[More trash talk compliments can happen later. For now, Pal is very happy to get back to kissing. In the past, he has sometimes wondered what the fuss could be about; sure, he understands nerve ends and erogenous zones from a scientific perspective, but there had always been some part of him had secretly thought it seemed awfully silly. Now, he’s certain that kissing is extremely silly—and also that he doesn’t care. When Clarke exhales across his ear, goose pimples rise on his arms, and when their tongues brush against each other, heat coils in his belly. Still, sometimes he feels a laugh bubbling up inside him. How did they end up here? What are they doing?
How can it be that he feels so free when he has absolutely no idea what he’s doing?
In the moments when they part enough to speak, their chests rising and falling with breathlessness, Pal is ready with his own sweet, silly observations: The sun makes your skin glow, Your freckles right here remind me of the stars out my office view screen in the Library, and, inevitably, no, you stop looking at me like that.
When Clarke stops them, he wants to protest, but he can’t deny the way the sun has shifted in the sky, or the fact that people will eventually wonder where they are. They can’t grow complacent, either; dangers still lurk in these shadows, dangers they may still be able to stop if they are fast enough and clever enough, but not if they spend all their time hidden away like this.
And so he nods with a sad sort of smile, and he lets her go. He doesn’t quite look at her as she settles herself into her seat—not out of embarrassment, but thanks to a kind of stunned awe that envelops him as his mind comes back online.
Before Clarke can grasp the wheel, though, he reaches out and hooks his forefinger with hers.] …Thank you.
[It sounds so inadequate, but he doesn’t know how else to express what he feels in his heart. Thank you for sharing this time with me. Thank you for being someone I can trust. Thank you for making the loneliness a little more bearable.]
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How can it be that he feels so free when he has absolutely no idea what he’s doing?
In the moments when they part enough to speak, their chests rising and falling with breathlessness, Pal is ready with his own sweet, silly observations: The sun makes your skin glow, Your freckles right here remind me of the stars out my office view screen in the Library, and, inevitably, no, you stop looking at me like that.
When Clarke stops them, he wants to protest, but he can’t deny the way the sun has shifted in the sky, or the fact that people will eventually wonder where they are. They can’t grow complacent, either; dangers still lurk in these shadows, dangers they may still be able to stop if they are fast enough and clever enough, but not if they spend all their time hidden away like this.
And so he nods with a sad sort of smile, and he lets her go. He doesn’t quite look at her as she settles herself into her seat—not out of embarrassment, but thanks to a kind of stunned awe that envelops him as his mind comes back online.
Before Clarke can grasp the wheel, though, he reaches out and hooks his forefinger with hers.] …Thank you.
[It sounds so inadequate, but he doesn’t know how else to express what he feels in his heart. Thank you for sharing this time with me. Thank you for being someone I can trust. Thank you for making the loneliness a little more bearable.]