Crowley (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sparkofgoodness) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
asgardchrysalis2020-01-06 06:49 pm
sparkofgoodness) wrote in asgardchrysalis2020-01-06 06:49 pm
Entry tags:
[Active/Closed] I've made a huge, tiny mistake
Who: Crowley, Aziraphale, possibly Odin
What: Crowley doing something he was told not to do
When: 4th/5th loosely
Where: Aziraphale's room and beyond.
Warnings: In which Crowley nearly dies, briefly.
Like many days before it, it's a slow day.
Crowley has, so far, gotten absolutely nowhere interesting with his research. He's draped backwards over Aziraphale's bed, reading the screen of his fancy not-quite-phone thing that works through the bracelet.
All he has achieved in the short time he's been here is:
- One, ironically align himself with a supposed god of secrecy
- Two, briefly get Odin's attention and a hefty supply of Aziraphale's wine
- Three, work out he can now use an annoyingly limited amount of magic.
He can still say, with extreme confidence, that he hates this. At the very least he might admit he's getting used to it, and having the wine around helps. Thing is, that'll run out. It'll run out and Crowley is running out of ways to distract himself from Aziraphale's reluctance to talk about... things. Things that he's trying to avoid thinking about, since he isn't allowed to talk about them.
The one thing he has going right now is a continued campaign to wear down Odin. Up until now it's been rather one-sided, since after the initial replies he'd largely told him no and ignored him. There's no real harm in trying, though, so for the four weeks or so since he'd first managed to get an answer Crowley has been trying.
Trying in several senses of the word, it might be said.
The rooms are small, Crowley is restless, and his entertainment in short illusions where he restyles himself has already begun to fade. What else is a demon to do?
What he hadn't expected, admittedly, is an actual reply.
He blinks at it -- no benefit? Whatever -- then glances down at his bracelets. He wiggles frantically to sit up and swing his legs off the bed as they start to glow.
"Aziraphale!" he exclaims, clearly excited. "I've done it! Loo-"
Then, in a flash of light, Crowley is gone.
Five minutes pass, and he's still gone. Ten minutes pass. In the arrival room Crowley is, admittedly, more focused on questioning Odin as much as possible than considering returning to Aziraphale. He's a little shaken, but also very indignant.
It did all seem like a good idea at the time.
What: Crowley doing something he was told not to do
When: 4th/5th loosely
Where: Aziraphale's room and beyond.
Warnings: In which Crowley nearly dies, briefly.
Like many days before it, it's a slow day.
Crowley has, so far, gotten absolutely nowhere interesting with his research. He's draped backwards over Aziraphale's bed, reading the screen of his fancy not-quite-phone thing that works through the bracelet.
All he has achieved in the short time he's been here is:
- One, ironically align himself with a supposed god of secrecy
- Two, briefly get Odin's attention and a hefty supply of Aziraphale's wine
- Three, work out he can now use an annoyingly limited amount of magic.
He can still say, with extreme confidence, that he hates this. At the very least he might admit he's getting used to it, and having the wine around helps. Thing is, that'll run out. It'll run out and Crowley is running out of ways to distract himself from Aziraphale's reluctance to talk about... things. Things that he's trying to avoid thinking about, since he isn't allowed to talk about them.
The one thing he has going right now is a continued campaign to wear down Odin. Up until now it's been rather one-sided, since after the initial replies he'd largely told him no and ignored him. There's no real harm in trying, though, so for the four weeks or so since he'd first managed to get an answer Crowley has been trying.
Trying in several senses of the word, it might be said.
The rooms are small, Crowley is restless, and his entertainment in short illusions where he restyles himself has already begun to fade. What else is a demon to do?
What he hadn't expected, admittedly, is an actual reply.
He blinks at it -- no benefit? Whatever -- then glances down at his bracelets. He wiggles frantically to sit up and swing his legs off the bed as they start to glow.
"Aziraphale!" he exclaims, clearly excited. "I've done it! Loo-"
Then, in a flash of light, Crowley is gone.
Five minutes pass, and he's still gone. Ten minutes pass. In the arrival room Crowley is, admittedly, more focused on questioning Odin as much as possible than considering returning to Aziraphale. He's a little shaken, but also very indignant.
It did all seem like a good idea at the time.
no subject
Not by far.
He tightens his grip on the glass in his hand, fingers suddenly feeling loose and weak as he feels a sense of horror climb its way back up his throat. His eyebrows pull inward as his mouth sets into a hard frown.
“Your history?” he asks, hoping for the sake of hoping that his initial understanding was wrong. Perhaps, he had misheard or simply gotten something confused. Was this to say that the memories Crowley had lost were gone forever? Unravelled into nothingness the last time he vanished? That he would have to know them through Aziraphale alone? Would he always have a hole in his memories?
A long drink is taken from his glass. Then he asks, “Do you mean it was. . . ripping you out of time? As if you were never there?”
no subject
As if you were never there.
Crowley flits his eyes around, twitchy. Uncomfortable. He clearly wants to deflect, to say it wasn't that bad or it was fine but he -- can't. He can't. He can't think of any way out of admitting it that isn't lying, and Crowley doesn't like to lie to Aziraphale. Doesn't want to start. Especially not about something that might be -- important. Might explain something.
"Doesn't make sense, does it?" he says finally, talking around it instead. Picking at the logic distractedly. "A magic tree shouldn't be able to interfere with -- with Her creation. To undo things in that way. To change reality now and all the way into the past and just... write me out and -- and replace me--"
Nnnngh. He winces, cuts himself uncomfortably.
"Anyway," he says, voice low and miserable, "you were right I suppose. I just --" He takes a breath, lets out a frustrated sigh. "I was hoping I could get us both out."
no subject
Out of all of the things that Crowley had just said, one of them was so much more important and frightening than the others. He doesn’t care to debate about the Damned tree and what it should or shouldn’t be able to do—a moot point regardless when none of the things it does from the start should be possible.
“Replace you?” Aziraphale asks, repeating the words back to the demon. Just saying it makes his skin feel cold, the warmth draining from him at the idea that not only would an extended period without the bracelets have removed Crowley from existence, but it would have put another in his place.
Aziraphale doesn’t think he could possibly hate an idea more than he hates that one. For as much trouble as Crowley is, he occupies such a special and unique space in Aziraphale’s life and in his heart. No one else could possibly fill that role.
It was only Crowley. There was no point in anyone else.
“Crowley,” he starts, moving to gently place his hand over Crowley's on his leg. It's a gentle thing, soft and undemanding with room for him to pull away. This likely isn't the Right Time that Aziraphale had been wanting to wait for, but if there were ever time that Crowley needed confirmation of how important he was, he imagines it would be now. “What makes you think it was going to replace you?”
no subject
This isn't the angry hand-holding attempt from earlier, this is gentle. He feels his chest constrict, feels a dizzy mix of panic and hope. Maybe Aziraphale won't be so angry at him. Maybe it will be fine. His face feels hot and Crowley is torn between letting go to fish for his sunglasses and not wanting to pull away from the warmth of the touch.
Snakes like warmth, and Crowley likes the touch -- as undemonic as the thought is.
"Uh," he manages, and feels the insane urge to soften it all. Maybe he shouldn't worry Aziraphale, after all. Shouldn't worry him. How can he manage that, though? He's said it now. Already told him about it. He can't, exactly, backtrack. That'd be obvious, and then Aziraphale might be angry. "Just," he tries, "something I saw. For a minute."
no subject
That’s something that is going to stick with him for quite a bit of time, a heavy weight settled underneath his ribs. Just as he imagines that the idea of being replaced will stick with Crowley. It seems so pointless for him to attempt to side-step it. Just something he saw?
No, there must be more than that.
“What exactly did you see? Whom was it that replaced you?” Aziraphale presses, still wearing that same worried frown. He tries not to think about Crowley's reddening face and the sudden wild look in his eye. He hopes he hadn't made a misstep. The only relief is that he hadn't pulled away from him yet, so Aziraphale is determined to keep them both on topic in the meanwhile. It's easier if they don't address this part.
“I want to know everything that happened.”
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Everything that happened.
Crowley's hand turns under Aziraphale's, fingers lacing hard through the ones above.
"Might want another glass of wine for it all," he advises, and admittedly that would involved letting go of Aziraphale's hand. Which he is showing no sign of doing of his own accord. Still, though. Crowley thinks of himself floating, discorporated, in the middle of nothing. Of the bright light. Of his memories slowly unwinding, of himself disappearing from them. On the whole, he doesn't find himself terribly enthusiastic to go over this all with a fine tooth comb without the aid of alcohol to softened the general sense of terror.
no subject
However, the process of retrieving it does require him to get up again. It would be a little weird if he grabbed Crowley’s hand after that, wouldn’t it? Irritating. Once again, Aziraphale sorely longs for the abilities that he had on Earth. It wouldn’t even be so much as a concern then. He could just bring the bottle to them instead.
“Do you mind if we sit here like this for a bit longer before I do that?” gently asked as he curls his fingers around Crowley’s, securely locking their fingers together. He makes a gesture with his other hand, encouraging him to continue.
no subject
Crowley doesn't know why he would, not with Aziraphale holding his hand this way. The lack of more wine might be a problem, but...
Well.
He downs the rest of his glass, reaches to set it on the edge of the table. His shoes are toed off, and Crowley draws his legs up onto the bed properly so he can turn toward Aziraphale. His now-free other hand covers the one laced with his, sandwiching it between his warm palms.
"I'm sorry," he says. He hadn't, after all, said that bit yet. Crowley feels he should, before he forgets it -- before they get so wrapped up in the existential horror of him potentially erasing himself from history that they get way past the fact that upset Aziraphale with all this nonsense.
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This time, the pair of hands wrapped around his feel so much different. It’s hardly like the same thing at all when it isn’t blanketed in anger and frustration. It feels more like it had that night at the not-quite-end-of-the-world with warm palms and an inexplicable buzzing feeling within him. Mysteriously, in this mortal body, he can also feel his pulse kick up.
How strange.
Almost as strange as it was that somewhere during all of this (or maybe it was Crowley’s apology), Aziraphale’s anger had completely melted away. He’s no less determined to resolve the issue, mind you, he’s just less emotional about it.
"I forgive you," he says and he means it. "What is important is that you're still here."
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"Just wanted to get us both out of here," he admits, "I hate this place."
So much for thinking they were free and safe. Crowley can admit it, he's bored and frustrated and feels trapped not being able to use his powers. At least, he supposes, he has this. He can hold Aziraphale's hand, even if it's only for today. That's... that's better than nothing.
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He lets out a small snort of laughter instead before making a small attempt to disguise it by drinking the rest of his wine. It doesn’t fully hide his expression. “I did try to inform you,” he says quietly as he extends the glass over to Crowley to put away.
So much for not telling him.
He then adds, “I miss Earth.” He feels it more strongly with each passing month. A sort of home-sickness, that’s what it was. Home really was his bookshop in Soho where he frequently spent many an evening getting wine-drunk with his only real friend. “The shops, the people, the stories. Oh, and going out for dinner.”
Aziraphale hates this place.
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I miss earth, he says, and Crowley nods -- places his hand free hand back over the one laced with his own.
"I do miss a nice dinner," he admits. Aziraphale had always been the one who enjoyed eating more, but Crowley enjoyed going with him. Watching him enjoy the food. The atmosphere. He's just so tired of this place, so restless for more things to see and do.
Still. He has Aziraphale. They're together. That -- in the end, that's the most important thing.
"I don't know who it was," he says finally. Aziraphale had asked. He hadn't forgotten the question. "Didn't recognise them. Suppose the who bit didn't matter, really, it was more proving a point to me. That they could not just destroy me, but make it like I never existed."
Like he was expendable. Crowley has always known he made it through a lot of things by the skin of his teeth, but that things. To think he was entirely replaceable, that he could just be... thrown away and forgotten like that. It makes him angry, deep down, and he knows that isn't just at the thought of his own irrelevance. It's something else. It's anger at having things taken away from him, anger that -- in a sense -- is at least properly demonic.
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“Suppose you’re right,” he agrees. Although, it does matter a little to Aziraphale and he finds some relief in the fact that it wasn’t anyone that Crowley would recognise. Ideally, it wouldn’t be anyone that Aziraphale would recognise either. It just felt so much more offensive (on top of already being extremely offensive) if it were someone one of them knew that got slotted into Crowley’s place. He lets out a sigh. “It’s a bit of a foul point to need to prove to us.”
That sort of control. Consequence. What loomed over their hands if they decided not to play nice anymore. Somehow, it felt a little better when it was an unknown. His brows crease and he gives another flick of a glance downwards at their joined hands. Resolutely, he adds, “There’s no one else I would have rather known in your place.”
Of course what he means is: No one could replace you.
At least, that’s how he feels about it. Hardly matters that they very well could. It wouldn’t be the same. Couldn’t possibly.
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He lets his head hang down, trying to control the uncomfortable churn of emotions. The urge to demand to know what any of this means, to know what he's meant to do -- what role he's being cast in here. Is Aziraphale waiting for him? Is he meant to do something?
He's scared of the answer. It might be no, and then he doesn't know what he'd do. It's safer in limbo, safer in this nebulous space where he can pretend there's a chance some day. A chance they'll get further than this desperate clutching of hands.
"Anyway," he says, and it comes out a little scratchy. He clears his throat and looks up, scrunches up his face as he eyes the wreckage of the room. "Bit of a mess in here, isn't it?"
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Few more years? Longer? When was an appropriate time?
Maybe holding hands was as far as it should be taken in a day’s time.
The question of the room goes ignored. It doesn’t matter. It’s such a minor thing on the grand scale of everything else and he couldn’t say he was really in any mood to explain that he had put it in this state after searching for Crowley in a near-blind panic. “I’m sorry. Was that a bit too much?” he asks, voice a little lower than he had intended it. His hand tightens around Crowley’s, just enough to be felt, as he braces himself a little before continuing. “I do mean that.”
That much he needs Crowley to be assured of.
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Was that a bit too much?
At least, he supposes, Aziraphale didn't directly say should I slow down? Crowley might have discorporated on the spot if he had. When had this happened? How had they switched roles in this without him noticing? He feels unbearably anxious at the thought of it all, at the idea that now Aziraphale is waiting on him and obviously he wants this. Obviously he does but he's been waiting so long he almost doesn't know what to do now. Now Aziraphale is apparently waiting for him and --
Crowley laughs, a short, weak, huffy sort of sound.
"You are too much," he replies, but squeezes Aziraphale's hands tighter in response anyway. His expression is hopelessly fond, lips curling into a weak impression of a smile. "And you know I feel the same."
A statement rather than a question. Aziraphale does know, Crowley doesn't doubt that. There's no way he couldn't, it isn't as if he's been subtle about advertising his affections.
no subject
For as much as Aziraphale feels unsure about, constantly oscillating between different conclusions about how Crowley might feel—particularly lately, up until today, when he wasn’t even sure that Crowley might want to hold his hand again without the same memories—he knows this much. He knows, undoubtedly, that he’s important to him. That they’re important to each other.
No one else could step into that role for either of them. It just wouldn’t be the same. It couldn’t be. Regardless of what might happen here or with Yggdrasil, nothing could change that. Although, he does wonder whether or not Crowley defines “important” in the same manner as he does. Or rather still does. He’s sure there had been at least one or two occasions where they had lined up perfectly.
“Alright,” he agrees. There’s a small smile offered in return, warm and affectionate. In the next moment, he lifts their joined hands to press a gentle kiss to Crowley’s knuckle. It’s a push forward, an answer to a question once asked of him long, long ago. He just doesn’t have the nerve to look at Crowley to gauge his reaction. He untangles their fingers immediately afterwards, desperately trying to be casual and unbothered about it, before sliding off the bed to head back to the other end of the room where he had placed the bottle of wine.
Except, he’s forgotten the glasses.
Stalling for a moment, he pretends to struggle to reopen it. “So, what happened after Odin pulled you out? Past, I assume, putting your bracelets back on,” he continues on, appearing a bit too interested in the wine bottle.
no subject
Honestly, who the fuck cares about anything to do with Odin just right then?
He feels, in all honesty, like a donkey being lead along by a carrot on a stick. Being coaxed, inch by inch, into accepting something that he wants anyway. He wants it, and they both want it, so why is it a game? Why can't Aziraphale just say it if he really does? Why does it have to be a stupid guessing game?
"Well I asked him questions," Crowley says, "obviously."
Obviously.
He stands up slowly, picks up the two glasses with one hand and prowls closer.
"He tried to explain to me the whole unravelling thing, told me my missing memories don't exist anymore."
Carefully, Crowley slides the two glasses onto the table beside Aziraphale -- stands close behind him. Close enough that Aziraphale can't turn around without being far too close to Crowley.
no subject
Especially not now.
“Thank you,” he says. The glasses reappear on the table near his elbow, pushed there by Crowley, and he stops fiddling with the top of the wine bottle. There was never any issue there anyway.
He’s overly aware of Crowley standing behind him, far too close, and he feels anxiety sparking underneath his skin. It’s fine, he tells himself and pours the wine into the glasses. “I had a similar conversation with him. I believe he meant your memories from the last time you were here. Not, well, Earth,” Aziraphale continues on. He overfills the wine glasses, almost to the point of spilling and he doesn’t think about that either.
It’s fine.
“Said something about how I was the only iteration of any being that currently exists with those memories.”
The bottle clinks against the table as he sets it back down. Curling his fingers around the stems of the glasses, he lifts them off the table.
“It’s, ah. Er-” He forgets what he had meant to say. When he turns around, Crowley is right there. Not that it’s a surprise. He’s already known he was standing that close, of course. Of course, but he hadn’t realised just how close.
no subject
Carefully he takes one of the glasses of wine, sips from it enough to reduce the level to something safer.
"Aziraphale," he prompts softly, and leans in to place his glass back on the table. "If you're waiting for me, you should know I've been waiting for you a long time. I never stopped waiting. I never will. All you have to do is tell me, yeah?"
Tell him what you want, since Crowley isn't about to rush something on his own. He's nervous, tiptoeing along a line in the sand that has been blurred by wind and rain. Waiting, any minute, for a harsh rebuke. For too fast to be the response, despite all the obvious signs.
"Just, tell me when you're ready. Tell me what you want. Don't make me guess, I'm not good at guessing."
He doesn't want to guess, it's something too important to hang on interpretation. On reading between the lines, on the power of suggestion.
oh good, this is the 50th comment
Aziraphale doesn’t have any more to give. They’ve all slipped through his fingers like a sieve, lost to him as soon as there stopped being any further division between their respective sides. That barrier didn’t exist between them anymore and so neither did the crux of the reason why Aziraphale couldn’t accept Crowley. There was no one that he needed to concern himself with appeasing or trying to be obedient towards any longer.
So, what was left? Just them, wasn’t it?
It’s exactly what they both wanted.
Too bad that it doesn’t make this any less overwhelming. With Crowley this close and being this direct, Aziraphale feels like he can’t breathe. All of the air seems to be caught in his throat and his hands suddenly unsteady.
“Ah, right,” he says. His voice sounds shaky even despite his best efforts. He feels a little cornered and definitely anxious. He clears his throat in an attempt to compose himself a little better or at the very least to sound that way. “Well, yes. I mean, yes,” he continues, speaking quickly.
It’s a bit too fast.
“I am,” he repeats, confirming. I am ready.
He knows that much to be true; he might as well be able to say it clearly. At least that much should be done. There’s no reason to be nervous or unsure. Crowley is asking him because he, himself, is interested and Aziraphale had just expressed his mutual interest. They’re both interested, both willing, and all that needs to be done is for Aziraphale to say so and he has.
This is it. This is him saying so.
It’s ridiculous to feel as hesitant as he does. He reminds himself that much, but it does nothing to squash the dizzying feeling inside of his stomach and head. His hand tightens a little further around the stem of the wine glass, knuckles white, and he can’t seem to stop talking. “But do you think the timing is right? What with-You know, everything else? And being here?” he asks, eyebrows furrowing as he flicks his gaze from Crowley’s eyes to the line of his jaw.
“I don’t mind waiting. Until later. A better time, that is.”
no subject
He doesn't know what a better time would look like. When they're back home? After the apocalypse? What if they don't go back together? He doesn't even remember the apocalypse not happening, after all, and they still don't really understand why. The thought makes him anxious again, makes him drop his eyes away. What if he gets erased from the timeline back on earth regardless? None of these are reassuring thoughts.
None of these are things he can tell Aziraphale. Aziraphale, who after coaxing him into responding is now rapidly backpedalling when confronted. He should have seen that coming, really. He feels a flash of frustration at that, and the way Aziraphale is so willing to slam on the breaks for eternity, but --
He shouldn't be angry about that. He can't by. He knows why, after all, it's just... frustrating.
"We can," he tells the floor, "if you want to."
He would, if Aziraphale really wanted to. He'd wait for millennia if he had to. He just doesn't know if they have that time any more.
Crowley drags his eyes back up, frowns at Aziraphale.
"But I don't want to. We don't have to --" He cuts off, takes a deep breath and lets it out in a sigh. Winces as he tries to re-arrange his words. "I just want to stop pretending, angel. That's all. We can go as slow as you want, I promise."
no subject
He could lose Crowley. He could lose him and now he knows that. It could be permanently or it could be temporarily with more pieces of himself missing. Who knows what else they might take from him? What other parts they might carve off as they see fit?
It would be nothing but a lie for Aziraphale to say that doesn't scare him. He’s always considered Crowley’s presence to be a constant.
“It’s just—” he starts and stops again. How does he say that? That he’s struggling to easily accept what is being offered because he isn’t sure how fleeting it might be? How fleeting Crowley, himself, might be? He takes a steadying breath and moves to place his glass of wine behind him before he spills it on either of them. Or both of them.
Then he glances upward, meeting Crowley’s eyes.
“What if something happens to you again? What if you don’t come back next time?” he asks, finally offering some explanation for the concerns intertwined with his hesitation. He wants to extend his hand to Crowley, he wants to do this—He does. It’s just that. . .
“I am not sure if-Well.”
Aziraphale is not sure if he could stand it. To have it happen again.
no subject
What if something happens to you again? What if you don't come back next time?
So -- what? What if it does? Is it better to have never taken a chance? In Crowley's book, no. In Crowley's mind that's worse. To know they wasted time waiting for the perfect moment and never got it. To know he lost the chance to be... well, to be whatever they could be.
To know that maybe Aziraphale is so scared of that, which is his own fault, that he has decided it isn't worth the risk. That Crowley isn't worth the risk. That maybe he's gone and blown up his own chances -- once again, there he is, seeds of his own destruction. Ruining everything. This fear doesn't necessarily go away, after all. It changes. Right now, it's the tree. It's Odin, it's this place. If they get back, it'll be something else.
He drops his eyes again, flits them away and draws back a step to give Aziraphale space again. He said he could wait, if he had to. He said he'd wait as long as he needed. Can't backtrack that now.
"Right," he says dully. For a moment, Crowley is torn. His expression twitches, tired but with hints of frustration pulling at it. He doesn't want to fight about this. Not really. At the same time, though --
"Thing is," he says, rallying enough to look back up. "Thing is, angel, it's not just me is it? And it's not just here. Even if we make it back, there's no guarantee we're safe forever. There never is."
no subject
Or, rather, not at current.
“No. We have no assurance that either of us will be granted peace. I don’t imagine we stayed their hand forever, but—” he says, ultimately agreeing with Crowley’s assessment. He’s not wrong about this. There is always some threat lurking the background for them. Whether it was here with the whole pantheon of questionable “gods” and the World Tree or the forces of Heaven and Hell back on Earth. Safety was a fleeting concept, but that wasn’t entirely the issue.
It was about the nature of it.
Asgard is infinitely more dangerous when he has been locked away from the abilities and the existence that he has always known. He is so, so painfully mortal here. Both of them are. He nor Crowley can challenge Odin or Yggdrasil or anyone else as he knows they ought to be able to. Everything happens in a flash and there’s no rhythm, no control, and—
Aziraphale hates it.
“I suppose it’s different. From a battle I might participate in to one that I cannot,” he explains. He just wants Crowley to understand this point. That he doesn’t want to tell him that they cannot do this or imply that he doesn’t want this. He doesn’t know what this is or could even be when the lines have become so blurred, but Aziraphale does want it.
He does want Crowley.
He’s wanted Crowley for quite some time.
Aziraphale lets out a tired sigh and pulls at the collar of his sweater. He doesn’t know what the right decision to make here would be. Should he make a promise to pick up where they left off when they get back to Earth? How long would that even be? Would they ever? Would the Crowley he reunites with on Earth be different from the one he has here, in front of him, now? He doesn’t know. There is no way to know.
Nothing is certain.
“I’m sorry,” he begins. He glances over Crowley’s face again, searching. “But if you don’t mind me saying so, it isn’t that I don’t want to. I would like to. Very much so. I simply just do not want to be forced to let go of you after the fact,” he says. For this much, he sounds resolute.
He just doesn’t know what he ought to do about it.
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