|Pygmalion (milk_and_ivory) wrote in nevermore_logs,|
@ 2013-04-15 23:25:00
|Current music:||"Dreaming Out Loud" by One Republic|
|Entry tags:||galatea, pygmalion|
He told himself not to look at her, because looking into her eyes caused too much hurt. When she opened up, her voice inviting him he couldn't help but look. She drug him in. Fumbling with the box, Pygmalion handed over the tea.
"I brought you this," he sat in her hands. He thought he could walk off but he found himself hoping she would let him in. He owed her some reconciliation.
"Oh." She accepted the box and pulled it in toward her. Realizing she hadn't said anything else, she added a stilted "Thank you." She wasn't sure how to accept it. Usually when people gave her things, they wanted something in return. She couldn't decide whether that was the case this time or not.
He used to adorn her with pretty things, but it seemed trite now. What was there in this world that she couldn't give herself? There was nothing new he could teach or show her. It was all in her hands, its why this made him feel so uncomfortable in his own skin.
Pygmalion stepped in with a nod. He didn't make himself comfortable yet, he was in her space and he was out of place. "It's nice," he commented. It was formal, "quaint," organized. He rubbed his forehead with one finger, looking at the box he'd given her. "I could make you some now if you like?" He needed to fiddle with something or he was going to go stir crazy in her place.
"No, I didn't," he said from the kitchen, filling the kettle with water to boil. It felt more comfortable to be doing something that wasn't aimlessly sitting around. He opened up the tea box, which wasn't just any box of tea. This had been expensive so she didn't get just an average brand. He hoped at least it helped relieve her headaches.
"It's actually close to my side of the city, so it was easy to find." For most people the subway system was hell. It actually made sense to him. It was a challenge to figure it out. He looked up from what he was doing to give her a reassured nod. "And you? How long have these headaches been lasting?" He might be annoyed, but he wished no harm on her.
"They come and go." She kept her hands busy by shifting around a set of glass coasters she kept on the counter. "It's been a few weeks, maybe." Ever since she first ran into him, but she wasn't about to bring that up."I've heard that it's normal for some people, but I don't recall ever being sick before. It's out of the ordinary for me." She normally wouldn't divulge personal informaton like this, but she felt like she could trust him. That was also out of the ordinary.
"You've never been sick for a reason," he perked his brows up, the kettle going off. "Most of us," he waved a hand between them, "don't." He was pretty suspicious as to when and where hers had originated.
He fished around her kitchen for cups, pointing at various cabinets before finding what he needed. He brought honey too, a few little packets to drop in the bottom of the cups so when he poured in the hot water and set in the tea. He stirred it with a spoon, setting a perfectly hot cup in front of her. "Don't burn yourself," he said softly, trying to not come across as too demanding. "The honey makes it sweeter and gives it a little flavor."
He stayed where he stood, blowing off the top of his cup before drinking. "I've had them too," he reassured her that she wasn't alone in this strange situation.
"Most of <i>who</i>?" Her brows knitted together in confusion.She had a sort of helpless feeling that she didn't like as he fixed her cup for her, but she didn't say anything about it. She just accepted it when he passed it to her and set it on one of the coasters she'd been shuffling through. "Did you get them for any particular reason?"
"Immortals. This city is littered with them." He had three small sips, each testing the the flavor and temperature. "It should be cool enough now." He didn't mean to make her feel inferior, it just seemed habit to make sure everything was just so. It put a lot of people off.
"When I'm stressed," he rubbed his temple softly, "though this week has been particularly more stressful than usual."
"Really." She'd meant for it to be a question, but it had flattened out at the end and just made her sound like she didn't believe him. She turned the cup in her hand before taking a sip. It <i>did</i> taste like grass, but not as much as she thought it would. She still pulled a face.
He felt a little prickly at what he assumed was a question. Maybe he needed to step back from this and approach it from how she saw things? Pygmalion hardly did that with people, it made him open for hurt----for getting close to others. She had already done that, there wasn't much further he could fall from hurt unless she beat him with it. He turned his cooling cup around softly, picking at the handle. Without looking at her he turned the conversation on her. "So you say you can't remember being a child? How---" he paused a little, "how far back do you remember?"
He took another heavy sip, the tea calmed his nerves. She would find that true as well the more she drank of it. "Tea is relaxing."
"I--" She let out an annoyed huff. "It used to be twenty-five or thirty years. It starts to blend together after a while." She placed an elbow on the table and leaned her chin into her hand, looking surprisingly casual. She was tired and in her own home; her guard was down. "It's worse, now. I don't really know what I'm remembering anymore."
"That's as far back as you can remember?" As if announcing it made any difference. He rubbed his chin, looking at those delicate hands. So soft and untouched by the callouses he had from his work. Her nails were perfect, the pads of her fingers soft. He wanted to reach out and touch them but he kept refrained.
"What else do you see?"
"I don't know." It was partially true, but she really just didn't want to breach the subject at all. She pushed at the handle of her cup, turning it in a circle on the coaster. "It's disjointed and it doesn't make any sense. I wake up and don't know where I am."
She paused, realizing how much information she was just giving away. She righted herself in her seat and took another drink. "I just haven't been myself lately. I'm probably going mad." She said it very matter of factly, as if spiraling into insanity was just her lot in life. There's a quick flash of something in the back of her mind and she adds, "I don't think it's the first time."
"Tell me." He wanted to know, he wanted to invite her to explain herself, because maybe they could figure out where things went wrong. Where they grew apart and how the world got fuzzy with certain memories.
"You aren't mad," he watches her twirl her cup, the action a little too repetitive for his liking.
Galatea's frown deepened. It didn't sound very convincing coming from the man that claimed he'd <i>made</i> her. "Some days I can remember being very alone. Upset. So angry I almost can't breathe." She was, of course, used to being alone. She preferred it. This memory was always different, and seemed to come from a very dark place. "That's when it's probably the worst. There are other things, but they're incidental. A different bed. Different clothes. Flowers. The ocean."
"A different time," he finished for her. The more she kept that mental block, it made his own memories fail, ones that he had once remembered with clarity. It was almost as if they were tied by a string. When she tugged it with her wavoring thoughts, she tugged at his own. It was a link and it was weak right now.
He stepped around the counter, keeping a careful eye on her pained movements. He positioned his hands out. He'd message her temples if she would let him that close. "May I?" He asked, brows up, motioning with his hands to his own temples to subtly ask.
She watched him carefully, worried this conversation had taken a strange turn and she'd misinterpreted something. For some reason, it was very hard for her to get a read on Pygmalion; either he sent mixed signals or she was withholding judgement on his character, something she was usually very quick to pass.
He could tell it made her pause. He took off his jacket so his arms were able to move with ease without being constricted. He moved behind her, then she would still have her space without her feeling crowded. He just needed to touch her, maybe it would draw a connection with her jumbled memories.
He pulled her hair back from around her neck, carefully pressing the pads of his fingers to her temples, pressing with the softest of pressure. It was like a massage of someone's scalp. It released all the tension. "This should help." It felt like a dream he was standing in for. The moment could change at any second.
Despite trying to convince herself that this was okay, Galatea couldn't help feeling tightly wound. Her spine straightened and her fingers dug into her knees, like she was bracing for a slap. But when he touched her, his fingers in her hair and at her temples, her shoulders relaxed and her eyes slid closed. His hands were warm - it felt like he was radiating heat into her through his touch, and she wondered if this was a quality unique to him, or if everyone was like this. The feeling was familiar and comforting to her, and she could recall being like this with him before. She could remember his face in her hair, his touch on her shoulder, her collar. She remembered sighing and her own hand shot up suddenly, grabbing his and moving it away from her. Her fingers were wrapped around his like a vice. She'd been holding her breath.
She relaxed for a moment which put him in a calm and collected mood. His fingers stayed soft on her temples, his thumbs rubbing up and down at the base of her head. His own eyes had steadied closed. He touched her like an artist, not like a man getting in a feel. There was a delicate repetition in such a simple motion. It all came crashing to a halt when she gripped him.
Pygmalion didn't move but he was confused. He stared at the back of her head as if she were gonna whip around and shove him off.
"Did I hurt you?"
"No," she said quickly, completely still. "Sorry. It's just--" She cut herself off. Her face felt hot. "Nevermind."
He moved his arms down, resting on her shoulders, though that too may have been a wrong move. "No, tell me. What's the matter?" She was startled by something, maybe she had seen something. He was hopeful.
His hands dropped to her shoulders and she jumped out of her seat like she'd been burned, turning keep him in her line of sight. Galatea was almost never flustered, but when she was, it was very obvious. She was so pale that even the slightest blush was visible, and both her cheeks were pink under the shadow of her dark hair.
"I'm fine," she dismissed, looking at a point past him. She didn't respond well to being prodded for information, and she hoped her words had a sense of finality when she added "It's nothing."
She was throwing up a mental and physical wall. He instantly felt burned as if by fire. She had scorched him. He put his hands together, that insecurity seeping in. He hated when that hit, he wasn't used to it.
He wasn't content with her answer, no matter how final it was. "Yeah," he nodded. "Nothing." He picked up his coat that he had draped across an empty chair, threading his arms back through the sleeves. Next was the invitation to leave he was sure of it.
"Not <i>nothing</i>," she answered in a huff, "I just don't want to talk about it." It was very definitely <i>something</i>, but she was so withdrawn. When she didn't want to talk about something, she was like a lock box.
She watched him, her cheeks reddening further as he put his coat back on. She crossed her arms against her chest. "This isn't easy, you know."
"If you don't explain yourself how do you think you'll get beyond this?" Pygmalion had a lot of patience until it was hanging onto a rope with no give. "Stop and think maybe these headaches will disappear if you let these thoughts out." He had thought maybe she wanted to let him in even a little.
"I know this isn't easy." He ran a hand over his face in attempt to push back the emotional tears that were pushing to come out. His weakness was her, and he was beating himself up on what had been the point of creating such beauty if there was nothing given in return. What was it all for? When an artist came to that point in their life, it was a nasty spiral of what ifs, not enough control. He didn't like being so helpless.
His own temples started to throb, he braced his hand against them as if suffering a major brain freeze. "It's not easy for me either."
"I can't just change overnight. I'm a private person." She was actually <i>too</i> private and she knew this. Many people had told her as much on many separate occasions. Galatea never let anyone in, and even the little bit she'd let Pygmalion see of her today was a huge step for her. "And even if I wasn't, there are just some topics that are off limits."