He didn't deserve anything but her cold indifference. Anything but the way she had looked at him, committing his broken appearance to memory the moment before he would run.
Except he wouldn't run—not tonight. Not anymore. Not from her and what he owed her.
His heart. His life. His dying breath.
She sighed, as if something went out of her, but her voice was nothing less than a whiplash anyway. Inwardly, he winced; he still didn't deserve more than this, because what had he ever done to show that he cared? To show that she was more than just something spawned from his seed, by some happenstance? Because what did he expect, when he'd swallowed all the love back, and never dared to let it out? Because he didn't know how to? But how would he ever learn, if he never tried?
Always too caught up in himself. Always so afraid of failing he never dared to pounce.
Slowly, heart trembling in his frozen chest, he turned his head to look at her again, and tried to really look at her; Psyche was always elusive to his eyes, like smoke, and in some ways Snö had inherited that. He had a hard time seeing her without seeing everywhere he had gone wrong.
Had a hard time letting go of himself as the focal point.
But she had his strength, in the compact build of her body, the regal arch of her neck and the pride etched into every line, every plane—the same wounded blue for eyes.
"You," he answered her thickly, fighting to draw breath through the burning, aching lump in his throat—to speak without falling, to speak without crying. He didn't even know why, just knew that every emotion ran rampant, to the point where it threatened to spill over the top.
"Just.. to be with you."
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