[He barely has to ask. There's a hand on her hand, and guilt slams down like a shutter door, closing her throat and choking off the tears. Crying becomes repulsive immediately; she holds her breath until the voiceless sobs abate, and holds the hand back, and holds her eyes shut. The secret to being reassured is that you must be reassuring.
Disgust-resentment-bitterness on the back of her tongue like bile. Bottled tears ferment into useful product under the right conditions, but these are the wrong ones.] I hate crying, [she whispers with feeble heat, fingers squeezing. There's something minutely pleasing about the texture of the web between his thumb and forefinger - her thumb settles into it and presses a little as the background music hits a droning bridge.]
no subject
Disgust-resentment-bitterness on the back of her tongue like bile. Bottled tears ferment into useful product under the right conditions, but these are the wrong ones.] I hate crying, [she whispers with feeble heat, fingers squeezing. There's something minutely pleasing about the texture of the web between his thumb and forefinger - her thumb settles into it and presses a little as the background music hits a droning bridge.]