[ Jaime's not sure what he's expecting that she's so nervous about. Maybe it's something she worked on? She's a pretty artsy person. He's still gotta check out her games. Maybe it's something to do with that. Either way, he's not particularly expecting a book when he rips the wrapping open, and he makes a quiet noise of surprise as he lifts it out, sweeping one hand flat against the cover; even without the boon of feeling the emotions that come with objects, he's always been a tactile person, imbuing them with his own strength of feeling. Maybe that's why all of his knick knacks probably work for Ruka. It's probably why she chose the book she did, too, that soft, yielding cover that she knew he'd immediately run his hands over.
Then he opens it. ]
Oh.
[ One hand flips the pages, but now that the book's secure on his knees, his other hand travels, clasping to his chest, rising to cover his mouth, fingers scratching against the scruff of his beard. ]
Oh.
[ This, even without the other gifts, would be too much. More than he deserves. But every single page has the same thing etched on it, in its own way, Ruka saying what she thinks and how she feels with other people's words and other people's images - and is that really such a surprise? All of these say, over and over again, you've earned this and you deserve this and you managed to do something good. And that's all Jaime had ever wanted, really. To do something good. To do something that's worth something - anything.
It's the before-and-after pictures that really get to him. The rest do, of course, but this - this is why he does this. This is why he does anything. So these people will have a future, so they'll go on to make their own choices and live happily, so they can have the freedom that's been stolen from so many. How did she find these? How did she put this together? Jaime wouldn't have even known where to start. It must have taken her months. His breath hitches in his chest and his eyes well up despite him willing them not to - he's already cried in front of her so many times, and it feels like there's only so many times he should be able to go to that well in front of someone, but here he is, vision growing cloudy and words turning illegible in the face of it.
At least they're good tears this time. He hurriedly wipes the tears away, as though that can hide a dang thing when Ruka's staring right at him, feeling everything that he's feeling. It's good that she is, because he has no clue how to express it. How glad he is that so many of these people are doing all right, that they're flourishing, how touched he is to have remained in their memory, and possibly most potent of all, how overwhelmed he is that Ruka had put this all together. He wouldn't have expected anyone to. But Ruka, for all that he holds her in - in high esteem (he tries, with futility, to use such language even in the privacy of his own head; it's hard to go slow when his heart keeps on soaring ahead of him) shouldn't have had time for something like this. She's got more important things to do. Better things to do with her time. God knows Jaime couldn't cope with half the things Ruka has to deal with.
[ Trying to hide his reaction is, functionally, useless, but it's like him all the same. She doesn't mind. It's a lot to take in, and it's what she expected — what she hoped for, even if the referred tightness in her throat and the burn of tears and gratitude makes it hard to speak.
She moves to sit closer, leaning against his side; her arm slips into the space under his, hand resting on his forearm. Not moving to hold hands, not while he's still holding the book, but it's contact. Weight and presence. ]
It's not El Paso, and... [ she murmurs, chin at his shoulder, heart in her throat, ] ... there's nothing that can replace the people you've lost. There never will be. But... you're not just an imPort, you know? What you guys do here, it's something that will outlast any of us. These are people that will never forget you. This world is better with you in it.
[ Jaime is sentimental. It's why she went for photographs, for kids' drawings, for the little mementos to remind him of the people he's met, the things he's done. But the letters, the after-words... time and again, she's found Jaime to be someone who craves for things without knowing, who wants for things he doesn't pursue. He doesn't dress to stand out, but he wants to be seen, to be noticed. He doesn't do things for praise, for a good word, for a prize — but he still wants it to mean something. More than anything, she thinks, he wants to matter. ]
[ It's taken Jaime a long time to get here. Years. Sometimes, when he speaks of home, he's still not thinking about this place - he's thinking about the place that had always been his home, where he'd grown up, the people he had loved, the places he had always visited. But more and more, home becomes here.
You can belong to two places at once. Maybe Jaime's just all the more luckier for it. And when Ruka's sitting here by his side, warm against him, something that can only be described as loving even though he hadn't thought she'd get there so soon - looking at this, clearly she had - it's hard to look around him and not call this home. There are people he loves here.
The past year has just given him one more person to love. That's it. He splays his hand across one page, looking down at it. When people had asked him why he did what he did when there's no guarantee that he'll stick around, he'd always told them the same thing: it's for the people that will still be here.
They'll remember him. They'll remember all of them. Hopefully they'll remember them for what they are, not what they could be, or what they thought they were. But they'd be remembered. It's hard to speak for a second, so he doesn't. ]
Yeah, [ he manages. ] I guess I do. I mean... my world's better with you in it too.
[ That's something he can't quite shake off. It felt like he'd been drifting for a while. Dreaming. Then in the past year, all of a sudden, he'd woken up. But the world around him had been awake and alive that whole time. He just hadn't ever been able to see it. He shifts a little, leaning on her even as he raises a hand to scrub a little at his eyes. ]
Ruka... thank you.
[ It doesn't feel deserved. But on every page, there's people telling him that's not the case.
[ The hardest part is staying right where she is. His heart is brimming, overfull with affection, with sentiment, overfull. That much is fine. That much she expected from the start, but... when he turns the focus of it on her, it's hard not to deflect. It's hard not to knock those words from the air. His world is better with her? It's worse, too. Whatever good she brings, he could get that from a dozen other, better places, if he ever let himself look.
(But, already greedy, she doesn't want him looking for them anymore, either. Her fingertips, still gloved, sweep over his wrist, the line of his pulse. She doesn't want to lose him. Least of all to her own sabotage.) ]
So, [ she murmurs, voice quiet and throat dry, overwhelmed in her own feelings, ] was it worth the interruption?
You're ridiculous, [ he says, but it's fond, awe-struck in a way, something you say to someone who so stridently defies definition or expectation. Jaime doesn't think he's met anyone who fits that more than Ruka does.
Ridiculous. And the real shame of it is that nobody knows it. Or maybe a few people know it - but not enough. It makes him yearn for family, and for old friends. You'll never believe this girl I met, he'd tell them. And then they'd meet her, and maybe they wouldn't believe him, thinking him addled by some pretty girl. But they'd realize he was right, in the end.
Hopefully he'll be able to tell his friends here about that soon. Except for instead of you'll never believe this girl I met, it'll be the much less glamorous, yeah, you're right, I'm a big dumb idiot.
It probably won't surprise her that he goes straight for the hug, palm flat against her back, chin resting on her shoulder as he says, ] Yes. It was worth the interruption.
That's the thought that manages to register as he folds her into embrace. She could trace the outline of his hand on her back from memory by the burn of it, even through fabric, and where his arm leans against her ribs; she can feel the weight of his chin on her, but she can feel the distance between his cheek and hers just from the temperature, the negligent pressure and movement of air. She's too sensitive in a lot of ways, hyper-aware of herself and her surroundings, constantly receiving input from seemingly everyone and everything around her. Details cling, and hurts linger — but she's sensitive to this kind of thing, too.
A lot of their friendship has been confined to twilight places, offering shelter in a deluge of hurt. Holding hands like holding breath against high waves. Hugs less like affection and more like locking arms around the trunk of a tree and praying for the winds to pass. This isn't that. It's softer, calmer, more comfortable; it's easy, in a way so few things are. Easy, now, to let herself reciprocate. Easy to put her arms around his shoulders with that same deliberation as her play with BB had gone; easy to pull Jaime in closer, a little tighter, making warmth a complete circle for them both.
She's too sensitive, and she thinks too much, but for all that her thoughts and her heart can race on at a moment's notice, but for all that she can feel the way her thoughts stutter and her heart drum a little louder in her chest, there's no hesitation to returning the hug. ]
Good, [ she murmurs, quiet; even his mood is so bright and warm it feels like there's a little star burning away in his chest. A hidden sun. ] I'm glad you like it.
[ ... And maybe if she hides her face against his neck he won't notice how red her face has gotten. ]
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2019-06-11 07:46 pm (UTC)[ Jaime's not sure what he's expecting that she's so nervous about. Maybe it's something she worked on? She's a pretty artsy person. He's still gotta check out her games. Maybe it's something to do with that. Either way, he's not particularly expecting a book when he rips the wrapping open, and he makes a quiet noise of surprise as he lifts it out, sweeping one hand flat against the cover; even without the boon of feeling the emotions that come with objects, he's always been a tactile person, imbuing them with his own strength of feeling. Maybe that's why all of his knick knacks probably work for Ruka. It's probably why she chose the book she did, too, that soft, yielding cover that she knew he'd immediately run his hands over.
Then he opens it. ]
Oh.
[ One hand flips the pages, but now that the book's secure on his knees, his other hand travels, clasping to his chest, rising to cover his mouth, fingers scratching against the scruff of his beard. ]
Oh.
[ This, even without the other gifts, would be too much. More than he deserves. But every single page has the same thing etched on it, in its own way, Ruka saying what she thinks and how she feels with other people's words and other people's images - and is that really such a surprise? All of these say, over and over again, you've earned this and you deserve this and you managed to do something good. And that's all Jaime had ever wanted, really. To do something good. To do something that's worth something - anything.
It's the before-and-after pictures that really get to him. The rest do, of course, but this - this is why he does this. This is why he does anything. So these people will have a future, so they'll go on to make their own choices and live happily, so they can have the freedom that's been stolen from so many. How did she find these? How did she put this together? Jaime wouldn't have even known where to start. It must have taken her months. His breath hitches in his chest and his eyes well up despite him willing them not to - he's already cried in front of her so many times, and it feels like there's only so many times he should be able to go to that well in front of someone, but here he is, vision growing cloudy and words turning illegible in the face of it.
At least they're good tears this time. He hurriedly wipes the tears away, as though that can hide a dang thing when Ruka's staring right at him, feeling everything that he's feeling. It's good that she is, because he has no clue how to express it. How glad he is that so many of these people are doing all right, that they're flourishing, how touched he is to have remained in their memory, and possibly most potent of all, how overwhelmed he is that Ruka had put this all together. He wouldn't have expected anyone to. But Ruka, for all that he holds her in - in high esteem (he tries, with futility, to use such language even in the privacy of his own head; it's hard to go slow when his heart keeps on soaring ahead of him) shouldn't have had time for something like this. She's got more important things to do. Better things to do with her time. God knows Jaime couldn't cope with half the things Ruka has to deal with.
But here she is. And here this is. ]
Ruka...
[ Just give him a second. ]
no subject
Date: 2019-06-11 08:36 pm (UTC)She moves to sit closer, leaning against his side; her arm slips into the space under his, hand resting on his forearm. Not moving to hold hands, not while he's still holding the book, but it's contact. Weight and presence. ]
It's not El Paso, and... [ she murmurs, chin at his shoulder, heart in her throat, ] ... there's nothing that can replace the people you've lost. There never will be. But... you're not just an imPort, you know? What you guys do here, it's something that will outlast any of us. These are people that will never forget you. This world is better with you in it.
[ Jaime is sentimental. It's why she went for photographs, for kids' drawings, for the little mementos to remind him of the people he's met, the things he's done. But the letters, the after-words... time and again, she's found Jaime to be someone who craves for things without knowing, who wants for things he doesn't pursue. He doesn't dress to stand out, but he wants to be seen, to be noticed. He doesn't do things for praise, for a good word, for a prize — but he still wants it to mean something. More than anything, she thinks, he wants to matter. ]
This is where you belong.
no subject
Date: 2019-06-18 01:28 am (UTC)You can belong to two places at once. Maybe Jaime's just all the more luckier for it. And when Ruka's sitting here by his side, warm against him, something that can only be described as loving even though he hadn't thought she'd get there so soon - looking at this, clearly she had - it's hard to look around him and not call this home. There are people he loves here.
The past year has just given him one more person to love. That's it. He splays his hand across one page, looking down at it. When people had asked him why he did what he did when there's no guarantee that he'll stick around, he'd always told them the same thing: it's for the people that will still be here.
They'll remember him. They'll remember all of them. Hopefully they'll remember them for what they are, not what they could be, or what they thought they were. But they'd be remembered. It's hard to speak for a second, so he doesn't. ]
Yeah, [ he manages. ] I guess I do. I mean... my world's better with you in it too.
[ That's something he can't quite shake off. It felt like he'd been drifting for a while. Dreaming. Then in the past year, all of a sudden, he'd woken up. But the world around him had been awake and alive that whole time. He just hadn't ever been able to see it. He shifts a little, leaning on her even as he raises a hand to scrub a little at his eyes. ]
Ruka... thank you.
[ It doesn't feel deserved. But on every page, there's people telling him that's not the case.
That's something. ]
no subject
Date: 2019-06-18 03:44 am (UTC)(But, already greedy, she doesn't want him looking for them anymore, either. Her fingertips, still gloved, sweep over his wrist, the line of his pulse. She doesn't want to lose him. Least of all to her own sabotage.) ]
So, [ she murmurs, voice quiet and throat dry, overwhelmed in her own feelings, ] was it worth the interruption?
TWO HUG TAGS IN ONE EVENING!!!
Date: 2019-06-23 08:59 am (UTC)Ridiculous. And the real shame of it is that nobody knows it. Or maybe a few people know it - but not enough. It makes him yearn for family, and for old friends. You'll never believe this girl I met, he'd tell them. And then they'd meet her, and maybe they wouldn't believe him, thinking him addled by some pretty girl. But they'd realize he was right, in the end.
Hopefully he'll be able to tell his friends here about that soon. Except for instead of you'll never believe this girl I met, it'll be the much less glamorous, yeah, you're right, I'm a big dumb idiot.
It probably won't surprise her that he goes straight for the hug, palm flat against her back, chin resting on her shoulder as he says, ] Yes. It was worth the interruption.
hugbugs....
Date: 2019-06-24 05:27 am (UTC)That's the thought that manages to register as he folds her into embrace. She could trace the outline of his hand on her back from memory by the burn of it, even through fabric, and where his arm leans against her ribs; she can feel the weight of his chin on her, but she can feel the distance between his cheek and hers just from the temperature, the negligent pressure and movement of air. She's too sensitive in a lot of ways, hyper-aware of herself and her surroundings, constantly receiving input from seemingly everyone and everything around her. Details cling, and hurts linger — but she's sensitive to this kind of thing, too.
A lot of their friendship has been confined to twilight places, offering shelter in a deluge of hurt. Holding hands like holding breath against high waves. Hugs less like affection and more like locking arms around the trunk of a tree and praying for the winds to pass. This isn't that. It's softer, calmer, more comfortable; it's easy, in a way so few things are. Easy, now, to let herself reciprocate. Easy to put her arms around his shoulders with that same deliberation as her play with BB had gone; easy to pull Jaime in closer, a little tighter, making warmth a complete circle for them both.
She's too sensitive, and she thinks too much, but for all that her thoughts and her heart can race on at a moment's notice, but for all that she can feel the way her thoughts stutter and her heart drum a little louder in her chest, there's no hesitation to returning the hug. ]
Good, [ she murmurs, quiet; even his mood is so bright and warm it feels like there's a little star burning away in his chest. A hidden sun. ] I'm glad you like it.
[ ... And maybe if she hides her face against his neck he won't notice how red her face has gotten. ]