Fitzjames has a point. It pings around Prior's chest like butterflies and not bullets and he nearly full-on steps on the other man's boot, only shearing luckily off the edge and catching himself with a tighter grip around Fitzjames' body.
A muttering apology accompanies Prior's renewed attention, cast down at their feet as if to get his bearings. He falls back into line fairly quickly, recovery in some measure.
"I do miss her," Prior admits, lowly. "But I don't know that our engagement wasn't predicated on... dismal promises." He lacks any sense of guilt despite how it sounds, and goes on to explain: "Neither of us expected me to make it back."
Under reddened cheeks, eyes and throat and stomach stinging of pine, he comes to a stop as the music does, but doesn't let go. "I should have married her before I left, but I was—" Afraid. He was terrified, in fact. To hold on, to let go, to do anything at all or nothing at all.
no subject
A muttering apology accompanies Prior's renewed attention, cast down at their feet as if to get his bearings. He falls back into line fairly quickly, recovery in some measure.
"I do miss her," Prior admits, lowly. "But I don't know that our engagement wasn't predicated on... dismal promises." He lacks any sense of guilt despite how it sounds, and goes on to explain: "Neither of us expected me to make it back."
Under reddened cheeks, eyes and throat and stomach stinging of pine, he comes to a stop as the music does, but doesn't let go. "I should have married her before I left, but I was—" Afraid. He was terrified, in fact. To hold on, to let go, to do anything at all or nothing at all.