[ It's a little more straightfoward than simply changing the topic himself, even though it lacks just as much elegance. For all that Claret looks up to Titian, relying on him for both physical protection and the kind of possessiveness that comes part and parcel with the Duke name, there is still something overwhelmingly adolescent about him. (She blames Vermillion and father, she blames Cerise. Only that feeling of anger and resentment lasts only a moment, maybe two, before passing through her completely, leaving her to quiet resignation again.)
I wish you'd just talk to me. I wish you'd let me help. But that's wishful thinking and not in the cards. Claret knows that, she does, but sometimes she still hopes. ]
Fine, [ she says, a little disappointed, a little deflated. ] Just— whatever you'd like. [ She scoots forward a little, to the very edge of the couch — her version of being forward. (They don't have to talk at all, if he doesn't want. And Vermillion won't be back for another few hours.) ]
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I wish you'd just talk to me. I wish you'd let me help. But that's wishful thinking and not in the cards. Claret knows that, she does, but sometimes she still hopes. ]
Fine, [ she says, a little disappointed, a little deflated. ] Just— whatever you'd like. [ She scoots forward a little, to the very edge of the couch — her version of being forward. (They don't have to talk at all, if he doesn't want. And Vermillion won't be back for another few hours.) ]