It occurred to him, a fraction too late, that if he hadn't opened his mouth and hadn't drawn any attention to himself, he might've deposited his share of the lollipops back into place entirely wordlessly. Spotted her but said nothing, made a discreet exit and just watched her go through the glass, quietly weathered that involuntary spasm of his heart.
She looked the same as she always did. Tybalt didn't know why he was expecting any different - he supposed he looked the same, too. Would she see it in his face, the furrows in his brow, the tautness of his mouth? It was taking concerted effort, already, not to crumble, wishing that they could go back to before, tell her aloud how much he still missed her. She hadn't wanted to try - to wait for him, or marry him, he knew that well enough - but that was only half the ache, wasn't it? The grief was ever-present; the loss had been worse than that. For the last six years, after all, Elsie had also been his closest friend.
Her cheeks were flushed and her face otherwise white, the same way she might have been in any awkward situation. And this was awkward: the clumsiness aside, this was unfamiliar territory, and Tybalt would be damned if he knew how to navigate it. She'd said thank you, which was - fine - Tyb brushed it off with a shrug, wondering whether she would cut things short, just turn on her heel and leave. She hadn't. (He wasn't sure whether this was better or worse. It was a swell of relief just to see her after so long of not, but all too fast the relief plummeted, sent him into freefall.)
"Could've happened to anyone," Tyb remarked, with a sympathetic smile-grimace, as though the statement would make either of them actually feel better, as if it could soothe the awkwardness of this. Could have happened to anyone... She could be anyone. Better pretend she was anyone else in the world than Elsie Beauregard. "Christmas shopping?" He asked, falsely cheerful, clearing the lump from his throat and trying for casual, carefree, unaffected, and knowing, in his heart, that small talk wasn't going to rescue anything.
She looked the same as she always did. Tybalt didn't know why he was expecting any different - he supposed he looked the same, too. Would she see it in his face, the furrows in his brow, the tautness of his mouth? It was taking concerted effort, already, not to crumble, wishing that they could go back to before, tell her aloud how much he still missed her. She hadn't wanted to try - to wait for him, or marry him, he knew that well enough - but that was only half the ache, wasn't it? The grief was ever-present; the loss had been worse than that. For the last six years, after all, Elsie had also been his closest friend.
Her cheeks were flushed and her face otherwise white, the same way she might have been in any awkward situation. And this was awkward: the clumsiness aside, this was unfamiliar territory, and Tybalt would be damned if he knew how to navigate it. She'd said thank you, which was - fine - Tyb brushed it off with a shrug, wondering whether she would cut things short, just turn on her heel and leave. She hadn't. (He wasn't sure whether this was better or worse. It was a swell of relief just to see her after so long of not, but all too fast the relief plummeted, sent him into freefall.)
"Could've happened to anyone," Tyb remarked, with a sympathetic smile-grimace, as though the statement would make either of them actually feel better, as if it could soothe the awkwardness of this. Could have happened to anyone... She could be anyone. Better pretend she was anyone else in the world than Elsie Beauregard. "Christmas shopping?" He asked, falsely cheerful, clearing the lump from his throat and trying for casual, carefree, unaffected, and knowing, in his heart, that small talk wasn't going to rescue anything.
