[ alisaie has not the poet's soul to put to words how it feels to watch him come undone. one would think she's flayed his very heart raw and she supposes.. that she has, and the stab of that knowledge is as a knife in her heart.
but she does not regret having said it. he needs to know, he needs to understand how much she admires him, how grateful she is for him. he has to know that he is deserving of all the love and praise she could offer, that he has value beyond what he feels to be worthy of. more than anything at all, more than the circumstances of his birth and all the painful things he has experienced since, the true tragedy is how little he thinks of himself. alisaie is not an unkind girl, but neither is she the sort to coat her words or feelings with sweetness to make them more palatable, but with prompto she has never wanted to. never needed to. when she says he is the kindest soul that she has ever known she means it well and truly, and nothing upsets her more than the thought that he considers himself undeserving.
of course it may not be enough. one dying girl's wish and proclamation can hardly hope to shift the path of a river so set in its course, but she can hope at least that he will find some way to be happy nonetheless, should she not make it through. that she will, somehow, have done more good than harm. ]
..good.
[ for all it feels her soul is being skinned alive there is a.. satisfaction in her weary voice, and in the way the tension in her body begins to ease. she believes him, that what he's saying is true, and the look on her face is so tender, so raw that she feels naked right down to her bones, stripped bare before his eyes and his heart. the hand not holding to his lifts, her fingers sifting through his soft, pale hair, her thumb tracing the ridge of his cheekbone, over the freckles she loves so much, keeping him near enough to feel every warm gust of his uneven breathing. she cannot hope to soothe him, to comfort away the unbearable ache in his heart but still she tries, tipping up her chin to kiss the tears from his cheek, his eyelids, his brow.
she could go on forever, telling him how much he means to her, to others. how important he is. how good and strong and kind. but she does not need to. what words she's said are more than enough, and all the rest is clear in the soft, lingering press of her kisses, and the way her fingers move through his hair. ]
no subject
but she does not regret having said it. he needs to know, he needs to understand how much she admires him, how grateful she is for him. he has to know that he is deserving of all the love and praise she could offer, that he has value beyond what he feels to be worthy of. more than anything at all, more than the circumstances of his birth and all the painful things he has experienced since, the true tragedy is how little he thinks of himself. alisaie is not an unkind girl, but neither is she the sort to coat her words or feelings with sweetness to make them more palatable, but with prompto she has never wanted to. never needed to. when she says he is the kindest soul that she has ever known she means it well and truly, and nothing upsets her more than the thought that he considers himself undeserving.
of course it may not be enough. one dying girl's wish and proclamation can hardly hope to shift the path of a river so set in its course, but she can hope at least that he will find some way to be happy nonetheless, should she not make it through. that she will, somehow, have done more good than harm. ]
..good.
[ for all it feels her soul is being skinned alive there is a.. satisfaction in her weary voice, and in the way the tension in her body begins to ease. she believes him, that what he's saying is true, and the look on her face is so tender, so raw that she feels naked right down to her bones, stripped bare before his eyes and his heart. the hand not holding to his lifts, her fingers sifting through his soft, pale hair, her thumb tracing the ridge of his cheekbone, over the freckles she loves so much, keeping him near enough to feel every warm gust of his uneven breathing. she cannot hope to soothe him, to comfort away the unbearable ache in his heart but still she tries, tipping up her chin to kiss the tears from his cheek, his eyelids, his brow.
she could go on forever, telling him how much he means to her, to others. how important he is. how good and strong and kind. but she does not need to. what words she's said are more than enough, and all the rest is clear in the soft, lingering press of her kisses, and the way her fingers move through his hair. ]