And who would he be if he chose to? Not the boy from Landis, lost and left behind, who to this day resents his own reflection. The man who pressed Jone to search for her brother, and presses still to walk always in her shadow regardless of what she demands.
He resists her pull, but only to begin unstrapping his armor. A process that takes a minute in full— and then he slips back atop the bedding at her side, leaving her to fit herself where she pleases.
She fits her shape into his side, drinking in his warmth. The smell of him, sweat and metal and the undeniable him of his skin, has become an undeniable comfort.
She pats his hip, pleased as much as she's unsurprised. Of course he'd stay.
There is no point in assuring her he’ll remain. He will always remain; that is his damning fate, and the tether that brought him to her to begin with.
And with the smell of bonfire smoke running high in the air, Noah slips his arm beneath her head, drawing her more tightly against him, silvered stare fitted to the ceiling overhead.
There, the words that slip from his lips come thoughtlessly. Old stories, the ones told to him as a boy. Tales of Ivalice long since left to rot elsewhere, lingering still within his mind. Perhaps a meager comfort to a woman with so little else to keep her.
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Who is he to deny her that request?
And who would he be if he chose to? Not the boy from Landis, lost and left behind, who to this day resents his own reflection. The man who pressed Jone to search for her brother, and presses still to walk always in her shadow regardless of what she demands.
He resists her pull, but only to begin unstrapping his armor. A process that takes a minute in full— and then he slips back atop the bedding at her side, leaving her to fit herself where she pleases.
no subject
She pats his hip, pleased as much as she's unsurprised. Of course he'd stay.
"Never leave."
no subject
And with the smell of bonfire smoke running high in the air, Noah slips his arm beneath her head, drawing her more tightly against him, silvered stare fitted to the ceiling overhead.
There, the words that slip from his lips come thoughtlessly. Old stories, the ones told to him as a boy. Tales of Ivalice long since left to rot elsewhere, lingering still within his mind. Perhaps a meager comfort to a woman with so little else to keep her.
It will take hours before they run dry.