I -- maybe I should have put googly eyes on it. It'd be an improvement.
[ All right, Jaime, enough dilly dallying. He squints down at the envelope, then tips out its contents into the palm of his hand before holding it out for Ruka to see. It's a keychain. A keychain of a carved rabbit, to be more specific.
Well, maybe calling it a keychain of a rabbit is a little generous. It's something that's rabbit-y if you squint. There's definitely the right number of limbs, even if one foot is bigger than the other, and two janky looking ears sticking out of it, and the face - well, the face is where there was some difficulty, clearly, along with... the rest of it. Jaime's good with his hands, but that doesn't necessarily transfer over to being able to carve something like this given the timeframe he was working with. ]
Remember how we were talking about giving you something to carry in your pocket when the world gets a little, um, loud? I could only offer you stuff that was recycled from before, so I wanted to give you something new. But buying something means you'd just feel whatever the person who made it felt, and I wouldn't be able to, like, fake emotions while holding onto a piece of plastic? So then I thought I'd make it myself!
[ This isn't his first time making it. Craftsmanship is hard! Who knew? ]
Believe it or not, this is after I got someone to teach me. I dunno if it's strong enough, but I thought of you the whole time, so... here.
[ The best way to describe the keychain is that it feels like Jaime. Which is to say, Jaime didn't quite reach his goal of pouring in nothing but positive emotions. There's always been an undercurrent of anxiety and self-consciousness and worry to Jaime, even in times of relative peace, a certain restlessness. It thrums underneath the rest of it like a steady pulse, just as she probably feels it whenever they spend time together, even if he tries to tamp it down, just as he'd tried to tamp it down while he was carving.
But there's more to it, of course. An earnest sense of determination and devotion, a fondness that's more suited to a friend of years and years than it is the short-lived intensity of a new flame, hope, affection, a little bit of good humour like he'd laughed at himself while he was making it, while the reality of having her see it wasn't so keen.
They haven't exactly exchanged I love yous and Jaime's not planning on it. But his heart is where it is. Ugly though it is, it's something that was clearly made by someone who cared enough about her to have made it over and over again until he'd well and truly run out of time.
When he looks at it in her hands, he places one hand on his chin. ]
I'm seriously considering this whole googly eye thing.
[ Ruka isn't really sure what she expects. Certainly not for Jaime to open it himself, and even then hold back from giving it to her until after he starts talking.
That much she does expect, though; when his heart starts to race for nerves, his mouth starts running to keep pace, as if saying enough would be enough to drown out the rest. Her attention flicks between the charm and his face, and while it takes a touch too long for her to understand what he's getting at, the moment it does feels like a mallet striking her chest, her whole body alert and stifled — a bell straining not to ring.
She takes the charm with cupped hands and a serious focus. Sure, it's a little uneven, a little lopsided; the face is a little doofy, like a half-melted candy, but... he made this. For her. And for as long as Ruka has been an imPort, for as long as she's had powers in these worlds, she's always had this haptic empathy, this penalty to touch. Everything, everything made in the world is something handled, something packaged and carried, passing from hand to hand and place to place, muddied with feelings from every miserable part of the globe. Of course it's hard to endure through that; of course she avoids what she can, and suffers what she can't, and moves on.
But for all the years she's had these powers, for all the people she's told, all the people she's known, that she's loved, there's only one other person who's given her something like this. Only one — and even Karkat didn't have the patience to start from scratch. Even he'd gotten someone else to start the work, to shape it, to build the frame for him to hang his feelings.
It's with that thought, unspoken, that Ruka shifts the rabbit into her right hand; it's with the passing of names, and faces, of all else who have come before that she bites at the fingers of her left-handed glove, pulls it off slowly. She thinks of all the hearts she's swallowed before — unwilling, unknowing, uncaring — and does not wonder why a gift like this is so rare. She knows why.
It is frightening to be known like this. It is terrifying to give your heart to someone else like this.
She rolls the rabbit from one hand to the other — from glove to skin. Her hand doesn't so much close around it as it does embrace it, her fingers turning it over, thumb tracing the features.
It's no electric shock of emotion. It's no great tidal wave of feeling, carrying her away. It is not even that much terribly far removed from the way Jaime feels now, beside her, despite his thrumming with uncertainty. It has the same bright spots of humor as when he hears a dumb joke; the calm, not-quite-mindless focus like when he's cooking, or when they're flying in the quiet dark. The little notes of worry, of care, when he tries so hard to cheer her up. The bright little horizon line of sunlight, from smiling when he sees her again for the first time.
It's a hundred little moments, all named, all known. It's a heart full of sentiment, all known, but not all of it spoken.
Neither of them have said it.
Neither are saying much now, either — Jaime having trailed silent, and Ruka left speechless, overwhelmed. She turns the charm round again, her own expression soft, focus a little distant. It's a little rough, still, unpolished, carved with uncertain incisions, that worry of doing the wrong thing, but neither of them are all that polished, either. They're both rough in too many places, uneven and uncertain and trying very hard to hold shape.
Ruka nestles the rabbit onto the fabric of her glove; with her hand freed, she removes the other. It still leaves that slim leather bracer, covering the outside of her right arm from wrist to elbow, but it reveals both her hands — fingers slim, a little bony, a little pale.
She holds them both out for him to take. ]
You didn't have to do this. [ It's not deflection. It's not rejection. Her voice is soft, but the tone is acknowledgement. He didn't have to do this; he chose to do this. There are too many things left to say, but it's still too hard to say them. Not when he might think it's colored by the journey. Not when he'll think it's skewed by gifts. He deserves it with a certainty she can't give him now.
There's still time. God, she hopes there's still time. ]
But don't you dare put stuff like that on it now. It's wonderful. Just the way it is.
[ That's the funniest part of this whole thing, isn't it? Jaime wasn't worried about what she would feel. Not for a second. It had been a careful, intentional thing, handling it only when he was certain he was in the right frame of mind outside of carving the dang thing, pouring whatever he had in him into it, but that's never the part that worried him. She knows him. She knows what he feels about her. And anything she feels then won't be a shock to the system,whether what she feels is good or bad. That small thing which had once felt so monumental, the knowledge that somebody else could see to the core of what he was feeling even when he himself wasn't altogether clear on it, doesn't seem like such a big deal anymore. He'd just been worried that it was strong enough, or that she'd laugh at how ugly it was, or that somehow one of those dumb janky ears would snap off. It's not as cute as she deserves. But what's in it? Nah. That's a gift he had given her - if you can call it a gift - before they'd started dating, when she warned him what she was, and he told her he didn't care.
That was a lie then, of course. But it's not now. And he can't help the softness in his expression when he watches her looking at it, small fingers rubbing against the grooves as though it's something so much more special than a hunk of wood that Jaime had painstakingly hacked at until it met his rapidly decreasing standards. But she knows what it means. People always say that it's the thought that counts. That's rarely entirely accurate - but it is for something like this. ]
I wanted to, [ he says, brow a little creased, eyes crinkling at the corners, clasping her bared hands in his. It's silly that that feels like it's more important than kissing, sometimes, for as much as he enjoys it, but he knows what that means. ]
I - I thought you'd know what I meant by it, [ he says, smile crooked. Well, more crooked than it usually is, which it is - he's always had a bit of a crooked jaw. ] And I figured you deserved something that was just yours.
I hope you keep it with you. You know. For when stuff gets wild.
[ And if he leaves - and he doesn't think that he will, not at this point - then she won't have to hold onto a memory of a face, of a voice. She'll have the most important bit, right there. ]
[ It feels like a promise, but it feels like no more than a confirmation of the obvious, too. Of course she'll keep it with her. Of course. She's told him how much steadier his presence makes her feel; the directness of his emotions, good and bad, always feels like a shelter against the erratic miasma of her own.
And it'll be good, she thinks; he always has so much else going on, too. For as often as she's cried for company — after that mess with another Eridan showing up, that meltdown because of Atropos, and a half-dozen little things in-between — he's always been able to humor her. It'll be nice, to have a little stopgap like this. Something to reach for, when he's got more important things on his plate. But right now, while they're here, she's content leaving it on the table, leaving it with her gloves. She doesn't have any intention of putting those back on any time soon.
Her hands are a little restless within his, fingers shifting against his, and dragging against his palms — cataloging all the little dry spots, rough edges, with the same tender attention she gave the rabbit. ]
... you know, [ she murmurs, gaze fixed somewhere around the collar of his shirt, his chin, the tilt of his smile, her own mouth doing a poor job of restraining a matching one. ] I think it's time we... let go, of going "slow." Right? I mean. Most couples usually schedule the honeymoon last, right?
[ Jaime's always been a romantic. These sorts of things have been more important to him than they were to Traci, and if he had to guess, they're more important to him than Ruka too, who would likely be happy no matter where he took her so long as he didn't screw it up big-time. But that's not what he wants. He's always wanted more. Cuddling on the couch and buying flowers and holding hands and going for carriage rides and long, romantic walks, watching sunsets and sunrises, experiencing things together, getting caught up in it all - he's never fessed up to it because that's never felt like the right thing to want for a guy in his shoes, but there's something deep in his chest that's always yearned for it. So of course he tried to make this romantic. He could say it's for her - and it is - but it's for him too, these little dreams he's always carried with him. How could he be any other way, knowing the life that he's known? His parents, years and two children into a marriage, having gone through citizenship and military service and school and long hours at the hospital, still just as in love as they were before, his Mom packing his Dad lunches, his Dad ready at the door with slippers and a shoulder rub.
So maybe it's not a surprise when she describes it the way she does, because Jaime hadn't done anything by half-measures. But honeymoon, that --
His nose only scrunches for a second, more earnest confusion than anything else, but then it registers that she's talking about stopping it with the going slow, and her gaze is heady with meaning, and all of a sudden he's not thinking very hard about the words she used after all. Jaime opens his mouth, but nothing comes out the first time.
He's always been the type to take this stuff slow - but he's certain. Why hedge around a certain thing? He leans towards her, a little over her due to their disparity in height, grinning down at her, nervous but undoubtedly excited. ]
We've got time.
[ That is, for the record, a resounding yes. A place to themselves, nobody to bother them, nobody here that even knows them --
This is going to be a good trip. ]
-- That's a yes! Not a we got time to take it slow, just -- we got time now. Or, um. You know what I mean.
[ The realization takes a few moments to click into place on his end, and even if she has her gaze a little averted, she can see it at the edges of his expression, feel it in the way he coils slow around confusion and then so abruptly seems knocked over, bright and open and spilling forth with affection. It's like the sudden blooming of flowers, or the tipping over of intricate dominoes and watching their spirals and bridges create a portrait in collapse. It's a big deal, but it feels like a small thing, too, too small to earn this kind of reaction.
Then again, it's never felt like this much of a big deal with anyone else, either. Just Jaime. ]
I know what you mean. [ God, he's cute. He's so cute. It takes effort to extract one of her hands from his, to brush some of the hair out of his eyes — and if gesture idles there, coiling a lock or two around her fingers, who can blame her? Even this kind of touch and texture feels novel, when she has to spend the rest of her life holding back. ] Now sounds pretty good to me, too. I don't feel anyone else. It's just... us.
[ Still... playing with his hair... ] And... since you've already carried me all this way, you... might as well finish the job.
And me without my superstrength and everything. Guess I'm stuck doing this old school.
[ He gets to carry her? God, he feels giddy all over again. It's lucky that they link up so well, he thinks, or that she magically knows exactly what he's looking for: he's always been one for old school romance. He colours as she brushes at his hair, a thrill running down his spine. He's always wanted more than he thought he could have, the silly things that boys probably aren't supposed to want, that superheroes with more on their plate and responsibilities to bear don't have time for, that people who live in places like these aren't supposed to rely on --
But it's already been a wonderful day. They're allowed to have the perfect end to it, or at least a good one, so long as she doesn't expect too much. He'll have to establish that, that he really meant it when he said he had only been with one other person before, young and fumbling and half-ashamed, but it can't dampen his mood.
So he sweeps her off her feet, and -- well, she did say honeymoon, which he definitely isn't going to think about, but it's hard to avoid the parallels when he dips her a little, giving her a clumsy little kiss, teeth knocking together because he can't wipe that stupid little grin off his face. ]
Lucky for me, you're not too heavy.
[ Of course he whisks her away to exactly where they have in mind, leaving the cake and decorations behind, wholly forgotten. ]
[ The good mood is infectious. It feels like it should be strange, how much these little things mean to him, how much brighter his smile and easier his mood can get over something dumb like carry me, but it's just the way Jaime is. He's forthright, and his heart gets to the point in the shortest possible distance — something good happens, he's made happy by it, with minimal catastrophizing. She calls it a honeymoon, and here he is, practically vibrating out of his skin at the notion, scooping her up with ease — and then promptly tilting her back far enough that she starts laughing for vertigo, train of thought lost. She winds up grabbing his shirt as useless anchor against the angle, and off-kilter kissing does nothing for her laughter, but so what? What's the harm in having a little fun, for once? ]
You're sure? You seem pretty strong to me.
[ She can't remember the last time anything was just fun.
It takes a little finagling, but she manages to kick off her shoes en route, heels making an unceremonious racket against the floor, but — who's that going to bother? It's not like they're back in Jeopardy, or Heropa, holding hands and kissing quiet behind the sound curtain of a too-loud BlueTube playlist. It's just them, with nothing dangerous hanging over their heads, no calamity, no tragedy, nobody else to worry about. Just... something nice. ]
If there's something you don't like, or, you want to stop, you have to tell me. Okay? [ Her nose scrunches, voice a little teasing. ] Saying no isn't your strong suit, but I don't want to push you, or anything.
[ Jaime giggles, a light, effervescent sound as he makes his way through the matted floors, a little amazed at how familiar and how unknown this is all at once, the setting exotic in a way that Jaime's never seen before (he really only managed to grab the place and pick up a few doodads from the convenience store) but having Ruka in his arms is such a wonderfully familiar thing, has been since before they even started dating. It's the same as this whole thing, isn't it? Familiar, but different.
Good different, though. Different in a way that buzzes right down to his bones, from the way she kicks off her shoes with a careless thump they'd never do otherwise to the fact that even now, with emotions running as high as they are, she's still checking up on him, as though he's something precious to be preserved.
She doesn't have to. But he kind of likes that she does anyway. ]
I will. But I don't wanna stop now, I can promise you that much.
[ The bedroom's not much. A table low to the ground, a futon, a TV he doubts they're going to get much use out of, sliding doors leading out into the backyard. ]
I'm not -- I mean, I haven't done much. [ He's done very, very little. But it's hard to feel ashamed or embarrassed right now. ] So you might hafta be a little patient. But I'm ready to learn.
[ And that's the whole of it, isn't it? I'm ready. Even with Traci, he'd been comfortable with where they were, a little resistant when it came time to keep going. But he's older now, and this feels good, certain.
She's never had much trouble telling him what's what anyway. Traci being more experienced was intimidating. Ruka being more experienced is a relief. ]
[ It's teasing, but it's fond, sincere. It's hardly her first time — it's been a long time since she could call herself chaste — but it's very, very different. With Eridan, cautious and fumbling, their slow progression had been half the consequence of their age, and half, quite simply, that he wasn't human. The way he approached relationships wasn't human. And, well, the Alternian approach didn't call for much direct intimacy, so of course it had taken more time to work out what could work. Everyone else, boys but never boyfriends, time was always short. Guys that flirted in the dark never intended to see her in daylight, and that was fine. She was a novelty prize — desperately sought in the moment, a thrill for the accomplishment, and gently discarded.
To put it another way, she has decent enough experience with guys wanting to be with her, but rarely, rarely with them wanting to be with her. Even Eridan, who'd dated her for years, who'd sworn fidelity and eternity and a thousand other lofty, romantic things... he'd never tried to know her. He was only ever desperate for prizes to hoard.
Descending to the futon is a little more careful a journey than it would be to a framed mattress, but it surprises her how soft it feels once they're down. This wasn't the kind of life she lived before becoming an imPort; she'd always had Western-style beds, way too large for a child's needs, and everything else high up, high class, sterile and removed from the world around them. She presses the heel of her palm down to test the yield, and finds it suitable.
On the plus side, no springs. Even better, it's never been used to roll up a cadaver. Always important.
As ever, her hand is drawn back to his face, bare fingers scratching into beard. Her own expression is made soft by the look of him; she doesn't have to worry about noise, but it makes her speak more quietly, anyway. ]
Don't worry about trying to do things right. [ Okay, telling him not to worry has never worked in literally any other circumstance, but she really means it this time. ] Just... follow what you want. That's all.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[ All right, Jaime, enough dilly dallying. He squints down at the envelope, then tips out its contents into the palm of his hand before holding it out for Ruka to see. It's a keychain. A keychain of a carved rabbit, to be more specific.
Well, maybe calling it a keychain of a rabbit is a little generous. It's something that's rabbit-y if you squint. There's definitely the right number of limbs, even if one foot is bigger than the other, and two janky looking ears sticking out of it, and the face - well, the face is where there was some difficulty, clearly, along with... the rest of it. Jaime's good with his hands, but that doesn't necessarily transfer over to being able to carve something like this given the timeframe he was working with. ]
Remember how we were talking about giving you something to carry in your pocket when the world gets a little, um, loud? I could only offer you stuff that was recycled from before, so I wanted to give you something new. But buying something means you'd just feel whatever the person who made it felt, and I wouldn't be able to, like, fake emotions while holding onto a piece of plastic? So then I thought I'd make it myself!
[ This isn't his first time making it. Craftsmanship is hard! Who knew? ]
Believe it or not, this is after I got someone to teach me. I dunno if it's strong enough, but I thought of you the whole time, so... here.
[ The best way to describe the keychain is that it feels like Jaime. Which is to say, Jaime didn't quite reach his goal of pouring in nothing but positive emotions. There's always been an undercurrent of anxiety and self-consciousness and worry to Jaime, even in times of relative peace, a certain restlessness. It thrums underneath the rest of it like a steady pulse, just as she probably feels it whenever they spend time together, even if he tries to tamp it down, just as he'd tried to tamp it down while he was carving.
But there's more to it, of course. An earnest sense of determination and devotion, a fondness that's more suited to a friend of years and years than it is the short-lived intensity of a new flame, hope, affection, a little bit of good humour like he'd laughed at himself while he was making it, while the reality of having her see it wasn't so keen.
They haven't exactly exchanged I love yous and Jaime's not planning on it. But his heart is where it is. Ugly though it is, it's something that was clearly made by someone who cared enough about her to have made it over and over again until he'd well and truly run out of time.
When he looks at it in her hands, he places one hand on his chin. ]
I'm seriously considering this whole googly eye thing.
no subject
That much she does expect, though; when his heart starts to race for nerves, his mouth starts running to keep pace, as if saying enough would be enough to drown out the rest. Her attention flicks between the charm and his face, and while it takes a touch too long for her to understand what he's getting at, the moment it does feels like a mallet striking her chest, her whole body alert and stifled — a bell straining not to ring.
She takes the charm with cupped hands and a serious focus. Sure, it's a little uneven, a little lopsided; the face is a little doofy, like a half-melted candy, but... he made this. For her. And for as long as Ruka has been an imPort, for as long as she's had powers in these worlds, she's always had this haptic empathy, this penalty to touch. Everything, everything made in the world is something handled, something packaged and carried, passing from hand to hand and place to place, muddied with feelings from every miserable part of the globe. Of course it's hard to endure through that; of course she avoids what she can, and suffers what she can't, and moves on.
But for all the years she's had these powers, for all the people she's told, all the people she's known, that she's loved, there's only one other person who's given her something like this. Only one — and even Karkat didn't have the patience to start from scratch. Even he'd gotten someone else to start the work, to shape it, to build the frame for him to hang his feelings.
It's with that thought, unspoken, that Ruka shifts the rabbit into her right hand; it's with the passing of names, and faces, of all else who have come before that she bites at the fingers of her left-handed glove, pulls it off slowly. She thinks of all the hearts she's swallowed before — unwilling, unknowing, uncaring — and does not wonder why a gift like this is so rare. She knows why.
It is frightening to be known like this. It is terrifying to give your heart to someone else like this.
She rolls the rabbit from one hand to the other — from glove to skin. Her hand doesn't so much close around it as it does embrace it, her fingers turning it over, thumb tracing the features.
It's no electric shock of emotion. It's no great tidal wave of feeling, carrying her away. It is not even that much terribly far removed from the way Jaime feels now, beside her, despite his thrumming with uncertainty. It has the same bright spots of humor as when he hears a dumb joke; the calm, not-quite-mindless focus like when he's cooking, or when they're flying in the quiet dark. The little notes of worry, of care, when he tries so hard to cheer her up. The bright little horizon line of sunlight, from smiling when he sees her again for the first time.
It's a hundred little moments, all named, all known. It's a heart full of sentiment, all known, but not all of it spoken.
Neither of them have said it.
Neither are saying much now, either — Jaime having trailed silent, and Ruka left speechless, overwhelmed. She turns the charm round again, her own expression soft, focus a little distant. It's a little rough, still, unpolished, carved with uncertain incisions, that worry of doing the wrong thing, but neither of them are all that polished, either. They're both rough in too many places, uneven and uncertain and trying very hard to hold shape.
Ruka nestles the rabbit onto the fabric of her glove; with her hand freed, she removes the other. It still leaves that slim leather bracer, covering the outside of her right arm from wrist to elbow, but it reveals both her hands — fingers slim, a little bony, a little pale.
She holds them both out for him to take. ]
You didn't have to do this. [ It's not deflection. It's not rejection. Her voice is soft, but the tone is acknowledgement. He didn't have to do this; he chose to do this. There are too many things left to say, but it's still too hard to say them. Not when he might think it's colored by the journey. Not when he'll think it's skewed by gifts. He deserves it with a certainty she can't give him now.
There's still time. God, she hopes there's still time. ]
But don't you dare put stuff like that on it now. It's wonderful. Just the way it is.
no subject
That was a lie then, of course. But it's not now. And he can't help the softness in his expression when he watches her looking at it, small fingers rubbing against the grooves as though it's something so much more special than a hunk of wood that Jaime had painstakingly hacked at until it met his rapidly decreasing standards. But she knows what it means. People always say that it's the thought that counts. That's rarely entirely accurate - but it is for something like this. ]
I wanted to, [ he says, brow a little creased, eyes crinkling at the corners, clasping her bared hands in his. It's silly that that feels like it's more important than kissing, sometimes, for as much as he enjoys it, but he knows what that means. ]
I - I thought you'd know what I meant by it, [ he says, smile crooked. Well, more crooked than it usually is, which it is - he's always had a bit of a crooked jaw. ] And I figured you deserved something that was just yours.
I hope you keep it with you. You know. For when stuff gets wild.
[ And if he leaves - and he doesn't think that he will, not at this point - then she won't have to hold onto a memory of a face, of a voice. She'll have the most important bit, right there. ]
no subject
[ It feels like a promise, but it feels like no more than a confirmation of the obvious, too. Of course she'll keep it with her. Of course. She's told him how much steadier his presence makes her feel; the directness of his emotions, good and bad, always feels like a shelter against the erratic miasma of her own.
And it'll be good, she thinks; he always has so much else going on, too. For as often as she's cried for company — after that mess with another Eridan showing up, that meltdown because of Atropos, and a half-dozen little things in-between — he's always been able to humor her. It'll be nice, to have a little stopgap like this. Something to reach for, when he's got more important things on his plate. But right now, while they're here, she's content leaving it on the table, leaving it with her gloves. She doesn't have any intention of putting those back on any time soon.
Her hands are a little restless within his, fingers shifting against his, and dragging against his palms — cataloging all the little dry spots, rough edges, with the same tender attention she gave the rabbit. ]
... you know, [ she murmurs, gaze fixed somewhere around the collar of his shirt, his chin, the tilt of his smile, her own mouth doing a poor job of restraining a matching one. ] I think it's time we... let go, of going "slow." Right? I mean. Most couples usually schedule the honeymoon last, right?
no subject
So maybe it's not a surprise when she describes it the way she does, because Jaime hadn't done anything by half-measures. But honeymoon, that --
His nose only scrunches for a second, more earnest confusion than anything else, but then it registers that she's talking about stopping it with the going slow, and her gaze is heady with meaning, and all of a sudden he's not thinking very hard about the words she used after all. Jaime opens his mouth, but nothing comes out the first time.
He's always been the type to take this stuff slow - but he's certain. Why hedge around a certain thing? He leans towards her, a little over her due to their disparity in height, grinning down at her, nervous but undoubtedly excited. ]
We've got time.
[ That is, for the record, a resounding yes. A place to themselves, nobody to bother them, nobody here that even knows them --
This is going to be a good trip. ]
-- That's a yes! Not a we got time to take it slow, just -- we got time now. Or, um. You know what I mean.
no subject
Then again, it's never felt like this much of a big deal with anyone else, either. Just Jaime. ]
I know what you mean. [ God, he's cute. He's so cute. It takes effort to extract one of her hands from his, to brush some of the hair out of his eyes — and if gesture idles there, coiling a lock or two around her fingers, who can blame her? Even this kind of touch and texture feels novel, when she has to spend the rest of her life holding back. ] Now sounds pretty good to me, too. I don't feel anyone else. It's just... us.
[ Still... playing with his hair... ] And... since you've already carried me all this way, you... might as well finish the job.
[ What. She likes to be Held. ]
no subject
[ He gets to carry her? God, he feels giddy all over again. It's lucky that they link up so well, he thinks, or that she magically knows exactly what he's looking for: he's always been one for old school romance. He colours as she brushes at his hair, a thrill running down his spine. He's always wanted more than he thought he could have, the silly things that boys probably aren't supposed to want, that superheroes with more on their plate and responsibilities to bear don't have time for, that people who live in places like these aren't supposed to rely on --
But it's already been a wonderful day. They're allowed to have the perfect end to it, or at least a good one, so long as she doesn't expect too much. He'll have to establish that, that he really meant it when he said he had only been with one other person before, young and fumbling and half-ashamed, but it can't dampen his mood.
So he sweeps her off her feet, and -- well, she did say honeymoon, which he definitely isn't going to think about, but it's hard to avoid the parallels when he dips her a little, giving her a clumsy little kiss, teeth knocking together because he can't wipe that stupid little grin off his face. ]
Lucky for me, you're not too heavy.
[ Of course he whisks her away to exactly where they have in mind, leaving the cake and decorations behind, wholly forgotten. ]
no subject
You're sure? You seem pretty strong to me.
[ She can't remember the last time anything was just fun.
It takes a little finagling, but she manages to kick off her shoes en route, heels making an unceremonious racket against the floor, but — who's that going to bother? It's not like they're back in Jeopardy, or Heropa, holding hands and kissing quiet behind the sound curtain of a too-loud BlueTube playlist. It's just them, with nothing dangerous hanging over their heads, no calamity, no tragedy, nobody else to worry about. Just... something nice. ]
If there's something you don't like, or, you want to stop, you have to tell me. Okay? [ Her nose scrunches, voice a little teasing. ] Saying no isn't your strong suit, but I don't want to push you, or anything.
no subject
Good different, though. Different in a way that buzzes right down to his bones, from the way she kicks off her shoes with a careless thump they'd never do otherwise to the fact that even now, with emotions running as high as they are, she's still checking up on him, as though he's something precious to be preserved.
She doesn't have to. But he kind of likes that she does anyway. ]
I will. But I don't wanna stop now, I can promise you that much.
[ The bedroom's not much. A table low to the ground, a futon, a TV he doubts they're going to get much use out of, sliding doors leading out into the backyard. ]
I'm not -- I mean, I haven't done much. [ He's done very, very little. But it's hard to feel ashamed or embarrassed right now. ] So you might hafta be a little patient. But I'm ready to learn.
[ And that's the whole of it, isn't it? I'm ready. Even with Traci, he'd been comfortable with where they were, a little resistant when it came time to keep going. But he's older now, and this feels good, certain.
She's never had much trouble telling him what's what anyway. Traci being more experienced was intimidating. Ruka being more experienced is a relief. ]
no subject
[ It's teasing, but it's fond, sincere. It's hardly her first time — it's been a long time since she could call herself chaste — but it's very, very different. With Eridan, cautious and fumbling, their slow progression had been half the consequence of their age, and half, quite simply, that he wasn't human. The way he approached relationships wasn't human. And, well, the Alternian approach didn't call for much direct intimacy, so of course it had taken more time to work out what could work. Everyone else, boys but never boyfriends, time was always short. Guys that flirted in the dark never intended to see her in daylight, and that was fine. She was a novelty prize — desperately sought in the moment, a thrill for the accomplishment, and gently discarded.
To put it another way, she has decent enough experience with guys wanting to be with her, but rarely, rarely with them wanting to be with her. Even Eridan, who'd dated her for years, who'd sworn fidelity and eternity and a thousand other lofty, romantic things... he'd never tried to know her. He was only ever desperate for prizes to hoard.
Descending to the futon is a little more careful a journey than it would be to a framed mattress, but it surprises her how soft it feels once they're down. This wasn't the kind of life she lived before becoming an imPort; she'd always had Western-style beds, way too large for a child's needs, and everything else high up, high class, sterile and removed from the world around them. She presses the heel of her palm down to test the yield, and finds it suitable.
On the plus side, no springs. Even better, it's never been used to roll up a cadaver. Always important.
As ever, her hand is drawn back to his face, bare fingers scratching into beard. Her own expression is made soft by the look of him; she doesn't have to worry about noise, but it makes her speak more quietly, anyway. ]
Don't worry about trying to do things right. [ Okay, telling him not to worry has never worked in literally any other circumstance, but she really means it this time. ] Just... follow what you want. That's all.
So, Jaime? What do you want?