“you’re alive. you’re back. seemed like the right thing to say.” zhiruo doesn’t like how her voice catches. she convinces herself it’s from before, and that she’s not getting choked up now, watching him put the pieces of this puzzle back together. sometimes, many times, she wishes that he were just a pretty face and a feather-toed jock, not actually whip-smart as well. “ i’ve never been a hugger, you know that.”
and this time her voice really catches. but she doesn’t look away. she meets his gaze but buries her nails into the fabric of her skirt, digging into her thighs. she feels the burn of new tears but her pride won’t let them fall. zhiruo inhales sharply, trying to straighten her posture but she only ends up with tension between the blades that she can’t help but deflate from. “i don’t hug unless you’re dead or dying.”
that last admission brings her to her knees in every sense but physical, and she closes her eyes to him, admitting defeat in the clearest sense of the word. her eyelashes are wet but nothing slips past so it’s not a complete loss. “cal,” she starts, but needs to pause. “if you come even one step closer to me i cannot promise that i will not stain something of yours with eyeliner.”
the time to put on airs has long passed.
You’re not sure what to make of this picture. Not because it’s necessarily new to you, but because it’s real this time. You’ve drawn from that blasted imagination of yours vivid pictures of Zhiruo’s range—everything you’ve been privy to and everything else she conceals behind a sealed smirk or steeled jaw. Sometimes, when you’re really bored, and she’s sitting across from you jotting something down or looking anywhere but your smart-aleck face, you split an atom down. On the other side of it, Zhiruo laughs at your jabs as often as she seethes, gives chase instead of extinguishing the flame.
Arms out, your indexes and thumbs come together to form a viewfinder around her face, crosshair aimed at her twisting mouth. She makes it almost perfectly clear that of all the things she could be doing right now, like stepping out for fresh air or turning in for the night without another word, talking to you ranks pretty low on her list.
Emphasis on almost. You like an opening when you see one and so you take it, sly fox.
“Well—” and here you take two steps closer, because this is as good as an invitation as you’re going to get even though her defenses are up as they always are. “—that’s why I’m here.” It’s reassurance of the most casual decree; at least, it is every other time you say it. Today, there’s a somber bite to it that you couldn’t have ever predicted but you run with it, anticipating where it will lead you. You gauge her response, stooping down to eye level, your hand settling onto the armchair, right beside her leg. “Don’t I always make up for everyone’s shortcomings? Yours included.”
Her tightly-wound expression and the high red of her cheeks (the latter unbeknownst to you) give her breaking point away. You’re there to break the fall. “Hey, hey,” you try to reassure as pools form near the corners of her eyes, threatening to spill. “I’m still alive, Ro. I’m still here.” You turn her shoulders around to face you square on. “Right next to you.”
