[ Shivering warmth floods the back of his neck, runs down his spine as he hears the low ease in Gale's voice.
Ridiculous. Pathetic, his desperation. That it would drive him to resort to crawling into accidental innuendo for warmth - and, indeed, to assign warmth where there likely wasn't any. A blind worm seeking moisture by the tip of his nose. He ought to be ashamed of himself. Certainly he would pray for his Lord's guidance tomorrow morning - but it isn't shame he feels thrilling in the bottom of his chest.
Something else. A queer giddiness. A tiny exhilaration. Small wings beating against the inside of him, too small to fill him completely but yet unmistakable. The wine and the thin and fleeting notion that it might have been meant precisely how Godfrey had first thought conspire to make something impossible, irresistible. He'd not even imagined such a thing in years. There is no way for Godfrey to thank Gale for what currently stirs in him, the tiny wings lightening his shoulders and the stone he's carried in his chest, yet he feels he must.
Instead, he releases a soft breath as Gale course corrects. Of course. It couldn't take what he had given him, though, selfish as it may be to hold it. He would lock it deep within himself. It would stay there until his body would rot and break its aroma to the world. Until then, he would lock it in a box. He would inhale it for the rest of his days. ]
I ought impose upon your hospitality more often, my friend.
[ If there is some mirrored implication in Godfrey's words, he doesn't let on that he realizes it. He takes a polite drink of his glass as Gale dives into his, lets the alcohol sit on his tongue, swallows.
More grape, but pleasantly so. ]
I think I have rather handily defeated my own purpose in being here. [ He's smiling, gently, as he says it. ] I wish not to dwell on unpleasantness while I take your time. Perhaps I ought tell a happier tale.
[ He would lend the floor to Gale, but he seems uninterested in himself as a subject of conversation, and Godfrey feels indebted to appease him after all of that sorrowing he's just done. ]
no subject
Ridiculous. Pathetic, his desperation. That it would drive him to resort to crawling into accidental innuendo for warmth - and, indeed, to assign warmth where there likely wasn't any. A blind worm seeking moisture by the tip of his nose. He ought to be ashamed of himself. Certainly he would pray for his Lord's guidance tomorrow morning - but it isn't shame he feels thrilling in the bottom of his chest.
Something else. A queer giddiness. A tiny exhilaration. Small wings beating against the inside of him, too small to fill him completely but yet unmistakable. The wine and the thin and fleeting notion that it might have been meant precisely how Godfrey had first thought conspire to make something impossible, irresistible. He'd not even imagined such a thing in years. There is no way for Godfrey to thank Gale for what currently stirs in him, the tiny wings lightening his shoulders and the stone he's carried in his chest, yet he feels he must.
Instead, he releases a soft breath as Gale course corrects. Of course. It couldn't take what he had given him, though, selfish as it may be to hold it. He would lock it deep within himself. It would stay there until his body would rot and break its aroma to the world. Until then, he would lock it in a box. He would inhale it for the rest of his days. ]
I ought impose upon your hospitality more often, my friend.
[ If there is some mirrored implication in Godfrey's words, he doesn't let on that he realizes it. He takes a polite drink of his glass as Gale dives into his, lets the alcohol sit on his tongue, swallows.
More grape, but pleasantly so. ]
I think I have rather handily defeated my own purpose in being here. [ He's smiling, gently, as he says it. ] I wish not to dwell on unpleasantness while I take your time. Perhaps I ought tell a happier tale.
[ He would lend the floor to Gale, but he seems uninterested in himself as a subject of conversation, and Godfrey feels indebted to appease him after all of that sorrowing he's just done. ]