It still isn't easy to hear. Gleb still feels like a fool, listening to her reasoning, beginning to understand that what he'd believed to be the case about her statement in the elevator may not be true after all. Wrong or not, he can't help but think that she should have known him better than that, and that it's on him that he didn't. None of what he did was to try to win her affection or to prove himself — it was simply that he couldn't have done otherwise, couldn't have borne the weight of that on his conscience, feeling for her the way he does — but he would have thought it self-explanatory. He promised to hear her out, though, and so he does. It's not as if he can blame her for that, anyway, given who and what he is and what he almost did once, even if she mercifully never lived through that. Of course she would think that her name, her blood, would keep him at a distance.
The things he once believed, he suspects he'll always believe. Those matters just aren't as simple as he'd once thought them to be, and neither of them ought to be defined by the wrongdoings of their parents. His father may have saved her, but he still shot children. That isn't a very easy weight to bear, not when Gleb can still remember the sound of those screams, when he's watched what happened in that basement, however quickly the world may then have changed around them again. He chose her that night they repeatedly lived through, that he's seen too many times since they last spoke, just as he chose her back in Paris, just as he would now, if that were still an option.
"I died for you, Anya," he points out, frowning slightly, his voice still quiet. She's close enough now that he could touch her, and he's practically desperate to do so, to curve his hand against her jaw or rest both against her waist. He does neither. That sort of thing isn't in the picture anymore. He does, however, take the hand she's held out to him, not wanting to seem as if he's rejecting her, even if he can't do anything more than that. "I was going to, back home. And I would again now, if it came to that. So I..."
Sighing, he shakes his head just slightly. "Nothing could make me regret loving you. Not your name or where you come from or anything that's happened here." He can't be sure, not really, if that means he would want the kind of future with her that she decided in the elevator that he wouldn't. It's nothing he ever got to consider before, and now, it's too painful to do so, knowing that he couldn't have it even if he did want to. "But why wouldn't I regret saying it? What has it done, except made things harder?"
He can't very well think that she's here because she's choosing him, though he wouldn't ask that of her at all. It hurts, though, to have her tell him she loves him without any reason to believe that anything will come of it. Unintentional or not, it feels like salt in a wound, and he's too tired to try to hide it. "I love you, and... you might feel the same, but what does saying that change?" Left unspoken is that she still loves someone else, but he doubts she needs the reminder any more than he does.
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The things he once believed, he suspects he'll always believe. Those matters just aren't as simple as he'd once thought them to be, and neither of them ought to be defined by the wrongdoings of their parents. His father may have saved her, but he still shot children. That isn't a very easy weight to bear, not when Gleb can still remember the sound of those screams, when he's watched what happened in that basement, however quickly the world may then have changed around them again. He chose her that night they repeatedly lived through, that he's seen too many times since they last spoke, just as he chose her back in Paris, just as he would now, if that were still an option.
"I died for you, Anya," he points out, frowning slightly, his voice still quiet. She's close enough now that he could touch her, and he's practically desperate to do so, to curve his hand against her jaw or rest both against her waist. He does neither. That sort of thing isn't in the picture anymore. He does, however, take the hand she's held out to him, not wanting to seem as if he's rejecting her, even if he can't do anything more than that. "I was going to, back home. And I would again now, if it came to that. So I..."
Sighing, he shakes his head just slightly. "Nothing could make me regret loving you. Not your name or where you come from or anything that's happened here." He can't be sure, not really, if that means he would want the kind of future with her that she decided in the elevator that he wouldn't. It's nothing he ever got to consider before, and now, it's too painful to do so, knowing that he couldn't have it even if he did want to. "But why wouldn't I regret saying it? What has it done, except made things harder?"
He can't very well think that she's here because she's choosing him, though he wouldn't ask that of her at all. It hurts, though, to have her tell him she loves him without any reason to believe that anything will come of it. Unintentional or not, it feels like salt in a wound, and he's too tired to try to hide it. "I love you, and... you might feel the same, but what does saying that change?" Left unspoken is that she still loves someone else, but he doubts she needs the reminder any more than he does.