she had always been too scared to entertain the thought, to flourish among daydreams and fantasize all that may or may not be. far too scared. you’d assume that she’d contemplated it all before, mapped it out with plenty of color and imagination. prior towards real affections, she romanticized all that had made her uncomfortable; the riches, the glory, the fame she leached from a moneyed suitor. charlotte decorated her doubts that came with what she longed for. wealth and happiness was but a hankering reverie. she knew that, at the cost of what she wanted, came the price of unremitting misery. charlotte could never be charlotte – she had to be a fabrication of what her objective stipulated. therefore, when it came to something as alleviating as this where her mask was nothing but an accessory called upon when she wanted it, as opposed to needing to, she was scared. this love was vulnerable. all that she had prepared was steal subterfuge.
so when odin had said what he said – she sat silent, breathless and overwhelmed at being unprepared.
` odin, ’ she began after a moment,
` do . . do you really mean that? ’ charlotte lifted her head to face him. her whole demeanor pulled a different vibe than before. ` what i mean is. . do you really really mean that? you and me . . a lifetime together? that’s . . what you said, right? i wasn’t just hearing things? ’
offense played firstly upon his expression, his voice littered with ‘ what kind of question is that ?! ’ -- some horror befalling him with the idea that perhaps, some concept that he may have planned otherwise had infiltrated her thoughts. that he may have planned otherwise . . . ah. so, the realization strikes halfway through his sentence. what he said, what he meant -- well, he meant it, surely, & yet he believes that suddenly a sort of ancient crystal has grown within his throat & he, alone, cannot contain its properties. he coughs for a moment, a slight hem being the only thing he can further through himself. green eyes display themselves in full as his eyelids peel with revelation, a rose-pink dusting his cheeks like the sunset at dawn before dark. suddenly his fingers are shaking, folded, & his eyes avert her gaze.
❝ i -- i didn’t mean . . . ❞
well, of course he meant it, but . . . he didn’t mean -- well, it is rather complicated to explain. so, instead, he sits in some dumbfounded stupor, some otherworldly daze, in attempt to manage the right words to weave, like an author, from his lips. how tragic it is, when a poet loses his rhythm.
❝ ergh . . . well, it’s not that i didn’t -- it’s that . . . ❞
this certainly isn’t going over well. not as well as he’d hoped, anyway.
❝ what i mean to say is . . . i . i am in love with you, charlotte. ❞
& he yearns to outstretch his sentences with rambles of what could be, his feelings, supernatural ideas, & nonsensical dreams, but he doesn’t. in fact, he finds himself incapable of forming anything, let alone a thought in of itself. any reaction after what he’s said has dissipated, but he finds fine relief in honesty. something he hasn’t felt much of in a number of years.
titsay
yousharknotpass
janainaart
romaincrisis
areudirty
