[ Frustration brews itself as seconds pass and he doesn't send anything back. As phantom fingers try to pluck at the tense flutter of muscles at her jaw, the breath coming in and out of her nose and chest too heavy laden with patience she doesn't have, the curl of her shoulders, at whether that was too much, or whether it's barely even a cent of the fullness of what she's been dying to say -- scream -- since she lost the ability to say anything at all.
Since he stopped listening.
Impatient energy gaining traction with annoyance at the tiny device. At the want to shake something. It. Him. At just not even having the faintest clue what he's doing drives it to a higher key entirely. What he's doing. Whether he's answering. Whether it matters. Says it. Thinks it at least. A backhand slide. Even when she knows it does. Even when that too clear voice in her head, slides cold fingers into it, questions just how much actually though.
The way the answer, when it comes, would be almost too easy. Just for a second. I wasn't thinking clearly. Just for a second, Klaus is standing there, again, with the bowling lanes behind him. His mouth moving too fast. Just for a second, before her shoulders tense and she shakes her head at the darkness, its own half-flinch, whole-denial, like that can dispell the hooks in it.
Some things even she's not stupid enough to say.
But without it -- and what it left to hook around an ankle, unused but refusing its drowning back -- words felt almost even further away than they did when she hadn't had any at her fingertips to start with. When all of it could have been summed up in a look at him, but he isn't there to look at, and she isn't even certain she'd want to be if he could be, only that it's a brand new level of annoying, of wordlessness, that she can't either. ]
no subject
Since he stopped listening.
Impatient energy gaining traction with annoyance at the tiny device. At the want to shake something. It. Him. At just not even having the faintest clue what he's doing drives it to a higher key entirely. What he's doing. Whether he's answering. Whether it matters. Says it. Thinks it at least. A backhand slide. Even when she knows it does. Even when that too clear voice in her head, slides cold fingers into it, questions just how much actually though.
The way the answer, when it comes, would be almost too easy. Just for a second. I wasn't thinking clearly. Just for a second, Klaus is standing there, again, with the bowling lanes behind him. His mouth moving too fast. Just for a second, before her shoulders tense and she shakes her head at the darkness, its own half-flinch, whole-denial, like that can dispell the hooks in it.
Some things even she's not stupid enough to say.
But without it -- and what it left to hook around an ankle, unused but refusing its drowning back -- words felt almost even further away than they did when she hadn't had any at her fingertips to start with. When all of it could have been summed up in a look at him, but he isn't there to look at, and she isn't even certain she'd want to be if he could be, only that it's a brand new level of annoying, of wordlessness, that she can't either. ]