Of course it would be easier, Gleb wants to tell her. Of course he would rather that were the case. He would never have known, after all, already resolved to love her from a distance, and he can't see how it would really have mattered all that much. Dmitry would still have arrived and she could be happy with him, any temporary thoughts of what might have been between the two of them set aside before they could ever blossom into anything. There wouldn't have been any reason for her to wonder about it forever. As much as he'd like to, though, he can't quite bring himself to point all of that out. She chose someone else, or at least he thought she did; it doesn't seem as if it would accomplish anything to try to convince her that they shouldn't have been together. Perhaps the kinder thing would be to remove himself from the equation entirely, box up his own feelings and tell her he doesn't want this, but if he were going to be able to do that, he would have a long time ago. He barely knew her when he followed her to Paris, and still, it was nothing he could ignore. If there was no pretending or compartmentalizing this away then, there certainly isn't now, when he knows what it's like to hold her and kiss her like he never has anyone else.
He won't protest to her being with someone else, won't try to get in her way or win her back, but neither will he act as if he doesn't feel for her the way he does. It's not the same, he thinks, to wish that she didn't know, that he'd never said anything. He still would have carried it around with him, just as he's doing now. No matter how agonizing it might be, it's nothing he thinks he could ever be rid of.
It's more so now than ever, too, the impossibly soft brush of her hand against his face nearly enough to make him lose any composure on the spot. Against all of his better judgment, he turns his head enough to lean into her touch, brushing a soft kiss against the heel of her hand. If this is all he ever gets now, then he might as well savor it, and he still doesn't know where this is going to go, how they'll possibly come out of it alright. There's still someone else in the picture, someone whom she loves and who loves her in return, who doesn't want there to be anyone else in the picture.
Briefly, he wonders if Dmitry knows she's here, then supposes it's better not to find out either way.
"I already told you, I won't fight for you," Gleb says, softer still than the previous moment. Even as he speaks, he doesn't pull away, though he knows it would be the smarter thing to do. It feels so much like before, though at least now there are no lives on the line; he's at war with himself again, knowing what he should do and yet not being able to do it. "That isn't fair to you. You deserve better than that." For just a moment, he shuts his eyes, breathing in deep. Every step of this has been unpredictable so far, nothing at all like what he would have expected, and it's hard to know where to go because of that. Finally, he settles on what seems simplest, even if the words aren't easy to summon up. "What do you want?"
no subject
He won't protest to her being with someone else, won't try to get in her way or win her back, but neither will he act as if he doesn't feel for her the way he does. It's not the same, he thinks, to wish that she didn't know, that he'd never said anything. He still would have carried it around with him, just as he's doing now. No matter how agonizing it might be, it's nothing he thinks he could ever be rid of.
It's more so now than ever, too, the impossibly soft brush of her hand against his face nearly enough to make him lose any composure on the spot. Against all of his better judgment, he turns his head enough to lean into her touch, brushing a soft kiss against the heel of her hand. If this is all he ever gets now, then he might as well savor it, and he still doesn't know where this is going to go, how they'll possibly come out of it alright. There's still someone else in the picture, someone whom she loves and who loves her in return, who doesn't want there to be anyone else in the picture.
Briefly, he wonders if Dmitry knows she's here, then supposes it's better not to find out either way.
"I already told you, I won't fight for you," Gleb says, softer still than the previous moment. Even as he speaks, he doesn't pull away, though he knows it would be the smarter thing to do. It feels so much like before, though at least now there are no lives on the line; he's at war with himself again, knowing what he should do and yet not being able to do it. "That isn't fair to you. You deserve better than that." For just a moment, he shuts his eyes, breathing in deep. Every step of this has been unpredictable so far, nothing at all like what he would have expected, and it's hard to know where to go because of that. Finally, he settles on what seems simplest, even if the words aren't easy to summon up. "What do you want?"