Slowly, they meet her gaze again. And it's a quiet uncertainty that they haven't felt in some time- a twisting, innate sense that they could share anything with her in this moment without judgement, that they want to, and it's a sensation so foreign and so, painfully familiar that they spend a moment just breathing, slowly closing their eyes against the sting and heat.
And for a moment, they have the wildest urge to- simply speak. Tell her something; about their day thus far. About Frisk and what had already happened, what will happen. About Tim, and the burning clench that accompanies the thought of both.
About...about their favorite book. Or that they really liked the gardens, enough so that they'd bear with the sun if they absolutely had to.
They just feel like telling her something, because a part of them is aware she'll listen. An eager over-enthusiasm to divulge simply because they have the option to, because the option's there.
no subject
And for a moment, they have the wildest urge to- simply speak. Tell her something; about their day thus far. About Frisk and what had already happened, what will happen. About Tim, and the burning clench that accompanies the thought of both.
About...about their favorite book. Or that they really liked the gardens, enough so that they'd bear with the sun if they absolutely had to.
They just feel like telling her something, because a part of them is aware she'll listen. An eager over-enthusiasm to divulge simply because they have the option to, because the option's there.
They feel comfortable. And they feel safe.
"Thank you. For trusting me."