Declan tugged, and suddenly the hug was a lot closer than Aoba intended. This was an embrace, he—oh boy he was on Declan’s lap.
But…it felt safe. Aoba’s own brief tensing soon dribbled away as if the strokes of Declan’s hand were rubbing it out of him. On one hand he did feel a little ashamed, like he needed to protest that he wasn’t a child, he didn’t need to be held so closely like he was about to burst into tears or anything like that—but instead he shifted his face down, hiding it inside his arms and against Declan’s shoulder, hiding at least his reddened face and its contortions of grief.
He didn’t cry. He wasn’t going to cry. Nobody had better accuse him of actually crying. But if his eyes burned and there was a warm trickle down the back of his throat, and if he was suddenly taking a lot more comfort and safety from what he’d meant to be a show of thankfulness and friendship(?), then, well…however embarrassing it was, heart pounding shamefully, at least he had no fear that Declan was going to judge him for it.
Declan promised. As if it was something he had any real control over, and yet…maybe Aoba couldn’t entirely say he believed him, but he wanted to. Declan said it and he sounded like he could be believed, so Aoba stopped his own thoughts right there and for at least a little while, let himself sit in the comfort that he could take. The promise that he would get home. A friend that would support him as far as he could.
One of his hands wound up on Declan’s nape again, but there was no scritching this time. It was just another mirroring, similarities between one aspect and another.
Quietly, through the muffle of arms and the strain of not-quite-tears: “I wish you could come with me.”
no subject
But…it felt safe. Aoba’s own brief tensing soon dribbled away as if the strokes of Declan’s hand were rubbing it out of him. On one hand he did feel a little ashamed, like he needed to protest that he wasn’t a child, he didn’t need to be held so closely like he was about to burst into tears or anything like that—but instead he shifted his face down, hiding it inside his arms and against Declan’s shoulder, hiding at least his reddened face and its contortions of grief.
He didn’t cry. He wasn’t going to cry. Nobody had better accuse him of actually crying. But if his eyes burned and there was a warm trickle down the back of his throat, and if he was suddenly taking a lot more comfort and safety from what he’d meant to be a show of thankfulness and friendship(?), then, well…however embarrassing it was, heart pounding shamefully, at least he had no fear that Declan was going to judge him for it.
Declan promised. As if it was something he had any real control over, and yet…maybe Aoba couldn’t entirely say he believed him, but he wanted to. Declan said it and he sounded like he could be believed, so Aoba stopped his own thoughts right there and for at least a little while, let himself sit in the comfort that he could take. The promise that he would get home. A friend that would support him as far as he could.
One of his hands wound up on Declan’s nape again, but there was no scritching this time. It was just another mirroring, similarities between one aspect and another.
Quietly, through the muffle of arms and the strain of not-quite-tears: “I wish you could come with me.”