[ Gregor suddenly sees the point behind Miles's idea in laying on the bed for this, and tucks himself against him as he reads. The ensuing swell of emotion seeps over to him and meets a strongly answering echo, the well of feelings that had provoked writing this in the first place rippling back. Complicated and nuanced, barbed in places, messy and whole-- but utterly beautiful for all that, like in the quote from Doctor Zhivago that he'd read to Miles that night. (I don't think I could love you so much if you had nothing to complain of and nothing to regret...) More precious for how much it's endured, how much suffering lay preceding it.
Love rests a quiet resonance beneath it all. Gregor curves to hide his face against Miles's shoulder, slumping down to manage it, one arm loosely twining around Miles's waist and beneath his own arms holding the book. He can't really find what to say, casts about distantly for something. ]
no subject
Love rests a quiet resonance beneath it all. Gregor curves to hide his face against Miles's shoulder, slumping down to manage it, one arm loosely twining around Miles's waist and beneath his own arms holding the book. He can't really find what to say, casts about distantly for something. ]
I told you it wasn't in ignorance.