[ The melting is visible in a way it never would be sober. His face is gloopy puddle of warmth.
There’s an ache too, attached to a jumble of half-thoughts about Alexandrie, about the day she’ll leave and there will be another wound that Bastien can’t soothe. And about the day maybe she won’t leave after all, about the husband who has been gone for an awfully long time—
He can’t grip onto any of it. Not while he’s drunk and melting. He pulls Byerly in instead, onto his chest and into his neck. ]
That’s all right, then. [ The crying. ] If you’re not sad.
no subject
[ The melting is visible in a way it never would be sober. His face is gloopy puddle of warmth.
There’s an ache too, attached to a jumble of half-thoughts about Alexandrie, about the day she’ll leave and there will be another wound that Bastien can’t soothe. And about the day maybe she won’t leave after all, about the husband who has been gone for an awfully long time—
He can’t grip onto any of it. Not while he’s drunk and melting. He pulls Byerly in instead, onto his chest and into his neck. ]
That’s all right, then. [ The crying. ] If you’re not sad.