[Packing up their camp is mindless, methodical, familiar.
It's good that it is, in a way, because it means she can do it without even thinking about it. That's good in its turn because right now she's not thinking of packing at all, much less at doing it properly, so if it had depended on her focus to be done right, it certainly wouldn't have been accomplished successfully at all.
On the other hand, it's a shame that she can do it without thinking, because that frees her up to think about so many other things — difficult things. The way that Adrian's mouth felt when angled against hers; the silk of his long hair woven through her fingers. The way she could tell the precise size of his hands from how they fit at her hips. How effortlessly strong he proved himself to be, from lifting and moving her when she bid him too.
The other memories are even stronger than the tangible ones — the warmth, the laughter, the taste of his food on her tongue. The way his eyes looked so sad even when his lips were smiling at her. The ache each time they'd separated, but consoled themselves with the knowledge that at least it wasn't the last — until the time when it was.
(They hadn't said goodbye. Only to be well. She wonders if either of them will be, after this.)
So they pack their things, and head for the trainyard, and with the help of a small sum to the workman loading cargo into the boxcars, they install their possessions into one of the empty cars and settle in for the long haul, the same as they always do. The passenger cars still have some time yet to take arrivals and load, but for now they're all comfortable and accounted for, and soon to be free of the dangers that lurk for them in New Orleans.
It's only as she's settling in that she finds the note.
Hurriedly, she pulls up her knees to her chest and uses them as a shield to hide her secret behind, drawing the letter into her lap and unfolding it carefully as her heart leaps into her throat.
To ask you to give up your world.
He knows. He knows exactly what he's asking of her, with this letter, and he'd tucked it into her things anyway. All those pretty words, cordial words, perfect words, and he still couldn't manage to say the one thing he'd written them for.
Come back.
She doesn't notice she's forgotten to breathe until her lungs start to burn from holding her breath, and even then it takes her another minute to remember.]
no subject
It's good that it is, in a way, because it means she can do it without even thinking about it. That's good in its turn because right now she's not thinking of packing at all, much less at doing it properly, so if it had depended on her focus to be done right, it certainly wouldn't have been accomplished successfully at all.
On the other hand, it's a shame that she can do it without thinking, because that frees her up to think about so many other things — difficult things. The way that Adrian's mouth felt when angled against hers; the silk of his long hair woven through her fingers. The way she could tell the precise size of his hands from how they fit at her hips. How effortlessly strong he proved himself to be, from lifting and moving her when she bid him too.
The other memories are even stronger than the tangible ones — the warmth, the laughter, the taste of his food on her tongue. The way his eyes looked so sad even when his lips were smiling at her. The ache each time they'd separated, but consoled themselves with the knowledge that at least it wasn't the last — until the time when it was.
(They hadn't said goodbye. Only to be well. She wonders if either of them will be, after this.)
So they pack their things, and head for the trainyard, and with the help of a small sum to the workman loading cargo into the boxcars, they install their possessions into one of the empty cars and settle in for the long haul, the same as they always do. The passenger cars still have some time yet to take arrivals and load, but for now they're all comfortable and accounted for, and soon to be free of the dangers that lurk for them in New Orleans.
It's only as she's settling in that she finds the note.
Hurriedly, she pulls up her knees to her chest and uses them as a shield to hide her secret behind, drawing the letter into her lap and unfolding it carefully as her heart leaps into her throat.
To ask you to give up your world.
He knows. He knows exactly what he's asking of her, with this letter, and he'd tucked it into her things anyway. All those pretty words, cordial words, perfect words, and he still couldn't manage to say the one thing he'd written them for.
Come back.
She doesn't notice she's forgotten to breathe until her lungs start to burn from holding her breath, and even then it takes her another minute to remember.]