[The more you want something, the more elusive it becomes.
Or so it seems, anyway—especially to Onni, who has long since made the choice to avoid chasing after anything that isn't, like, completely necessary. He provides for his younger sister, who's off studying in some distant city (and ignoring Onni's frequent pleas to return home); he attempts to keep a close eye on his cousin, who's currently zipping around the countryside with his firebug companion; he goes to work every morning, he performs to the best of his ability, he returns home to feed his owl and read his books and never, ever think about a woman who somehow managed to capture his heart. He is... fine. Just fine. He doesn't want.
But that's an awfully hard thing to remember when it's late at night—well past his bedtime, really—and someone knocks on his front door? A careful knock, one that doesn't draw undue attention—and ah, but if his heart doesn't leap in his chest! If he doesn't all but toss that spell tome he's reading back into his chair as he stands, all so he can quickly brush a hand through his (messy, always so messy) hair before he makes his way to the entryway. No, he doesn't want anything at all—except, perhaps, for the person he finds himself blinking down at once he opens his door. Just... give him a second, please. Let him take a breath.]
Ah, [is his initial offering, a relieved sort of exhale as his eyes trace those familiar features.] ...So you're back.
[And there's a lot of weight to be found in those three words? A lot of feeling behind them, as quietly spoken as they are—but he knows better than to say anything more at a time like this; instead, he shifts to the side, granting her room to brush past him and step into his small, cozy apartment. Somewhere in the dim distance, an owl hoots a soft greeting.]
[ Primrose, in her opinion, no longer had a home. Not Noblecourt, where she'd been forced to flee before her father's killers sought her as well. Not Sunshade, where she'd spent so many years applying her love of dance to something far more sultry and lascivious. Where she'd chosen to bow her head and call a greedy, hideous man "Master" all for the sake of revenge against a man who had never been guaranteed to show himself. But that was what she'd committed herself to. Her only desire, or so she'd thought at the time.
Until Onni, encountered in one of the larger towns while accompanying Cyrus in his own pursuits of some manner of book and an unfolding mystery.
Primrose was no stranger to invoking desires in others. She knew the perfect way to tilt her head, to expose her neck, to smile and tease with the promise of more, but warmth? The careful wish to preserve something, to treasure it, to come back to someone again and again and to just let herself enjoy it? To love?
She hasn't known that for years and finds the feeling honestly troubling... but not enough for her to remove herself from it. Weakness, really, she knows, but even so-- she can't stop the way she'd stared at the door, hoping dearly that she hadn't woken him up and wondering what she would do if such was the case, but still longing to see his face.
And there he is, gazing at her so steadily, and here she is, well-aware of how tired she must look and with more blood (figuratively) on her hands. The look she gives him is both fond and grateful as she slips inside his home, giving her head a quick shake before she turns to face him. ]
I really thought you might have been asleep by now. Did I rouse you?
[He locks the door in record time, casting a quick glance about the front room—dusty, but clean, thank the gods—before her question catches him off guard.]
No! [Ah, that came out so quickly? Time to try that again as he turns to face her.] No. I found a new book at the market earlier, so...
[So he's spent a thrilling night enjoying the safety of his own home! Drinking tea and reading a textbook focusing on incredibly rare, incredibly dangerous diseases (the symptoms of which every healer should know by heart, the tagline reads), but rather than explain this, he just, you know. Waves a hand over toward his chair, allowing her to fill in the rest while he continues studying her face. As lovely as ever...
...But so, so tired, and that's what tugs at his heart more than anything else. He doesn't know what she does when she's gone for days, weeks, months at a time; he's never pushed her for anything more than she willingly gives, but this weariness is all too familiar—and he hates it, really. It worries him, which is why even his awkward self can't resist reaching out for her, brow furrowing as his hands settle carefully, gently, atop her shoulders. Easy enough to shrug away, if she doesn't want the contact.]
Have you eaten? Have you slept?
[Somewhere far, far away, his sister rolls her eyes for no apparent reason. So fussy! Such a worrywart! Not even smooth enough to manage a simple, "It's good to see you again..."]
[ A Cyrus-like response, almost immediately. She really ought to introduce him to the scholar, but the poor man would have his ear talked off by someone so enthusiastic about knowledge and learning and with no qualms about loudly proclaiming such.
It's an amusing thought nonetheless, though Primrose can't quite focus on it when Onni is already reaching out, the familiar and much-adored warmth of his palms soaking into the bare skin of her shoulders. Stillsnow had been much colder and she'd spent most of her time wrapped in thicker clothing, cloaks, furs when she hadn't needed to show off more revealing attire for the sake of information.
This warmth slips in further and a part of her still wants to pull away, insist he keep it for himself, that she doesn't deserve it. But she doesn't, carefully resting one hand on top of his and dipping her head down. ]
Worry not. I did both. [ H'aanit and Ophilia insisted on making sure the others ate, if Alfyn didn't beat them to it. And she'd rested, though Primrose couldn't claim her sleep to be restful. Not with most nights bringing back memories of her father's last moments. ]
I just walked a little longer than usual today. [ In thin, strappy sandals? Sure. ] Otherwise, I would not have seen you until tomorrow.
[Of course a selfish part of him is pleased to hear that. Of course. It's nice to imagine that someone is happy—no, excited to see him, and yet, given how weary she absolutely looks...]
And I am always glad to see you, Primrose, but—
[—you shouldn't push yourself, he almost says. The words are honestly right there on the tip of his tongue—but he bites them back, settling for a quiet sigh as he lightly squeezes her shoulders. While fussing and fretting come so naturally to him, he knows that she's more than capable of making her own decisions? Determining her own limits? It's just that his world has consisted of himself and his two (younger) relatives for so, so long; it can be... difficult, at times, to remember that he isn't also responsible for the well-being of this newcomer.
But Primrose is, without a doubt, her own person! An equal, and he does all that he can to respect that; it's why, after a moment of silence, a quiet sigh escapes him.]
...But. It must have been quite the walk, [he says a touch dryly, those eyes meeting hers letting her know that he doesn't quite buy it—but that he isn't going to push. Instead, because he can't help but to take care of those he loves:] So sit. Let me bring you a cup of tea.
[There's his armchair, of course, but there's also a comfy loveseat near it? Three chairs around a small table in the kitchen? She has the run of his home and they both know it.]
[ She considers, briefly, about teasing him that she would rather make use of his bed-- with his company, of course, but Onni looks both knowing and concerned and for that reason alone, Primrose refrains.
Really, she chides herself, what is she doing? Slipping into his house, his life, so confidently as though she's an unrepentant stray cat helping herself to a shelter and companionship, only to leave again when she starts to feel too comfortable. It's honestly deplorable. And once again, she does nothing about it, merely gives his hand a squeeze as she dips out from his hold with a little curtsy. ]
All right. But only if you join me.
[ And she'll saunter her way over to the loveseat, sinking down with the seasoned grace of a dancer and reaching down with a minuscule wince to free her feet of the sandals. They'll hurt more tomorrow, but that's a problem for-- well, tomorrow. ]
[Did he do the right thing? It's a question he turns over and over in his mind as he shuffles about the kitchen, because really, his romantic experience is... limited. That's just one side effect of being thrust into the role of Parent at such a young age—but now that he's, ah, making up for lost time, if you will, the deep, unspoken affection he feels for Primrose makes him want to do things correctly. She is... so lovely, in so many ways; she deserves nothing but the best of him.
Or: Onni is a sappy, sappy man who's most comfortable showing affection via fussing, which is why he soon slips behind her, placing her cup of tea on the side table closest to her before draping a blanket over the back of the loveseat. He doesn't know if she's cold, just like he doesn't know if it would have been better to kiss her soundly the second he closed the door behind her—but ah, well. One thing at a time.]
A warm bath is what you need, [he says as he eases down beside her, casting a critical look down at her feet—but oh, damn, if that doesn't sound like the worst thing to just say to a lovely lady.] T-Tomorrow, I mean. If your feet are still sore. It will help.
[Gods above, but he's nailing this. Maybe it would be best to be quiet and settle back, to angle himself toward her—in case she wants to sink against him or something wild like that—as he reaches for her hand. It's nice to feel the warmth of her, after so long spent apart, and perhaps that's what prompts him to add, softly:]
[ She's still unaccustomed to delicacy and care, someone seeking to answer her needs rather than demand her to satisfy their own. Ophilia, of course, had helped all of them to adjust to such a thing (Therion especially, as prickly and wary as he had been of getting close to anyone) and the cleric's kindness is half the reason why she can let Onni close at all.
The other half, of course, is that it's Onni. This too is a dance, the way she pulls the blanket down to wrap around herself like a cloak, the shift to bring the tea close, securely wrapped in one hand as the other hand remains his captive and her fingers seek the spaces in between his to hold them there. When she leans against him, it feels as though she's sinking. A more controlled fall, perhaps, but a fall nonetheless and one she feels less enthusiastic about correcting each and every time their eyes meet.
For now, Primrose hums. ]
There's something about you that calls me back.
[ It's quiet and simple, and she's aware of that, which is why she adds with a lighter lilt-- ]
Perhaps I can return the favor and beckon you into the bath with me tomorrow?
[He'd made sure to situate himself just so, all but inviting her to lean into him, and yet he holds himself so stiffly when she does exactly that. His pessimistic self always expects the worst? Some part of him always expects Primrose to pull away whenever they're this close—but she doesn't, and she isn't, and as he looks down at her smaller hand nestled so snugly in his... well. There are fifty things for him to worry about at any given time, but for now, he settles for willing himself to slowly... relax. Surely he can do this.
...Or perhaps he can't, because of all the things he'd expected to hear! There's no helping it, really—he jerks with surprise, probably sending a bit of tea sloshing over the rim of that cup. Ah. Whoops... time to think of a hurried response...]
It wouldn't be comfortable, [is the practical response from this practical man, even though he's, like, vaguely aware that he's being stupid right now.] The tub is... it's far too small. Barely enough room for one.
[And men across the world weep for the idiot in their midst—no, no. He takes a steadying breath, doing his best to be sneaky about it as his head falls against the back of the couch. One day she's going to kill him! One day she's going to look him in the eye and say something so, so suggestive that he's going to expire on the spot, but for now, he'll live to see another day—and that means turning that offer over in his mind before giving her hand the lightest of squeezes. Ah, Prim...]
[ Primrose manages to keep the sensation of hot tea spilling over her fingers from making her yelp or jerk any more liquid sailing to freedom, though she takes a second to acknowledge it and then carefully sips from her cup.
Well. She can't say, truthfully, that she didn't see that coming at least a bit. But it's adorable to see how he responds, scrambles to give her a responsible and logical answer, as though that's the only reason he'd refuse her company in such a place. ]
That's such a shame. [ With a small, wistful sigh, even as she curbs the urge to leave kisses against the exposed skin of his throat. No, no. It's late, she'll behave. ] I suppose I'll have to attend to myself on my lonesome. [ And she just means soaking her feet, but shh. ]
You, however, are really far too kind to me for your own good.
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Or so it seems, anyway—especially to Onni, who has long since made the choice to avoid chasing after anything that isn't, like, completely necessary. He provides for his younger sister, who's off studying in some distant city (and ignoring Onni's frequent pleas to return home); he attempts to keep a close eye on his cousin, who's currently zipping around the countryside with his firebug companion; he goes to work every morning, he performs to the best of his ability, he returns home to feed his owl and read his books and never, ever think about a woman who somehow managed to capture his heart. He is... fine. Just fine. He doesn't want.
But that's an awfully hard thing to remember when it's late at night—well past his bedtime, really—and someone knocks on his front door? A careful knock, one that doesn't draw undue attention—and ah, but if his heart doesn't leap in his chest! If he doesn't all but toss that spell tome he's reading back into his chair as he stands, all so he can quickly brush a hand through his (messy, always so messy) hair before he makes his way to the entryway. No, he doesn't want anything at all—except, perhaps, for the person he finds himself blinking down at once he opens his door. Just... give him a second, please. Let him take a breath.]
Ah, [is his initial offering, a relieved sort of exhale as his eyes trace those familiar features.] ...So you're back.
[And there's a lot of weight to be found in those three words? A lot of feeling behind them, as quietly spoken as they are—but he knows better than to say anything more at a time like this; instead, he shifts to the side, granting her room to brush past him and step into his small, cozy apartment. Somewhere in the dim distance, an owl hoots a soft greeting.]
no subject
Until Onni, encountered in one of the larger towns while accompanying Cyrus in his own pursuits of some manner of book and an unfolding mystery.
Primrose was no stranger to invoking desires in others. She knew the perfect way to tilt her head, to expose her neck, to smile and tease with the promise of more, but warmth? The careful wish to preserve something, to treasure it, to come back to someone again and again and to just let herself enjoy it? To love?
She hasn't known that for years and finds the feeling honestly troubling... but not enough for her to remove herself from it. Weakness, really, she knows, but even so-- she can't stop the way she'd stared at the door, hoping dearly that she hadn't woken him up and wondering what she would do if such was the case, but still longing to see his face.
And there he is, gazing at her so steadily, and here she is, well-aware of how tired she must look and with more blood (figuratively) on her hands. The look she gives him is both fond and grateful as she slips inside his home, giving her head a quick shake before she turns to face him. ]
I really thought you might have been asleep by now. Did I rouse you?
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No! [Ah, that came out so quickly? Time to try that again as he turns to face her.] No. I found a new book at the market earlier, so...
[So he's spent a thrilling night enjoying the safety of his own home! Drinking tea and reading a textbook focusing on incredibly rare, incredibly dangerous diseases (the symptoms of which every healer should know by heart, the tagline reads), but rather than explain this, he just, you know. Waves a hand over toward his chair, allowing her to fill in the rest while he continues studying her face. As lovely as ever...
...But so, so tired, and that's what tugs at his heart more than anything else. He doesn't know what she does when she's gone for days, weeks, months at a time; he's never pushed her for anything more than she willingly gives, but this weariness is all too familiar—and he hates it, really. It worries him, which is why even his awkward self can't resist reaching out for her, brow furrowing as his hands settle carefully, gently, atop her shoulders. Easy enough to shrug away, if she doesn't want the contact.]
Have you eaten? Have you slept?
[Somewhere far, far away, his sister rolls her eyes for no apparent reason. So fussy! Such a worrywart! Not even smooth enough to manage a simple, "It's good to see you again..."]
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It's an amusing thought nonetheless, though Primrose can't quite focus on it when Onni is already reaching out, the familiar and much-adored warmth of his palms soaking into the bare skin of her shoulders. Stillsnow had been much colder and she'd spent most of her time wrapped in thicker clothing, cloaks, furs when she hadn't needed to show off more revealing attire for the sake of information.
This warmth slips in further and a part of her still wants to pull away, insist he keep it for himself, that she doesn't deserve it. But she doesn't, carefully resting one hand on top of his and dipping her head down. ]
Worry not. I did both. [ H'aanit and Ophilia insisted on making sure the others ate, if Alfyn didn't beat them to it. And she'd rested, though Primrose couldn't claim her sleep to be restful. Not with most nights bringing back memories of her father's last moments. ]
I just walked a little longer than usual today. [ In thin, strappy sandals? Sure. ] Otherwise, I would not have seen you until tomorrow.
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And I am always glad to see you, Primrose, but—
[—you shouldn't push yourself, he almost says. The words are honestly right there on the tip of his tongue—but he bites them back, settling for a quiet sigh as he lightly squeezes her shoulders. While fussing and fretting come so naturally to him, he knows that she's more than capable of making her own decisions? Determining her own limits? It's just that his world has consisted of himself and his two (younger) relatives for so, so long; it can be... difficult, at times, to remember that he isn't also responsible for the well-being of this newcomer.
But Primrose is, without a doubt, her own person! An equal, and he does all that he can to respect that; it's why, after a moment of silence, a quiet sigh escapes him.]
...But. It must have been quite the walk, [he says a touch dryly, those eyes meeting hers letting her know that he doesn't quite buy it—but that he isn't going to push. Instead, because he can't help but to take care of those he loves:] So sit. Let me bring you a cup of tea.
[There's his armchair, of course, but there's also a comfy loveseat near it? Three chairs around a small table in the kitchen? She has the run of his home and they both know it.]
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Really, she chides herself, what is she doing? Slipping into his house, his life, so confidently as though she's an unrepentant stray cat helping herself to a shelter and companionship, only to leave again when she starts to feel too comfortable. It's honestly deplorable. And once again, she does nothing about it, merely gives his hand a squeeze as she dips out from his hold with a little curtsy. ]
All right. But only if you join me.
[ And she'll saunter her way over to the loveseat, sinking down with the seasoned grace of a dancer and reaching down with a minuscule wince to free her feet of the sandals. They'll hurt more tomorrow, but that's a problem for-- well, tomorrow. ]
no subject
Or: Onni is a sappy, sappy man who's most comfortable showing affection via fussing, which is why he soon slips behind her, placing her cup of tea on the side table closest to her before draping a blanket over the back of the loveseat. He doesn't know if she's cold, just like he doesn't know if it would have been better to kiss her soundly the second he closed the door behind her—but ah, well. One thing at a time.]
A warm bath is what you need, [he says as he eases down beside her, casting a critical look down at her feet—but oh, damn, if that doesn't sound like the worst thing to just say to a lovely lady.] T-Tomorrow, I mean. If your feet are still sore. It will help.
[Gods above, but he's nailing this. Maybe it would be best to be quiet and settle back, to angle himself toward her—in case she wants to sink against him or something wild like that—as he reaches for her hand. It's nice to feel the warmth of her, after so long spent apart, and perhaps that's what prompts him to add, softly:]
...It's good that you're here.
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The other half, of course, is that it's Onni. This too is a dance, the way she pulls the blanket down to wrap around herself like a cloak, the shift to bring the tea close, securely wrapped in one hand as the other hand remains his captive and her fingers seek the spaces in between his to hold them there. When she leans against him, it feels as though she's sinking. A more controlled fall, perhaps, but a fall nonetheless and one she feels less enthusiastic about correcting each and every time their eyes meet.
For now, Primrose hums. ]
There's something about you that calls me back.
[ It's quiet and simple, and she's aware of that, which is why she adds with a lighter lilt-- ]
Perhaps I can return the favor and beckon you into the bath with me tomorrow?
no subject
...Or perhaps he can't, because of all the things he'd expected to hear! There's no helping it, really—he jerks with surprise, probably sending a bit of tea sloshing over the rim of that cup. Ah. Whoops... time to think of a hurried response...]
It wouldn't be comfortable, [is the practical response from this practical man, even though he's, like, vaguely aware that he's being stupid right now.] The tub is... it's far too small. Barely enough room for one.
[And men across the world weep for the idiot in their midst—no, no. He takes a steadying breath, doing his best to be sneaky about it as his head falls against the back of the couch. One day she's going to kill him! One day she's going to look him in the eye and say something so, so suggestive that he's going to expire on the spot, but for now, he'll live to see another day—and that means turning that offer over in his mind before giving her hand the lightest of squeezes. Ah, Prim...]
...And there are no "favors" to return.
no subject
Well. She can't say, truthfully, that she didn't see that coming at least a bit. But it's adorable to see how he responds, scrambles to give her a responsible and logical answer, as though that's the only reason he'd refuse her company in such a place. ]
That's such a shame. [ With a small, wistful sigh, even as she curbs the urge to leave kisses against the exposed skin of his throat. No, no. It's late, she'll behave. ] I suppose I'll have to attend to myself on my lonesome. [ And she just means soaking her feet, but shh. ]
You, however, are really far too kind to me for your own good.