[ At the touch on his wrist, Trahearne lifts his head in bewilderment; though tears blur his vision, they don't spill over despite their threats. He blinks, they abate. But it does nothing to soothe the tightness in his chest, and in his throat.
Something in him melts a little. Syrlya has always said much the same, hasn't he? That he should stop putting himself down. That he deserves so much more than he lets himself have. But a lifetime of being othered, of being looked down on for his Wyld Hunt, for his ideals, for being whispered about behind his back has hammered in him that he is just the weird, ugly sylvari necromancer chasing a pipe dream, surrounding himself with rot and brine. A few years of Syrlya's encouragement has changed some of that, but not all of it. It flows through his sap, like it belongs there.
But he is perfect, he thinks to himself. Syrlya is just a person. But all of him--all of his flaws, his strengths, his quirks, his oddities--they create who he is. And he loves every single part of him unconditionally, even the parts of which he is yet to learn. Trahearne doubts there's anything about him he'd ever come to resent. Because it's still Syrlya. ]
You're right. [ His voice is shaky, as is his breath. ] He's just angry. He just needs time. [ How much time? is the voice that nags him in the back of his mind. He waited for years before; he can't afford the same patience. He breathes deep, trying to calm himself in the face of an hourglass that runs dangerously low.
Unfocused eyes eventually settle on Otegine's, but the distress doesn't leave his expression. ] I... I don't know. [ That's the answer to both questions. ] I don't know. So long have I watched him from afar, that I suppose I don't know where to find the courage to tell him any of this. Or...to ask him on a date.
[ Does he deserve a date? Is the question that chides him in the back of his mind, but he quickly pushes it away. It hadn't been an hour ago that he was confident in his resolve, but...it seems his emotional state is putty in Syrlya's hands. ]
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Something in him melts a little. Syrlya has always said much the same, hasn't he? That he should stop putting himself down. That he deserves so much more than he lets himself have. But a lifetime of being othered, of being looked down on for his Wyld Hunt, for his ideals, for being whispered about behind his back has hammered in him that he is just the weird, ugly sylvari necromancer chasing a pipe dream, surrounding himself with rot and brine. A few years of Syrlya's encouragement has changed some of that, but not all of it. It flows through his sap, like it belongs there.
But he is perfect, he thinks to himself. Syrlya is just a person. But all of him--all of his flaws, his strengths, his quirks, his oddities--they create who he is. And he loves every single part of him unconditionally, even the parts of which he is yet to learn. Trahearne doubts there's anything about him he'd ever come to resent. Because it's still Syrlya. ]
You're right. [ His voice is shaky, as is his breath. ] He's just angry. He just needs time. [ How much time? is the voice that nags him in the back of his mind. He waited for years before; he can't afford the same patience. He breathes deep, trying to calm himself in the face of an hourglass that runs dangerously low.
Unfocused eyes eventually settle on Otegine's, but the distress doesn't leave his expression. ] I... I don't know. [ That's the answer to both questions. ] I don't know. So long have I watched him from afar, that I suppose I don't know where to find the courage to tell him any of this. Or...to ask him on a date.
[ Does he deserve a date? Is the question that chides him in the back of his mind, but he quickly pushes it away. It hadn't been an hour ago that he was confident in his resolve, but...it seems his emotional state is putty in Syrlya's hands. ]