@gunbrker asked:
❛ I am broken and healing, but every piece of my heart belongs to you. ❜
It’s in these quiet moments that vulnerability shines through.
Not that Ardbert ever struggled much with baring his heart to others — quite the contrary; he was often chided for wearing it on his sleeve more often than not. Opens one up to too much pain, as if life is really life without a little bit of pain. It’s something he came to accept even before the Flood, the near-destruction of his home: starting with his dead mother, her face a faded memory like the worn, yellowed pages of an ancient tome, or the ruined murals painted on cave walls by civilizations long passed.
Then the little things that piled up, yet… it came with living. He accepted that. He had to.
Because despite the pain, there was always love in greater amounts. Love, bright and colorful, all-consuming and almost suffocating. Delightfully so. He could drown in it. He could drown in this.
Still, Thancred… how long had it taken to coax his heart open with gentle, steady hands? Patient, never prying. A shoulder to lean on; a shoulder to cry on, if need be. Ardbert was a warrior through and through, but his hands were capable of more than simply bringing his axe down upon his foes. Not that he’s any sort of healer, he had always looked to Lamitt for that, but he knew how to make his touch soothe, calm. Those thumbs brushed away hundreds upon thousands of tears, after all. Be it his own or his comrades’.
One hand, palm rough and fingers callused, rests on the expanse of Thancred’s chest. His thumb presses into a pale scar etched into the skin; one of many. All of them tell a story, and they’ve spent hours regaling one another with the stories of their scars when they lay alone, warm, calm and comfortable in each other’s company. Thancred speaks and Ardbert’s brows twitch, eyes focused on the other’s collarbone at first. He’s quiet because he’s thinking. Always had this issue where he spoke without thinking, it’s something he’s working on… after one-hundred long years. Better late than never, right?
That hand moves from Thancred’s chest to his cheek. Their eyes meet now and Ardbert’s gaze is nothing short of intense, meaningful, his brow furrowed in some sort of determination.
“You’re putting a lot into my hands,” he says carefully. Lips curve into a smile. He watches Thancred’s face closely, takes in every detail, every angle, the way his white hair fans over his forehead and pools against the pillow. Ardbert breathes in, his shoulders relaxing. His eyes shine. Earnest as ever, he continues, “I’ll do my best not to break it further—to break you further. I swear it.”
He moves closer. Their foreheads touch, and he can feel the ghost of Thancred’s breath against his lips.
“I’m no healer, that’s for certain, but I…”
He could drown in it. He could drown in this.
Oh, to love and be loved in return.
“Let me know if I can help you put those pieces back together, all right? It’s the least I can do.”
They’re both broken, and they’re both healing, and they fumble through it together. Sometimes with a misunderstanding. Or, more often with a smile, or a joke, or the weight of a hand on a shoulder.
The minute gap between their faces is closed with a kiss that seems to stretch for eternity. It says enough.
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