open | prompt five | ENDINGS

[wrens]

prompt five | E N D I N G S dressing-room style. start your own thread. tag others. wash, rinse, repeat. open to all.

 

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[staircases]

[ Sometimes it hurts to look at her for too long, though it's a pain so dull and so highly compartmentalized that it barely registers anymore. Just— just an acknowledgment, brief and tidy and then the efficient apportioning away of it. Even after all this time Arthur doesn't know if Dom thinks she's being opaque about her feelings or if she simply doesn't care anymore to hide them, but she's always been obvious to him. (It's part of why he grew attached in the first place. Arthur does get people, but he does get Dom.)

His gaze drops to her hands. ]

Not a lot of things are.

[grieved]

[ She hums in response, her gaze dropping into her mug. A lot of things, he had said. Dom wonders if he counts her in the equation — the common thread to their existence is what isn't said rather than what is but she thinks that friendship usually blooms from something simpler than reversal of language. She wonders if he's staying, too. She could make casserole, even though James hates peas. Arthur could help. It's a nice thought. ]

It's harder than I thought it would be, [ Dom says finally, her mouth quirking despite the pang in her chest because isn't that the point? ] I think I've forgotten how to talk to schoolteachers.

[staircases]

[ Part of him thinks of course it's harder but maybe that's him being unfair, and so he puts the thought aside — to be revisited: never. There's a strange duality to the way Arthur thinks of Dom and how he manages to assume both the best and the worst of her at the same time.

Eventually he shrugs, one shoulder lifting and then falling again. ] The same way you talk to everyone else. [ Certain, sure, with an alluring sort of conviction. ] Only with a little more please and thank you.