[As she pulls away, even he, socially awkward fumbler that he is, can see the flaw in what's happened here. Her answer hadn't been what he wanted. His reaction hadn't been what she wanted, either. And neither can really help with what each feels, so what's to be done about it? He doesn't know, so he does the usual: he dodges, he runs. If he could phase through words as they're spoken he'd have done it, but magic offers no such luxury.
He does feel terrible that she's standing there, unhappy and apologizing for her own damned opinion, so when he stands up he thumps a hand lightly on her shoulder, giving it a squeeze that he hopes might in some way be comforting.]
You don't have to apologize, I'm the one who asked.
[It isn't her fault that she can't give him the answer he wants. He's not sure who could, if anyone. Given the situation, he probably shouldn't get the answer from another person. That's no different from home, following the tether of his fate like a dog. Leaving the decisions up to other people - or blindly following their advice without thinking about the pros and cons - is no way to lead. And like it or not, he's been forced into a position where he has to.
The touch is brief, and he doesn't smile, but beneath the lingering discomfort his voice is honest as he says, while he passes her to leave,]
Thanks... for the dance.
[It'd been nostalgic, a taste of home when he's so far away and unlikely to return for a very long time. That feeling is bittersweet, and in that sense, it echoes their following conversation. In the moment, though? That, he does not regret. And he's grateful for the feeling she'd given him, the kindness of her outstretched hand. The circle they'd drawn together in the snow.
That's what he'd rather take away from this, and given time, surely he can get there.]
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He does feel terrible that she's standing there, unhappy and apologizing for her own damned opinion, so when he stands up he thumps a hand lightly on her shoulder, giving it a squeeze that he hopes might in some way be comforting.]
You don't have to apologize, I'm the one who asked.
[It isn't her fault that she can't give him the answer he wants. He's not sure who could, if anyone. Given the situation, he probably shouldn't get the answer from another person. That's no different from home, following the tether of his fate like a dog. Leaving the decisions up to other people - or blindly following their advice without thinking about the pros and cons - is no way to lead. And like it or not, he's been forced into a position where he has to.
The touch is brief, and he doesn't smile, but beneath the lingering discomfort his voice is honest as he says, while he passes her to leave,]
Thanks... for the dance.
[It'd been nostalgic, a taste of home when he's so far away and unlikely to return for a very long time. That feeling is bittersweet, and in that sense, it echoes their following conversation. In the moment, though? That, he does not regret. And he's grateful for the feeling she'd given him, the kindness of her outstretched hand. The circle they'd drawn together in the snow.
That's what he'd rather take away from this, and given time, surely he can get there.]