It's not always so easy being popular, you know, [ he teases, mostly, but without his usual mischievous glint to the eye and quirk to the mouth, like an inside joke he's sharing with himself. It all falls away as he watches her clink the glasses and take a hearty swallow, and she puts to voice the concept that's been there underneath everything.
'To running the hell away, then.'
Konstantin's insides tighten unpleasantly with guilt, and most of it is because he finds himself nodding to that toast without a second thought. Because even if he did it all over again, every single thing that's mattered in his life, he knows he'd make the same choices. He'd run away from what he needed to escape from. Who he needed to escape from.
And even now, he's here when he should be there, and all he can think is that he doesn't want to go back. That he dreads the thought enough for it to bother him, and he hates that. Vasya doesn't deserve that. The problem is himself, he's broken and selfish and afraid to be loved by anyone too much.
He stares over at Wynonna as she moves closer again, towards the fire with two drinks in hand. Once again, her words could be his own thought β Vasya wouldn't blame him for anything, because he never does. There's never been any resentment towards a person who's essentially been a burden on his life. There's been no fear of him, even for everything that's so wrong about him. Vasiliy has never been anything but open and willing and loyal to him. ]
....Hope that something else messes it up before you can, [ he finds himself saying, turning his head away from the smell of alcohol wafting nearer. God, he could use it. The thing hates that pungent smell, squirms in displeasure, and he gives it a quiet mental chastise. Konstantin isn't thinking about the fact it's only continuing to associate Wynonna's voice and scent with a particular upset... This will be fine. ]
And then hate yourself for being so goddamned selfish. At least, that's what I plan to do.
[ A faint smile as his eyes shift to the growing flames. ]
This Edward of yours sounds like a soft heart. People like that are scarier, I think. I never know how to hold them the safest way.
[ Like a child unable to gracefully cup something small in their hands. They squeeze a little too hard, break things. ]
no subject
'To running the hell away, then.'
Konstantin's insides tighten unpleasantly with guilt, and most of it is because he finds himself nodding to that toast without a second thought. Because even if he did it all over again, every single thing that's mattered in his life, he knows he'd make the same choices. He'd run away from what he needed to escape from. Who he needed to escape from.
And even now, he's here when he should be there, and all he can think is that he doesn't want to go back. That he dreads the thought enough for it to bother him, and he hates that. Vasya doesn't deserve that. The problem is himself, he's broken and selfish and afraid to be loved by anyone too much.
He stares over at Wynonna as she moves closer again, towards the fire with two drinks in hand. Once again, her words could be his own thought β Vasya wouldn't blame him for anything, because he never does. There's never been any resentment towards a person who's essentially been a burden on his life. There's been no fear of him, even for everything that's so wrong about him. Vasiliy has never been anything but open and willing and loyal to him. ]
....Hope that something else messes it up before you can, [ he finds himself saying, turning his head away from the smell of alcohol wafting nearer. God, he could use it. The thing hates that pungent smell, squirms in displeasure, and he gives it a quiet mental chastise. Konstantin isn't thinking about the fact it's only continuing to associate Wynonna's voice and scent with a particular upset... This will be fine. ]
And then hate yourself for being so goddamned selfish. At least, that's what I plan to do.
[ A faint smile as his eyes shift to the growing flames. ]
This Edward of yours sounds like a soft heart. People like that are scarier, I think. I never know how to hold them the safest way.
[ Like a child unable to gracefully cup something small in their hands. They squeeze a little too hard, break things. ]