It isn't uncommon to find a great deal of nuance in everything that Ichigo says; this moment is no exception. That they should find themselves like this is only because the world has stopped around them. Slowed, miraculously, allowing for the gentle press and pry of hands, allowing for time to memorize the details, Rukia's gaze constantly brushing over Ichigo's face — his lashes, his nose, the bow of his lips. While it may be years before the overall familiarity stops stirring that deeply buried ache in her heart, the differences are what she focuses on now.
And from them comes another kind of ache entirely.
In that moment, she feels old. Weathered. Perhaps the both of them are, rough edges worn down until the both of them simply fit. There are words that she could share, and every one of them would be true. That she loves him. That she loves him, to the point where it's still better to see him at all, even if he can't see her in return. But there's something about the words that feels... beyond her place. Beyond her station. He's the one who's living; it's up to him to throw that sentiment out there, address it if he needs.
She'll wait.
"I want to stay with you, too," she replies instead. No caveat. No ifs or buts based on their situation. Instead, she shifts on the couch, legs thrown over the side and hand pressing a little more insistently against the heavy beat of his heart, and when her gaze drops down to the line of his collarbone, it's not without a small smile on her lips, taking from the moment whatever she can.
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Date: 2012-10-19 02:08 am (UTC)And from them comes another kind of ache entirely.
In that moment, she feels old. Weathered. Perhaps the both of them are, rough edges worn down until the both of them simply fit. There are words that she could share, and every one of them would be true. That she loves him. That she loves him, to the point where it's still better to see him at all, even if he can't see her in return. But there's something about the words that feels... beyond her place. Beyond her station. He's the one who's living; it's up to him to throw that sentiment out there, address it if he needs.
She'll wait.
"I want to stay with you, too," she replies instead. No caveat. No ifs or buts based on their situation. Instead, she shifts on the couch, legs thrown over the side and hand pressing a little more insistently against the heavy beat of his heart, and when her gaze drops down to the line of his collarbone, it's not without a small smile on her lips, taking from the moment whatever she can.