( He nods again; she's right, he has known they're— buddies, not a term he's used very frequently, but he understands what it means (except for all the ways he doesn't understand; maybe it means something a bit different, for her. Perhaps in the future, buddies court one another. It could be, he doesn't know!! And perhaps he's mistaken, perhaps it isn't that way at all, but... it certainly isn't his place to inquire directly.)
What he does know is that he doesn't want to cause her any distress, or Mr. March.
The other thing he knows is that this feels like loss, somehow, and it's very strange and he doesn't deserve to feel an ounce of longing or lament. Not him. He doesn't deserve anything but loss; Edward knows that.
(And yet, his heart has its own will, not understanding the concept of what's deserved. Wynonna has never been his to keep, in the ways his foolish heart seems to suddenly think she is, or could be — and why would she? He's truly being absurd — but his heart mourns her, all the same.)
Even now, she's asking if he's all right, checking on him, and Edward quietly berates himself for any melancholy showing through in his features. Still, around her... it's so hard to hide himself, now. His eyes are soft and wet and swimming; his heart patters against its ribcage. More than anything, he's filled with some desire to embrace her again, hug her. He doesn't, but he does smile a little at her, shy and warm. )
I am — it's been a very enjoyable time. ( He means that, authentically. She makes him feel more happy, and free, and many other things that for so long, he felt himself incapable of. He misses the moment already.
But something pauses in him, and his eyes themselves seem to hesitate, lashes fluttering softly like a shuddering breath. Then they find her again, falling to the blue-grey pair. He stares at her for a long moment, savouring it — the way she looks at him, the sweep of loose curls. Maybe weeks or months ago he wouldn't have been able to say what he says next, but then again, it's always been strangely easy to be honest around Wynonna, despite all the ways he's tried to hide his honest feelings. But when he looks right at her, his heart has to do the speaking.
His words are soft, and quiet, and for a moment he barely breathes. )
A man would be fortunate to be so close with you, Miss Earp.
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What he does know is that he doesn't want to cause her any distress, or Mr. March.
The other thing he knows is that this feels like loss, somehow, and it's very strange and he doesn't deserve to feel an ounce of longing or lament. Not him. He doesn't deserve anything but loss; Edward knows that.
(And yet, his heart has its own will, not understanding the concept of what's deserved. Wynonna has never been his to keep, in the ways his foolish heart seems to suddenly think she is, or could be — and why would she? He's truly being absurd — but his heart mourns her, all the same.)
Even now, she's asking if he's all right, checking on him, and Edward quietly berates himself for any melancholy showing through in his features. Still, around her... it's so hard to hide himself, now. His eyes are soft and wet and swimming; his heart patters against its ribcage. More than anything, he's filled with some desire to embrace her again, hug her. He doesn't, but he does smile a little at her, shy and warm. )
I am — it's been a very enjoyable time. ( He means that, authentically. She makes him feel more happy, and free, and many other things that for so long, he felt himself incapable of. He misses the moment already.
But something pauses in him, and his eyes themselves seem to hesitate, lashes fluttering softly like a shuddering breath. Then they find her again, falling to the blue-grey pair. He stares at her for a long moment, savouring it — the way she looks at him, the sweep of loose curls. Maybe weeks or months ago he wouldn't have been able to say what he says next, but then again, it's always been strangely easy to be honest around Wynonna, despite all the ways he's tried to hide his honest feelings. But when he looks right at her, his heart has to do the speaking.
His words are soft, and quiet, and for a moment he barely breathes. )
A man would be fortunate to be so close with you, Miss Earp.