sanctiefy:
is this what waits for them after the dead of night? this push and pull that feels less like clumsy exchanges of letters and more like a late night dance between two people who have been partners for years, and then more? hera can’t imagine that there was ever a time she wanted to look away, to put a bridge between them long since burned. she catches the brief flex of his fingers and wonders, wonders, wonders whether she had caused that. she finds herself hoping she did, if only to give herself another reason to look for him after the sun has set.
and he becomes so positively blinding, propelled by her barely-there approval. so bright that she can begin to understand how icarus felt, weighed heavy with something bigger than adoration for apollo himself. she knows the feeling of free-falling towards the ocean, chased by wax-wings and the warm, warm imprint of a god. “as if i’d be jumping for joy over something from the east coast,” she says, tossing her hair over her shoulder in a dramatized display of arrogance. “let me try another one, to really solidify my opinion.” and not for his hands being so close again? a part of her asks, the one that was always as bold as her brother.
oh, how funny. to be called nice when her whole life has been dogged by bossy, difficult, a girl only second to her brother in everything but academics. hera’s eyes soften, her edges wearing down the longer the night goes on, the longer she sits in farrow’s space. without even trying, he’d taken every rough edge of hers and sanded them down to something touchable. she wonders what he would do if she told him. “it’s just … you being nice is something i’ve noticed. formed my own opinion on, actually,” she says, far too quickly, aware that he’d never even explained himself before saying he liked her company. “maybe you make me nicer to be around,” she jokes, except the cadence of it sounds too honest.
it’s almost unbelievable how easily they fall back into banter, as if all the moments that have passed between them are just that: moments. farrow tries not to think too hard, tries instead to let whatever is going on between them here, tonight, simply pass but there are some things he wants to pluck out of the air and bury in his chest. but he ignores that impulse the way he does all the other ones. “you should be so lucky to be let in on one of our most wonderful secrets,” he teases, chuckling lightly at her dramatic display. “now that you’ve said that, i don’t know if i want to. how do i know you won’t steal it and take it with you to west coast?” but despite his words, he dips another fry into the ice cream and holds it out to her, waiting. not that farrow believes in god, but in that moment he thanks whatever higher being there is for the fact that his hand doesn’t shake. “now you know what to include in your next 3am mcdonalds run order.”
he gives her a nod, surprisingly one of understanding, as she speaks. it’s not like farrow has spent much time wondering what the other members of the society think of him, of the opinions they have on who he is or how he acts but this particular opinion, the one from hera, means more to him than he can say. there’s no time to unpack this now, to dwell on why he holds her kind words so tightly against his chest and even if there were, farrow would never reach the conclusion he knows he should. there’s danger in that. “thank you.” it’s barely a whisper but it sits on his tongue for too long and finally he manages to let it out. “maybe that’s what you do to me too.”