Truthfully, there is no guessing game. He can tell whose hands they belong to; the familiar feeling of guilt surges through him, and he closes his eyes, drawing in a slow breath. It shouldn't have been a world of war for Euphemia. She should have been able to live happily, to go to work and learn how to cook, to spend as much time as she could with the people she loved. This was not the world he intended for her from the moment he realized it was her that one day; she always deserved better
( ... )
His eyes widen a little as she kisses him, reassures him, the feeling of her touching him sending a warmth through him. It's different if she kisses him now, no feeling of obligation, no sense that he has to do it (but thankfully, it's been a long time since he entertained thoughts that Euphie was only with him because he had no one else). He grabs hold of her shirt a little more firmly, tilting his head back while her mouth grazes over his neck, lips parting a little and a feeling of happiness (is that it, happiness?) realizing it wants to surge inside of him
( ... )
It's never been out of obligation. She's always, always wanted him- it was just the way that she's wanted him that was forced to change in reference to the places that they've been. She wanted him when they were back home, wanted him as her friend, as her knight, and later, wanted him as more- not a lover, exactly, but someone closer to her than he already was. Boyfriend? The word seemed so awkward, juvenile, maybe, but it was the closest approximation to what it was that she wanted. And when he first arrived, it became want for a lover, as a lover, as circumstances dictated
( ... )
"As long as you really mean that." It's not that he entirely doubts her words-it's impossible for him to do that-but he knows that she slips out the little white lies from time to time to make him and Lelouch feel better. They never work, not entirely, so he knows the uplifted feeling he has inside is genuine. He doesn't push or press it; he doesn't question her or test her to know how genuine she is. No one is more genuine than Euphie except perhaps Nunnally, and even a part of his old friend had been tarnished by his actions, as well as Lelouch's (along with their lies, the constant of their lies
( ... )
She's as guilty of it as everyone is, at times. Slipping out those little white lies to try and make things better, or to try and ease the pain just a little bit. She's not really sure on if it helps or just makes things harder in the long run- the latter is what she would like to avoid, obviously, but sometimes that's not really possible.
"Can we go home?" Euphemia asks instead, and holds him just a little tighter for a moment, eyes closing. It's home-- it's home, even if she sometimes wishes for Britannia or Japan
( ... )
"Yes, we can, Euphie." The confirmation wasn't needed, because if she wanted something, he would give it to her, without question. He leans a little into her hold, letting out a sigh before pulling back and extending his arm as he always has. To this world, she may be nothing more than Euphie, the girl with long, pretty pink hair, but to his mind and heart, she will always be a princess, and deserving of as much treatment. He does much better this time of not showing any pain when he moves his arms, the movement slow and careful enough that the most he lets out is a stronger exhale of breath
( ... )
She's not sure to the full extent of his wounds, truthfully. She knows he was hurt; she knows that all of them were injured in some way, even if it was just skidding knees and palms against the cement. Euphemia doesn't ask, though, because she knows Suzaku well enough, to a point. He'd tell her if it were too dangerous, and she doesn't want him to worry about lying to her or pretending it's more alright than it really is.
This way, at least, she can act like she doesn't know, and try to get him to rest more by saying it's her own clingy nature which prompts her to ask him home. There, at least, she can make subtle comments about stitches and wounds and make sure he takes care of himself.
She takes his arm with murmured thanks, resting her other hand on his forearm, leaning her cheek against his shoulder for a moment, smiling briefly. "I'm in the mood for cocoa, I think," she says absently and keeps on going. "What about you?"
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
"Can we go home?" Euphemia asks instead, and holds him just a little tighter for a moment, eyes closing. It's home-- it's home, even if she sometimes wishes for Britannia or Japan ( ... )
Reply
Reply
This way, at least, she can act like she doesn't know, and try to get him to rest more by saying it's her own clingy nature which prompts her to ask him home. There, at least, she can make subtle comments about stitches and wounds and make sure he takes care of himself.
She takes his arm with murmured thanks, resting her other hand on his forearm, leaning her cheek against his shoulder for a moment, smiling briefly. "I'm in the mood for cocoa, I think," she says absently and keeps on going. "What about you?"
Reply
Leave a comment