Re: The next afternoon: Seven/Marta
He felt that distance with the oppressive weight that it held. Of fucking course there were the memories, yeah. It was a ballast against the guilt that he still felt on top of the rest of it. The vitriol and venom that he'd spewed, like it hadn't fucking kept him spinning his wheels in the murk. He blamed all of it for the shutter of unease that clapboarded down on her expression as she looked at him from across the expanse of green and then put one foot in front of the other, striding towards him like she was being reeled in on a reluctant cable that was hooked somewhere behind her ribcage.
He was feeling the tension, and yeah, the pain that translated from stiffness put through the ringer, but that was all his own fucking fault. His own unsteadiness on his feet as result of the gin he'd funnelled down and into his gullet. Yeah, they were trying something - he was trying not to be a complete fucking asshole, and it was on very tentative footing. It wasn't that any admission had slipped out, yeah? It was that once again, he'd only been thinking about himself, and his own bullshit feelings. No lies, but plenty of narrow, self-centred consideration.
"Stop," he said, without really thinking. Stop deflecting. Leaning back against the bench and hiking back one arm so that his elbow rested against the top of the rails that ran horizontal behind him. "Jesus, you used to be able to take a fucking compliment." On paper, the words would read harsh, and he knows that. But his tone is quietly fond. Familiar. Simply, without much inflection beyond that.