[She's stubborn and assertive and infuriating-- there's a feeling inside his chest like butterflies with razorblade wings at the thought of it. Fluttering and sharp.
And so comes the familiar click of tongue against teeth, his expression one of put-upon annoyance, but she's looking up at him with that warm glow in her face, something he imagines to be expectant, and after a moment his hand slides with some reluctance away from her narrow waist, hesitates for only a moment before he slides the glasses from his face. Eyes closed, onetwothree and then he opens them, looks down at her. Red like blood but not nearly so hard and cold as the glasses that covered them.]
Happy now?
[There's something in his face, something self-conscious.]
[ And she wished that something wasn't there, as she wished she wasn't so selfish to voice out a desire that clearly brings a ton of hesitance and consideration on Giovanni's part. Though if she is making him uncomfortable in a way for exposing himself then she wants to commit all of her into making him less self-conscious.
His eyes a bright red, a color she's never seen on another person of her own world, she wonder's briefly if it's normal within his own. There's so much to Giovanni she doesn't know but admittedly wants to slowly piece together; at his own pace, if he'd prefer it that way.
Though fortunately she doesn't make a move to dig deeper. Instead the hand on his shoulder reaches to his face. Slender fingers with a gentle touch, cupping his cheek before her thumb brushes against his skin, examining his sharp features as the fluttering in her chest instead relaxes into something slow and tranquil. Her lips that were initially parted by the time he had opened his eyes press together into smile. ]
I am. [ She nods her head. Giggling softly, her voice just above a whisper in their conversation for two. She drops her hand, placing itself limp against his shoulder. ] They're just as pretty as I remember.
[Hard not to feel self-conscious with a part of his mask stripped away, the glasses he always wears just another technique for keeping the world at bay, for creating an image of himself that needs constructing rather than coming naturally. They make him seem hard and remote and cold, something not quite reachable, and without them he feels somehow partially stripped, as though too much of himself is on show. He's heard it said that eyes are the windows into the soul, and the last thing he really wants is anyone looking into his.
And so there's a brittle kind of uncertainty as he continues to look into her face, forcing himself not to avert his eyes, not to lower them, nor turn away. But then she's reaching up to place her fingers on his face, against the sharp push of high cheekbones, and those razorwinged butterflies beat all the harder in him, feel as though they're tearing him to ribbons.
He should push her away. Shouldn't allow this. But sick and self-disgusted as it makes him there's the sense of a deep and secret longing being fulfilled, like he's just been given something he's always, always wanted.
Then her hand falls away, and he closes his eyes.]
I...well. Hahah. I doubt pretty was the intention.
[ And again she wants to question what he means, to figure him out, and perhaps she is attempting to look into his soul but she promptly stops herself from doing so. He closes his eyes and her heart sinks slowly--leaning closer, wanting to comfort him, it comes unintentionally but she allows her face to be just a mere breath away from his. ]
Don't look away. [ Words that were shared to her from a friend. Of course with different context and reasoning, but that memory allows her to speak with some confidence and so it doesn't sound like she's flat out pleading. ] And that might not be the intention, but they're yours and I like them. I feel closer to you like this.
[He stops moving, suddenly. Stands very still, there on the dance floor, with her face so close to his and her words shaped like a plea and suddenly he doesn't know what he's doing here, or how the trajectory of his existence has taken him to this moment, to this. Again, there's the feeling of surreality, as though if he opens his eyes he'll find himself back in the bone-white corridors of the hellish facility where he was created, the antiseptic scent not enough to hide the copperhot tang of old blood underneath.
He takes a breath. Slowly, he opens his eyes again, allows them to alight on hers. His expression is very still.]
Do you.
[It's not really a question. He's not sure what it is. Something to do with his mouth, because he has no precedent for responding to such things. Isn't sure how he's supposed to think or feel, whether he ought to push her away and stalk off into the night or...well. Do something else. Act on his own deep-buried feelings of wanting someone to feel close to.]
[ She tightens her grip on his hand, attempting to send a wave of comfort through her actions as he reopens his eyes. ]
I do. [ She wants to ask if that's strange.
She assumes he'll say yes, which is unfortunate, and due to that she feels it's necessary to draw herself closer. She moves her hand not intertwined with his to the back of his shoulders. Practically embracing him; fingers curling as she goes to rest her head on the slop of his shoulder.. ] You don't have to keep them hidden around me... I'll always accept every part of you, Giovanni, and that's a promise.
[All of this, it's more than a little overwhelming, leaves him feeling more cut adrift and unmoored from himself than he has ever been because it makes no sense, to hear such things, and he certainly doesn't deserve them. Shouldn't want them either, as a tool of bloodshed and war, a thing created only to destroy, and the fact that his traitor heart skips a conspicuous beat when her head rests on his shoulder and she says those words so artlessly only makes him feel all the more at odds with himself. Makes him think, once again, of pushing her off him or perhaps even snapping the slender stem of her throat to make it stop and go away and return the world to some kind of order, to something closer to what he knows and what he ought to be.
But he does no such thing. Keeps those violent vicious impulses pushed down and held tight because they're not what he really wants, either. He wants...something he doesn't know how to name. Wants to hold onto this moment and keep it like a jewel pressed into the very heart of him, forever. Wants her to stay like this, with him. Pressed close.
Instead, at last, he tries to stake a small step back and away from her.]
I think, perhaps, I need to take some air. It's very...compressed in here, isn't it? All these people.
[ Comforting. Warm. Giovanni feels something akin to home, a familiar face that has been around since the first few days in this world, and selfishly she too wants to keep him close. Especially now that they live on opposite ends—Olympia and Wyver—whose truce is coming to a swift end despite her wishes for it not to. Perhaps then she'd give into the option of going back to Olympia.
But she can't. And subconsciously she mentally takes her own step back, pulling her heart away from the idea of concreting itself into feelings for someone else.
Still, she appears visibly concerned when he pulls back. Her head leaving his shoulder as she continues to hold his hand. ]
Are you okay? [ Genuine concern laces with every word. ] Sorry... did I say something wrong?
[He shakes his head, a small tight motion, smiles a brittle kind of smile.]
I've just had enough dancing for now.
[Because he can't say she said something wrong, not exactly. Not when it's exactly the kind of thing he's always wanted to hear and to have, for someone to see him as something other than unforgivably flawed. But all of this-- it isn't for the likes of him, shouldn't be.
(Whatever would Mother say?)
And so he takes another step back. Drops her hand. Repeats himself.]
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no subject
And so comes the familiar click of tongue against teeth, his expression one of put-upon annoyance, but she's looking up at him with that warm glow in her face, something he imagines to be expectant, and after a moment his hand slides with some reluctance away from her narrow waist, hesitates for only a moment before he slides the glasses from his face. Eyes closed, onetwothree and then he opens them, looks down at her. Red like blood but not nearly so hard and cold as the glasses that covered them.]
Happy now?
[There's something in his face, something self-conscious.]
no subject
His eyes a bright red, a color she's never seen on another person of her own world, she wonder's briefly if it's normal within his own. There's so much to Giovanni she doesn't know but admittedly wants to slowly piece together; at his own pace, if he'd prefer it that way.
Though fortunately she doesn't make a move to dig deeper. Instead the hand on his shoulder reaches to his face. Slender fingers with a gentle touch, cupping his cheek before her thumb brushes against his skin, examining his sharp features as the fluttering in her chest instead relaxes into something slow and tranquil. Her lips that were initially parted by the time he had opened his eyes press together into smile. ]
I am. [ She nods her head. Giggling softly, her voice just above a whisper in their conversation for two. She drops her hand, placing itself limp against his shoulder. ] They're just as pretty as I remember.
no subject
And so there's a brittle kind of uncertainty as he continues to look into her face, forcing himself not to avert his eyes, not to lower them, nor turn away. But then she's reaching up to place her fingers on his face, against the sharp push of high cheekbones, and those razorwinged butterflies beat all the harder in him, feel as though they're tearing him to ribbons.
He should push her away. Shouldn't allow this. But sick and self-disgusted as it makes him there's the sense of a deep and secret longing being fulfilled, like he's just been given something he's always, always wanted.
Then her hand falls away, and he closes his eyes.]
I...well. Hahah. I doubt pretty was the intention.
[Fierce, frightening, animalistic, maybe. Pretty doesn't quite seem Mother's forte.]
no subject
Don't look away. [ Words that were shared to her from a friend. Of course with different context and reasoning, but that memory allows her to speak with some confidence and so it doesn't sound like she's flat out pleading. ] And that might not be the intention, but they're yours and I like them. I feel closer to you like this.
no subject
He takes a breath. Slowly, he opens his eyes again, allows them to alight on hers. His expression is very still.]
Do you.
[It's not really a question. He's not sure what it is. Something to do with his mouth, because he has no precedent for responding to such things. Isn't sure how he's supposed to think or feel, whether he ought to push her away and stalk off into the night or...well. Do something else. Act on his own deep-buried feelings of wanting someone to feel close to.]
no subject
I do. [ She wants to ask if that's strange.
She assumes he'll say yes, which is unfortunate, and due to that she feels it's necessary to draw herself closer. She moves her hand not intertwined with his to the back of his shoulders. Practically embracing him; fingers curling as she goes to rest her head on the slop of his shoulder.. ] You don't have to keep them hidden around me... I'll always accept every part of you, Giovanni, and that's a promise.
no subject
But he does no such thing. Keeps those violent vicious impulses pushed down and held tight because they're not what he really wants, either. He wants...something he doesn't know how to name. Wants to hold onto this moment and keep it like a jewel pressed into the very heart of him, forever. Wants her to stay like this, with him. Pressed close.
Instead, at last, he tries to stake a small step back and away from her.]
I think, perhaps, I need to take some air. It's very...compressed in here, isn't it? All these people.
no subject
But she can't. And subconsciously she mentally takes her own step back, pulling her heart away from the idea of concreting itself into feelings for someone else.
Still, she appears visibly concerned when he pulls back. Her head leaving his shoulder as she continues to hold his hand. ]
Are you okay? [ Genuine concern laces with every word. ] Sorry... did I say something wrong?
no subject
I've just had enough dancing for now.
[Because he can't say she said something wrong, not exactly. Not when it's exactly the kind of thing he's always wanted to hear and to have, for someone to see him as something other than unforgivably flawed. But all of this-- it isn't for the likes of him, shouldn't be.
(Whatever would Mother say?)
And so he takes another step back. Drops her hand. Repeats himself.]
I need to take some air.