These confessions are spilling out into the open between them far too swiftly to have been shared after careful thought and consideration, and the Fool wonders with a deep ache in his heart how many of these secrets Devin will regret sharing once he has better control over himself. If he can be certain of nothing else today, the Fool at least hopes Devin trusts that these secrets will be safe in his keeping.
"Forgive me." The words come out after a weighted pause, soft enough that another set of ears might miss them. Then, carefully, the Fool unfolds himself from his sitting position to rise to his feet. He takes a moment longer to pick up his sandals from where he'd discarded them, dusts them off, but doesn't slip them on again just yet.
"You are in pain, and I thought--" There the Fool grows quiet again; there's a wistful, bittersweet sort of curl to the corners of his lips that might have been a smile, if the circumstances had been kinder. He lets out a breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding in, then at last looks towards Devin, shaking his head once. "I don't know what I thought. Not enough, clearly." This added dryly, the self-deprecation clear, before he goes on with a vague gesture between them "That my being here might bring you some comfort, perhaps, that you might..."
That you might be ready. That you might want me. The words, the sentiment behind them, ring too selfishly for the Fool to speak them aloud, and so he does not. His heart is a resilient thing, long accustomed to loneliness and rejection, but there is no sense in subjecting himself to it when there is a far greater wound in need of healing first. His private longing, his hope, and all the fears and dreams that go with them, seem shallow and childish things in comparison.
He takes a few steps through the surf towards Devin, starts to reach out again, then stops short. There's an uncertain furl between his brows, and with a small shake of his head, he simply repeats himself, "forgive me--I've asked too much of you."
no subject
"Forgive me." The words come out after a weighted pause, soft enough that another set of ears might miss them. Then, carefully, the Fool unfolds himself from his sitting position to rise to his feet. He takes a moment longer to pick up his sandals from where he'd discarded them, dusts them off, but doesn't slip them on again just yet.
"You are in pain, and I thought--" There the Fool grows quiet again; there's a wistful, bittersweet sort of curl to the corners of his lips that might have been a smile, if the circumstances had been kinder. He lets out a breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding in, then at last looks towards Devin, shaking his head once. "I don't know what I thought. Not enough, clearly." This added dryly, the self-deprecation clear, before he goes on with a vague gesture between them "That my being here might bring you some comfort, perhaps, that you might..."
That you might be ready. That you might want me. The words, the sentiment behind them, ring too selfishly for the Fool to speak them aloud, and so he does not. His heart is a resilient thing, long accustomed to loneliness and rejection, but there is no sense in subjecting himself to it when there is a far greater wound in need of healing first. His private longing, his hope, and all the fears and dreams that go with them, seem shallow and childish things in comparison.
He takes a few steps through the surf towards Devin, starts to reach out again, then stops short. There's an uncertain furl between his brows, and with a small shake of his head, he simply repeats himself, "forgive me--I've asked too much of you."