@winterreigned — what is happening between us? / sansa & theon
𝐌𝐀𝐘𝐁𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐇. some sort of deliverance , only a little less holy. for theon , it's a river. he's going against the current. the water is clean and it isn't unpleasant , in so many words. it isn't easy , either.
and despite all the swimming lessons of his youth , he finds himself drowning. drowning in the red of her hair. drowning in her eyes. drowning in the warmth that she gives him , so wholly. he has loved her for longer than he can remember. can't quite attribute it to his youth , for he was bigger than his own self back then. but doesn't quite attribute it to circumstance , either. it's something slow and meaningful. turning of the fall leaves , or something. scheduled. bound to happen and bound to exist — and the world does move , always , at its own pace.
and once again , theon finds himself in sansa's chambers after the sun has set. long after dinner has finished and shortly after the time where one would return to their own chambers. late enough for suspicion and yet not late enough to consider the evening at its end. and mostly they would talk — about everything and about nothing all at once. memories of their childhood. everything they each thought they would be. and each making a point to avoid a certain span of time in their own histories. they are , ever , on the same page. quill and ink included.
and each night they drift , ever so slightly , toward one another. and tonight he sits on the foot of her bed. and something about his intentions are so clear. and so careful. and he can only hope he has read her correctly in all the previous days. all the passing looks and intimate nights. and of course , there's always fear. would she accept him? and where would they go from there? and would he be enough and would he be something infinitesimal or something lasting? could he ever be her future? unlikely. and even so , he persists.
theon moves halfway up her bed. places a hand over hers. breathes in steady strides , hoping that his own chest might fill with the correct disposition to navigate his future with any shred of success. ❝ i cannot speak for you , ❞ a pause. dropping formalities feels wrong and yet he has learned to speak it , regardless. he leans forward , face close to hers. it's comfortable. it's slow — he knows she deserves more now. deserves more than the shell of himself can give and yet he would be a fool not to chase. ❝ but i would have you here , if you would take me. now , and every night for as long as i should live. ❞
