No! [ he's still not through the shock of it but he hurries to reassure her, hearing her chatter on with worry. ] No, it's alright, I just—
[ at home, stories of Jack Frost are a mixed blessing. on one hand it's a hope, it's some part of him that exists in the world and maybe, maybe if there's enough of that then people will start to think of him and they'll believe, they'll see him at last. on the other hand — those stories aren't him. they're written about him when not one person has ever seen him or believed in him, and it's a cruel sting that there are these stories and still no one sees him.
it feels different here. to be handed a book about him by someone that knows him as he is, it's not a reminder of his barely-there presence in the world. it's proof of being known and remembered, thought of even for one brief moment.
his touch pulls away from the book so that he can scrub the back of his hand across his eyes, trying to press back the tears he can feel pricking at him. there's something guileless about it, not trying to hide the fact that he is tearing up, not ashamed or embarrassed, just stopping himself from making this too strange. he laughs again, a little more wrung out this time, still happy but overwhelmed more than that. ]
I hadn't, um — I hadn't seen it. I didn't know— Thanks. It's, it's good.
no subject
[ at home, stories of Jack Frost are a mixed blessing. on one hand it's a hope, it's some part of him that exists in the world and maybe, maybe if there's enough of that then people will start to think of him and they'll believe, they'll see him at last. on the other hand — those stories aren't him. they're written about him when not one person has ever seen him or believed in him, and it's a cruel sting that there are these stories and still no one sees him.
it feels different here. to be handed a book about him by someone that knows him as he is, it's not a reminder of his barely-there presence in the world. it's proof of being known and remembered, thought of even for one brief moment.
his touch pulls away from the book so that he can scrub the back of his hand across his eyes, trying to press back the tears he can feel pricking at him. there's something guileless about it, not trying to hide the fact that he is tearing up, not ashamed or embarrassed, just stopping himself from making this too strange. he laughs again, a little more wrung out this time, still happy but overwhelmed more than that. ]
I hadn't, um — I hadn't seen it. I didn't know— Thanks. It's, it's good.