[There are always a few heartbeats, once Stede has bustled off in one of his tizzies of exuberance, when Edward has to account for himself in this space. It's one thing to be invited and supervised among the finery; it's something else to relax into simply being allowed to exist, entirely at his leisure, without any watchful gaze to keep him from dragging something lovely down into crumbling dust.
It helps to look down and see his own hands scrubbed clean, beard neat, hair all dragged back from its usual wildness. He's not some untamed creature. He's not a violent bit of nature, lashing out mindlessly against everything delicate and beautiful and precious in the world. He fits. He belongs. He's allowed--welcomed, even.
Maybe not everywhere, but certainly here, in this incredible little pocket of refinement, by the strange and fascinatingly wonderful man currently rummaging about among a ridiculous number of fine things in order to keep welcoming him into this space.
It's with no small sense of wonder that Edward allows himself to relax into the knowledge. He moves carefully, like a dreamer, fingers reaching to touch the surfaces he wanders past with a quiet reverence. True, he knows the arm of this sofa, the edge of this table, the delicacy of these glasses, the strange sensation of the spines of these books. It still feels important to learn their reality at every opportunity he's given; make, by slow work, all these wonders a piece of himself.
Edward will still be lingering at the bookshelf with his usual thoughtful bemusement when Stede returns, not quite turning so much as feeling the prickle at the back of his neck that the other man is close at hand again.]
Which one's the one I like?
[There are several, but that's not the point. Somewhere in these rows are the fascinating monsters lurking in the Odyssey, the ribaldry scattered in The Canterbury Tales, and the dreamlike wonder of The Tempest. Regardless of what Stede plucked down, it would be more time spent lingering in the wonderful warmth of this time together.]
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It helps to look down and see his own hands scrubbed clean, beard neat, hair all dragged back from its usual wildness. He's not some untamed creature. He's not a violent bit of nature, lashing out mindlessly against everything delicate and beautiful and precious in the world. He fits. He belongs. He's allowed--welcomed, even.
Maybe not everywhere, but certainly here, in this incredible little pocket of refinement, by the strange and fascinatingly wonderful man currently rummaging about among a ridiculous number of fine things in order to keep welcoming him into this space.
It's with no small sense of wonder that Edward allows himself to relax into the knowledge. He moves carefully, like a dreamer, fingers reaching to touch the surfaces he wanders past with a quiet reverence. True, he knows the arm of this sofa, the edge of this table, the delicacy of these glasses, the strange sensation of the spines of these books. It still feels important to learn their reality at every opportunity he's given; make, by slow work, all these wonders a piece of himself.
Edward will still be lingering at the bookshelf with his usual thoughtful bemusement when Stede returns, not quite turning so much as feeling the prickle at the back of his neck that the other man is close at hand again.]
Which one's the one I like?
[There are several, but that's not the point. Somewhere in these rows are the fascinating monsters lurking in the Odyssey, the ribaldry scattered in The Canterbury Tales, and the dreamlike wonder of The Tempest. Regardless of what Stede plucked down, it would be more time spent lingering in the wonderful warmth of this time together.]