[Oh, Molly. Somehow, she doesn't feel that this is shameful at all; she doesn't feel embarrassed. She feels, oddly, tremendously blessed, touched and grateful at being allowed this. Isn't that something, that for the gruesome chimera that she is, this hollowed out shell, that he would let her be a witness to his grief.
She doesn't really know how to hold someone any better than she does how to be held, but she'll do it anyway, arms around him without disturbing his ability to curl up and hide.]
[ 'You know what just occurred to me? I didn't have a childhood.`
he feels like a child now too, pathetic and angry and sad without being able to put it into words. he's good at words. they'd taught him well, or someone had along the line. so he's lost without them for the moment, just digging his hands into the side of his head and letting himself feel it. all the vile anger and sickening grief that's built up. for beau. for the nein. for himself. wallowing in the muck of this place and hearing the blood thrumming in his ears.
funny, how he'd told sheila that if he cried, he'd be the prettiest crier in the place. this is clearly not true. it's about as ugly a cry as it can get, but eventually the just sheer wailing madness calms to just. cursing in every language he knows and even more he doesn't. words he'd picked up along the road. That strange, grating noise he'd screamed earlier, the common fuck and shit and bastard and scheiße and other, stranger things until he calms down, just breathing instead.]
[She'll let him go, once he says that, folding her hands in her lap, instead. She still isn't sure what to do, only trying to be - trying to think how to be kind when she has no experience in comforting others and no experience in being comforted. She may have had a childhood, but she was never a child, not in the eyes of the aunts who would watch over her while she made her prayers, and certainly not in the eyes of her parents. To them, she must have been a horror. A bargain paid off, but painful to look upon, impossible to love. She never even had any playmates her own age. There was one, but she died before Harrow was born.
Being cared for and caring for someone is new, and frightening. That there's a piece of her that can be hurt, and it exists somewhere she can't cover and shield with bone. But she'd like to try.]
[He just sits up and decompresses for a moment - sniffling still and trying to like. wipe off the worst of it on the back of his arm. his makeup - dark red eyeliner, mostly - is absolutely ruined. it probably gives him slightly the appearance of just having bled from the eyes. he didn't plan this well. it's fine.
with the non-snot hand he reaches over to hold one of harrow's. bonded by cry now, bitch, that means hand-holding happens occasionally.]
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She doesn't really know how to hold someone any better than she does how to be held, but she'll do it anyway, arms around him without disturbing his ability to curl up and hide.]
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he feels like a child now too, pathetic and angry and sad without being able to put it into words. he's good at words. they'd taught him well, or someone had along the line. so he's lost without them for the moment, just digging his hands into the side of his head and letting himself feel it. all the vile anger and sickening grief that's built up. for beau. for the nein. for himself. wallowing in the muck of this place and hearing the blood thrumming in his ears.
funny, how he'd told sheila that if he cried, he'd be the prettiest crier in the place. this is clearly not true. it's about as ugly a cry as it can get, but eventually the just sheer wailing madness calms to just. cursing in every language he knows and even more he doesn't. words he'd picked up along the road. That strange, grating noise he'd screamed earlier, the common fuck and shit and bastard and scheiße and other, stranger things until he calms down, just breathing instead.]
. . . Okay. I'm alright. Fuck. I'm okay.
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[She'll let him go, once he says that, folding her hands in her lap, instead. She still isn't sure what to do, only trying to be - trying to think how to be kind when she has no experience in comforting others and no experience in being comforted. She may have had a childhood, but she was never a child, not in the eyes of the aunts who would watch over her while she made her prayers, and certainly not in the eyes of her parents. To them, she must have been a horror. A bargain paid off, but painful to look upon, impossible to love. She never even had any playmates her own age. There was one, but she died before Harrow was born.
Being cared for and caring for someone is new, and frightening. That there's a piece of her that can be hurt, and it exists somewhere she can't cover and shield with bone. But she'd like to try.]
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[He just sits up and decompresses for a moment - sniffling still and trying to like. wipe off the worst of it on the back of his arm. his makeup - dark red eyeliner, mostly - is absolutely ruined. it probably gives him slightly the appearance of just having bled from the eyes. he didn't plan this well. it's fine.
with the non-snot hand he reaches over to hold one of harrow's. bonded by cry now, bitch, that means hand-holding happens occasionally.]
. . . Never really done that before.
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[Squeezing that hand right back.]
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[not a very funny joke but it's the best he can do right now?]
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I thought I would have hated it, to be seen that way, but it wasn't so bad.