No, I don't mean that. We didn't forget about you being an asshole. I only mean that the petty things stop feeling important.
[He still remembers the things that drove him crazy about Molly, but in retrospect they are all sort of charming. Meanwhile, he's getting legitimately angry with Beau over the way she debates what a sandwich is.
He goes quiet at the second part, thinking it over, looking up at the sky.]
I don't know how much of a person there even was to meet. No one you would want to. You know, the night before. . . I was seconds away, seconds, from just walking away from you. Fuck Jester, fuck Fjord, fuck Yasha. Fuck you, fuck Beauregard, fuck Nott. I would have left any one of you to die, and I thought I was a fool for deciding not to. When the tides turned in that fight, same thing. I kept my distance the whole time, I was moments away from turning and leaving all of you behind.
[He doesn't bother to explain why. Even at that point, as selfish as he was, he was a little attached to them. He didn't want to leave those three to be tortured and sold. And he struggled too much to contemplate leaving Nott behind; as much as she claimed she would go with him, he knows she didn't want that.]
But I'd been alone for a long time. I was alone, and then I had Nott, and then I had the rest of you, but I was still alone. I didn't know how to be anything else. I could travel alongside people who would keep me from starving and keep bandits off of me, but I didn't know how to be part of it.
It's different, now. And I don't. . . I don't want to lose any of you. And you count in that.
All that really matters then. What you did, not what you thought about.
[It isn't as if he hadn't thought about leaving himself. It's why the story about the fact that he did made enough sense that he told himself he could believe it. But he hated it. He fucking hated the idea he'd leave, after all of that. How that was the moment he himself had decided, no, I'm sticking with this lot. I like them. The idea of it falling apart after that was hard to swallow.
He sort of unwinds from his place a bit, uncrossing his arms and leaning foward, sticking out a hand - the one with the red eyes on it.]
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[He still remembers the things that drove him crazy about Molly, but in retrospect they are all sort of charming. Meanwhile, he's getting legitimately angry with Beau over the way she debates what a sandwich is.
He goes quiet at the second part, thinking it over, looking up at the sky.]
I don't know how much of a person there even was to meet. No one you would want to. You know, the night before. . . I was seconds away, seconds, from just walking away from you. Fuck Jester, fuck Fjord, fuck Yasha. Fuck you, fuck Beauregard, fuck Nott. I would have left any one of you to die, and I thought I was a fool for deciding not to. When the tides turned in that fight, same thing. I kept my distance the whole time, I was moments away from turning and leaving all of you behind.
no subject
[Anyway, looking over directly at him, steady, despite the fact Caleb is looking up and away.]
But you didn't.
[Leave, that is.]
no subject
[He doesn't bother to explain why. Even at that point, as selfish as he was, he was a little attached to them. He didn't want to leave those three to be tortured and sold. And he struggled too much to contemplate leaving Nott behind; as much as she claimed she would go with him, he knows she didn't want that.]
But I'd been alone for a long time. I was alone, and then I had Nott, and then I had the rest of you, but I was still alone. I didn't know how to be anything else. I could travel alongside people who would keep me from starving and keep bandits off of me, but I didn't know how to be part of it.
It's different, now. And I don't. . . I don't want to lose any of you. And you count in that.
no subject
[It isn't as if he hadn't thought about leaving himself. It's why the story about the fact that he did made enough sense that he told himself he could believe it. But he hated it. He fucking hated the idea he'd leave, after all of that. How that was the moment he himself had decided, no, I'm sticking with this lot. I like them. The idea of it falling apart after that was hard to swallow.
He sort of unwinds from his place a bit, uncrossing his arms and leaning foward, sticking out a hand - the one with the red eyes on it.]
To sticking together, then.
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Sticking together. No rushing off to get hurt.