[Siffrin doesn't want to be a creep. But it's hard to not peek at Isabeau as he goes through his morning routine. It's nothing he hasn't done countless times over the course of their journey – even just throughout the timeloop, every morning they woke up here – but it feels like they're seeing it with a new eye. Isabeau is just objectively attractive. It's clearer than ever like this, still in his sleep shirt with those arms on full display. Not for the first time, Siffrin wonders how the hell someone like this loves someone like him in that way. Isa could do so much better, couldn't he? Isn't he wasted on someone like them, who can't even appreciate that body in the way normal people would?
They try to see it from that perspective. Which probably is just creepier, leering with the full intent of objectification. But for better or worse, it doesn't work. They can't wrap their head around it. There's no burning fire in their gut urging them to do things, to touch in that specific way and imagine the ways those muscles could be put to use. Even trying just makes them feel skeevy.
But without that, how are they supposed to tell if what they feel is the right kind of love? If that's something they learned growing up, then it was lost with everything else about their childhood. When they tried kissing him that one time, was it because they wanted to, or was it just wanting to rip the bandaid off?
He still doesn't know.
Dwelling on it is more stress than he really needs this early, though, and Isabeau is looking at him again, so he banishes the thought.
And then there's that hand thing again, so much like every time outby the Favor Tree. That hesitation drops Siffrin's heart to the pit of his stomach, if only for a moment. It's an immediate relief when Isabeau pushes through it and touches their shoulder like he'd tried to do so many times before, and they automatically reach up to catch his hand and hold it there for a moment. Their stiffness remains, but the last thing they want is for Isabeau to mistake that for discomfort and pull back.
Embarrassingly, doing so makes their breath hitch a little. Siffrin doesn't wear his gloves to sleep, obviously. The contact hits a little different like this, skin to skin. He'd told himself that his stupid little touch therapy experiments were sufficient for staving off insanity, that through clothing was good enough, but feeling the warmth of skin directly against his own, he thinks it's no wonder he lost his mind a little.
They can't look Isabeau in the eye, but they give his hand a gentle squeeze.]
no subject
They try to see it from that perspective. Which probably is just creepier, leering with the full intent of objectification. But for better or worse, it doesn't work. They can't wrap their head around it. There's no burning fire in their gut urging them to do things, to touch in that specific way and imagine the ways those muscles could be put to use. Even trying just makes them feel skeevy.
But without that, how are they supposed to tell if what they feel is the right kind of love? If that's something they learned growing up, then it was lost with everything else about their childhood. When they tried kissing him that one time, was it because they wanted to, or was it just wanting to rip the bandaid off?
He still doesn't know.
Dwelling on it is more stress than he really needs this early, though, and Isabeau is looking at him again, so he banishes the thought.
And then there's that hand thing again, so much like every time outby the Favor Tree. That hesitation drops Siffrin's heart to the pit of his stomach, if only for a moment. It's an immediate relief when Isabeau pushes through it and touches their shoulder like he'd tried to do so many times before, and they automatically reach up to catch his hand and hold it there for a moment. Their stiffness remains, but the last thing they want is for Isabeau to mistake that for discomfort and pull back.
Embarrassingly, doing so makes their breath hitch a little. Siffrin doesn't wear his gloves to sleep, obviously. The contact hits a little different like this, skin to skin. He'd told himself that his stupid little touch therapy experiments were sufficient for staving off insanity, that through clothing was good enough, but feeling the warmth of skin directly against his own, he thinks it's no wonder he lost his mind a little.
They can't look Isabeau in the eye, but they give his hand a gentle squeeze.]
It's fine. I'm up.