She took his hand, and even before she said it, holding on for dear life, it had felt like a lifeline, like this was the last chance he had to tether her to something here. He gripped her hand a little tighter, because whatever his head told him, Elias still didn’t want her to go.
And perhaps the last thing he had expected was to hear a rush of hope from her still. She had been going to pick up and leave her life because of him and the hurt he’d caused, and still – still – she was here, willing to hope and willing to try.
She was all but clinging to him now, meeting his gaze and forcing him to make the choice again, face to face and eye to eye. If it had been unconscious in the workshop and all the times before, that was not enough. This time, she would have it be deliberate.
There was a tide of panic rising in him now, no less than if Irene had handed him a knife and told him to wound her with it. He didn’t know if he could – wasn’t sure he wanted to – so his hands found her face instead, thumbs drying the teartracks there and then just cupping her face there as if he could commit it to memory. But today she had a wild, hard, desperate look in her eye, not the warmth he had usually known. He remembered her drenched from the rain, her hair undone and hanging loose at her neck. He remembered smudges of paint on her nose and knots in her apron and lemon drops on her tongue. A basket on her elbow as she walked. The flower show, and a self-made wreath of lilies of the valley on her head. If he hadn’t been thinking, he could have kissed her. Instead, Elias swallowed. He could think of plenty of things to do, standing here – if he could embrace her the way she wanted, bury her in his arms – but he didn’t know what to say.
There was a sureness to Irene, a safety in her sentiment, that he couldn’t ignore. They were old friends; they fit into each other’s lives; they both felt at home in each other’s arms. And – he felt the same draw towards Daffy, but everything with her was still comparatively new. There was a raw edge there – they didn’t seem to understand each other quite as well, though they were trying – and so Elias hardly knew, in this moment, where they stood. Would she forgive the overprotectiveness or the recent distance? He didn’t know. He didn’t know. He could lose all this, and lose her too.
“Irene,” he said, in his own quiet plea. “You do deserve all of that,” he said fiercely, one of his hands dropping to the back of her neck. “You deserve all of that and more. I want you to be happy – I want you to be so happy you never feel alone again. I know you will be –” his other hand curled around her back, pulling her as near as he dared to hold her as tightly as he could. Just for a moment, just for one last time. “And I wish I could be that for you, I do. Because I love you, and I know that’s not fair to say,” he said, “but...”
His brow creased. He hated himself for it, but she knew the answer. She had known it already: she had said it in her letter. He couldn’t be what he wanted to both of them. But if hearing it from him was what she needed to move on, then – pained, Elias added – “you were right, I’m in love with Daffodil.”
And perhaps the last thing he had expected was to hear a rush of hope from her still. She had been going to pick up and leave her life because of him and the hurt he’d caused, and still – still – she was here, willing to hope and willing to try.
She was all but clinging to him now, meeting his gaze and forcing him to make the choice again, face to face and eye to eye. If it had been unconscious in the workshop and all the times before, that was not enough. This time, she would have it be deliberate.
There was a tide of panic rising in him now, no less than if Irene had handed him a knife and told him to wound her with it. He didn’t know if he could – wasn’t sure he wanted to – so his hands found her face instead, thumbs drying the teartracks there and then just cupping her face there as if he could commit it to memory. But today she had a wild, hard, desperate look in her eye, not the warmth he had usually known. He remembered her drenched from the rain, her hair undone and hanging loose at her neck. He remembered smudges of paint on her nose and knots in her apron and lemon drops on her tongue. A basket on her elbow as she walked. The flower show, and a self-made wreath of lilies of the valley on her head. If he hadn’t been thinking, he could have kissed her. Instead, Elias swallowed. He could think of plenty of things to do, standing here – if he could embrace her the way she wanted, bury her in his arms – but he didn’t know what to say.
There was a sureness to Irene, a safety in her sentiment, that he couldn’t ignore. They were old friends; they fit into each other’s lives; they both felt at home in each other’s arms. And – he felt the same draw towards Daffy, but everything with her was still comparatively new. There was a raw edge there – they didn’t seem to understand each other quite as well, though they were trying – and so Elias hardly knew, in this moment, where they stood. Would she forgive the overprotectiveness or the recent distance? He didn’t know. He didn’t know. He could lose all this, and lose her too.
“Irene,” he said, in his own quiet plea. “You do deserve all of that,” he said fiercely, one of his hands dropping to the back of her neck. “You deserve all of that and more. I want you to be happy – I want you to be so happy you never feel alone again. I know you will be –” his other hand curled around her back, pulling her as near as he dared to hold her as tightly as he could. Just for a moment, just for one last time. “And I wish I could be that for you, I do. Because I love you, and I know that’s not fair to say,” he said, “but...”
His brow creased. He hated himself for it, but she knew the answer. She had known it already: she had said it in her letter. He couldn’t be what he wanted to both of them. But if hearing it from him was what she needed to move on, then – pained, Elias added – “you were right, I’m in love with Daffodil.”
The following 4 users Like Elias Grimstone's post:
Daffodil Grimstone, Irene Crawley, Penelope Fawcett, Seneca Lestrange
Daffodil Grimstone, Irene Crawley, Penelope Fawcett, Seneca Lestrange
look ANOTHER beautiful bee!set <3