// @dissolvedshadows sent, “ I look at you and it is like my throat being cut. ”
The street below bustles, thronging with too many people. The clamor presses in upon him, a disorienting cacophony. At times, he finds it reassuring, a distraction from the introspection that accompanies true quiet, true solitude. Klaus turns from the window at her words, just far enough to give her a long look over his shoulder. ❛ Very flattering, I’m sure, love. ❜ The wry, abrasive words come instinctively, thoughtlessly, a natural reflex to defend.
He knows, though he’ll fight the knowledge, that he ought to take them more seriously, to consider the ramifications. To concede, even just to himself, that the implication that his mere presence is painful alarms him, that he would not have her feel that way. But how much easier it is to hide behind the persona he’s cultivated for a thousand years, to take pride in the pain his mere being inflicts upon those around him. But no grin accompanies his words, no subtle mockery. They’re hollow husks of his usual demeanor, and he finds himself taking two steps across the room towards her before continuing, ❛ Very poetic. But what is your point? ❜