[It's so gentle. Careful, even, like Siffrin is made of glass. There's so much tenderness and care in the hug that they could almost cry, and at the same time the delicacy is almost maddening. Part of him wants to tell Isabeau that it's really ok, he can handle more. He wants more, wants Isa to crush his ribcage, wants to be squeezed so tight so can't breathe. But asking for the contact at all is mortifying enough, so they instead just tentatively lift their arms to return the hug. Try to match the energy of it, normal light platonic first time hugging and all that. Tries not to clutch and cling like he wants to.
Still, a soft little sigh escapes him against his will, and he leans into Isabeau's solidness and warmth. His voice is a little muffled against it.]
Just...y'know. Not used to it.
[They'd gesture vaguely again, but that would require letting go of Isabeau, so they settle for a shrug.]
I mean, I was on my on before meeting you guys, so...yeah.
[Of course they wonder if it has always been that way. They know they had a family, once upon a time. Did they hug and all that? Were there childhood friends he had this sort of casual intimacy with? Was he normal, or was this distance an extension of a similarly touchless upbringing?
He doesn't know. Can't remember. Even the concept of remembering feels fuzzy somehow, like it's less an obvious hole he's always sidestepping and more a patch of static his mind instinctively avoids. Most days he doesn't think about it at all, all thoughts on the subject skittering away automatically. He doesn't know if that's better or worse than constant awareness of what's missing – less actively despair-inducing, maybe, but more of a haunting, incomprehensible void. It's a constant emptiness whose original filling is only ever remembered with effort. And straining to remember so only ever leads to headaches and distress, and he really doesn't want to spoil this moment, so as usual he just lets it go.]
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Still, a soft little sigh escapes him against his will, and he leans into Isabeau's solidness and warmth. His voice is a little muffled against it.]
Just...y'know. Not used to it.
[They'd gesture vaguely again, but that would require letting go of Isabeau, so they settle for a shrug.]
I mean, I was on my on before meeting you guys, so...yeah.
[Of course they wonder if it has always been that way. They know they had a family, once upon a time. Did they hug and all that? Were there childhood friends he had this sort of casual intimacy with? Was he normal, or was this distance an extension of a similarly touchless upbringing?
He doesn't know. Can't remember. Even the concept of remembering feels fuzzy somehow, like it's less an obvious hole he's always sidestepping and more a patch of static his mind instinctively avoids. Most days he doesn't think about it at all, all thoughts on the subject skittering away automatically. He doesn't know if that's better or worse than constant awareness of what's missing – less actively despair-inducing, maybe, but more of a haunting, incomprehensible void. It's a constant emptiness whose original filling is only ever remembered with effort. And straining to remember so only ever leads to headaches and distress, and he really doesn't want to spoil this moment, so as usual he just lets it go.]