❰ adalia's chair makes a loud, discordant scraping sound as she stands up, abrupt. distantly, all the dramatics disgust her, but —
he made it sound so simple. like good isn't something she has to work at, exhaustively, forever, examining all of her actions and her thoughts to make sure she doesn't slip. like trying so hard all the time is a good thing, rather than the pathetically obvious desperation it's always felt like.
like his care could be something she gets to assume, rather than something she could lose at any moment because she's fifty different kinds of stupid problems all at once.
instinct says to hide herself and her stupid, annoying emotions away until she can get them under control. there's a war on, and demanding attention under these circumstances is a level of bullshit even she should be ashamed of. adalia even twitches toward the door, ready to fling herself past guilfoyle and out into the gallows to escape this whole situation — held in place purely by the obligation of thranduil and gwenaëlle's effort. they've tried so hard, and said all the right things, and if she leaves now and can't even tell them why it really will be her fault when she's alone. maybe it's been her fault all along. they want to be allowed to care, and adalia's so afraid of letting them that she's ready to flee the room and ruin everything, after they've given her exactly what she asked for, and for what? what about this is so terrible that she couldn't stay in her seat? ❱
I would like, ❰ quietly, around sniffles, ❱ a hug. Please.
❰ she's allowed to ask for a hug. no one's going to tell her she doesn't deserve one, or that she isn't cared for enough to get one, or laugh at her for needing it. the tension which had climbed up adalia's shoulders as she tried to stave off her emotions slowly begins to melt away, deliberately, like armor being shed. where gwenaëlle's moment of hesitation had been invisible, adalia's is blatantly obvious, her hand twitching abortively in gwenaëlle's direction twice before she can bring herself to lay it on the table, palm up, request as clear as she can make it with her verbal courage taken up already. gwenaëlle'd reached for her first, right, this is okay. this is another thing she's allowed to do. her shoulders tremble and she reaches up to push a tear away from her cheek with the heel of her palm, and with equal deliberation she takes a deep breath, forcing herself to finally meet thranduil's eyes. ❱
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he made it sound so simple. like good isn't something she has to work at, exhaustively, forever, examining all of her actions and her thoughts to make sure she doesn't slip. like trying so hard all the time is a good thing, rather than the pathetically obvious desperation it's always felt like.
like his care could be something she gets to assume, rather than something she could lose at any moment because she's fifty different kinds of stupid problems all at once.
instinct says to hide herself and her stupid, annoying emotions away until she can get them under control. there's a war on, and demanding attention under these circumstances is a level of bullshit even she should be ashamed of. adalia even twitches toward the door, ready to fling herself past guilfoyle and out into the gallows to escape this whole situation — held in place purely by the obligation of thranduil and gwenaëlle's effort. they've tried so hard, and said all the right things, and if she leaves now and can't even tell them why it really will be her fault when she's alone. maybe it's been her fault all along. they want to be allowed to care, and adalia's so afraid of letting them that she's ready to flee the room and ruin everything, after they've given her exactly what she asked for, and for what? what about this is so terrible that she couldn't stay in her seat? ❱
I would like, ❰ quietly, around sniffles, ❱ a hug. Please.
❰ she's allowed to ask for a hug. no one's going to tell her she doesn't deserve one, or that she isn't cared for enough to get one, or laugh at her for needing it. the tension which had climbed up adalia's shoulders as she tried to stave off her emotions slowly begins to melt away, deliberately, like armor being shed. where gwenaëlle's moment of hesitation had been invisible, adalia's is blatantly obvious, her hand twitching abortively in gwenaëlle's direction twice before she can bring herself to lay it on the table, palm up, request as clear as she can make it with her verbal courage taken up already. gwenaëlle'd reached for her first, right, this is okay. this is another thing she's allowed to do. her shoulders tremble and she reaches up to push a tear away from her cheek with the heel of her palm, and with equal deliberation she takes a deep breath, forcing herself to finally meet thranduil's eyes. ❱