catching the incoming hand with one of his own, he brushed it aside and stepped close enough to cup her face with both hands forcing her to meet his eyes. Unusually, there was something besides dead blackness to be seen in them at the momentâa peculiar spark had lit them to life, and there was some indistinguishable color just beneath the inky dark.
âFujiwara,â he pronounced sternly, attempting to distract her for long enough to get his point across. âYou are more than your hunger. Youâre in control here.â The rain seemed to have increased to a deluge about them, making it hard to hear anything but it and each other, as though it were narrowing their world to what was right in front of them. He could feel only distantly the way it landed in his hair, plastering the silky strands to the back of his neck and running in rivulets down his back.
Sighing quietly, he released her and stepped back, regarding the dhampir for a moment before he relented. It was a tiny gesture, made with more hesitation than one would expect of the bold, frank Sora Tsukino. With a whisper of movement, he tipped his night-crowned head to one side, exposing the side of his neck where his major artery lay. It was at once the subtlest and most obvious of invitations, the smallest and greatest gesture of trust that he understood. He was choosing to believe that she was in fact more than her bloodlust. He, of all people, was believing in another person, taking it on faith that she had only ever intended to do the right thing when she got herself into this mess, and offering her a way out of it.
He still wasnât sure exactly why, but that wasnât the important thing at the moment.
He was silent for a while, through her questions and through her accusation. He couldnât disagree, after all. He was an idiot, though he wasnât quite sure of the reasons anymore. There were so many to choose from, and some of them frankly contradicted each other. Maybe the problem was simply that he wasnât sure. Certainty had been his constant companion since shortly after the deaths of his family. Hell, heâd been certain of things for most of his life, right or wrong. But now, he didnât know. He wasnât sure if heâd done the right thing or a catastrophically stupid one.
It occurred to him then that the sharing of blood meant more to most people than it did to him. For a Tsukino, it was just food. A substance that sustained life, that one learned to live with or without. He had in the moment forgotten its other connotations. It wasnât important to him, but he may have overstepped some personal boundary of hers.
Well, so what? Heâd done it so sheâd live. That was enough. She could think whatever she wanted of him for that.
Though the color had returned to her face, he knew well enough what it looked like when someone was struggling with their hunger. Her eyes flashed that peculiar vermilion color, and she reached towards him with one hand. It was an internal battle, that one. Catching the incoming hand with one of his own, he brushed it aside and stepped close enough to cup her face with both hands forcing her to meet his eyes. Unusually, there was something besides dead blackness to be seen in them at the momentâa peculiar spark had lit them to life, and there was some indistinguishable color just beneath the inky dark.
âFujiwara,â he pronounced sternly, attempting to distract her for long enough to get his point across. âYou are more than your hunger. Youâre in control here.â The rain seemed to have increased to a deluge about them, making it hard to hear anything but it and each other, as though it were narrowing their world to what was right in front of them. He could feel only distantly the way it landed in his hair, plastering the silky strands to the back of his neck and running in rivulets down his back.
Sighing quietly, he released her and stepped back, regarding the dhampir for a moment before he relented. It was a tiny gesture, made with more hesitation than one would expect of the bold, frank Sora Tsukino. With a whisper of movement, he tipped his night-crowned head to one side, exposing the side of his neck where his major artery lay. It was at once the subtlest and most obvious of invitations, the smallest and greatest gesture of trust that he understood. He was choosing to believe that she was in fact more than her bloodlust. He, of all people, was believing in another person, taking it on faith that she had only ever intended to do the right thing when she got herself into this mess, and offering her a way out of it.
He still wasnât sure exactly why, but that wasnât the important thing at the moment.