[There's a dizzying split-second when he wonders if he should have waited. If he had misread or misjudged, if he should have thought more than felt. Except you can't turn back time to relive a point even two minutes gone, but in a stretch of seconds—perhaps the same ten they're both aware of but not exactly counting—those doubts don't even matter anymore. He feels the sudden equality in warmth and pressure, and it makes it easier for him to give in more fully and let go.
Eventually, however, he breaks contact, slowly pulling away, giving his lungs a chance to breathe.]
See? [he says, as if those last few moments spent were the unquestionable proof of everything he's been trying to say.
That he's not a good guy.
And that, in a way, she has plenty of her own little moments, and maybe (maybe) she's not much better than he is. She's confusing, after all. Annoying, and a pain—the type of pain he's unsure of how to deal with, because there's no way to control it or her (and in the end he probably wouldn't want to).
That she's the type of idiot who would let a meal of his start to go cold, drops his things on the floor, and wastes time looking for old pocketwatches when she could have been spending it more productively elsewhere. And, in spite of everything that's happened, in spite of everything that's gone on that he hasn't been awake for back home, he's not angry, and he'll try to accept everything that will be once he opens his eyes and discovers he's living his old life again.
And that he loves her, against his own better judgment, despite knowing that he's not the type of man she should be okay with. He loves her even though he might not say it out loud, because such words don't come easily or naturally to him, and probably always will.
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Eventually, however, he breaks contact, slowly pulling away, giving his lungs a chance to breathe.]
See? [he says, as if those last few moments spent were the unquestionable proof of everything he's been trying to say.
That he's not a good guy.
And that, in a way, she has plenty of her own little moments, and maybe (maybe) she's not much better than he is. She's confusing, after all. Annoying, and a pain—the type of pain he's unsure of how to deal with, because there's no way to control it or her (and in the end he probably wouldn't want to).
That she's the type of idiot who would let a meal of his start to go cold, drops his things on the floor, and wastes time looking for old pocketwatches when she could have been spending it more productively elsewhere. And, in spite of everything that's happened, in spite of everything that's gone on that he hasn't been awake for back home, he's not angry, and he'll try to accept everything that will be once he opens his eyes and discovers he's living his old life again.
And that he loves her, against his own better judgment, despite knowing that he's not the type of man she should be okay with. He loves her even though he might not say it out loud, because such words don't come easily or naturally to him, and probably always will.
See?]