It's easier than it likely should be to kiss her like this. In a way, that's always been the case, but Gleb is more acutely aware of it now. That first morning she turned up on his doorstep after he made a confession that he hadn't known she would remember, he'd been so caught up in the unexpectedness of it and the chance to act on what he'd kept so long buried that he hadn't needed to give it much thought, acting then on an impulse that he wouldn't have even known he had. This is different — still anchored, perhaps, in the same sort of desperate longing that he's carried with him for so long where she's concerned, but a quieter form of it now, neither sharp and sudden and fueled by some living nightmare nor with the simplicity that followed, when he didn't know he was going to lose her. There's a weight to this, a significance, but a certainty, too. It doesn't need to happen all at once. She's chosen this, and he may not know why, but he won't question it.
Even if he wanted to, he doubts he could. Her arms around him are like an anchor; her fingers burn where she touches him, as if to mark him as hers the way he knows he is. He feels cut open and bled dry and healed all at once, and all because of her. One person shouldn't have so much power. There's an irony in the fact that she does now, that he's given it to her like this, that he would do so over and over rather than try to cut himself off from her. If that were ever an option, he would have been able to do so a long time ago. He's well past that point now.
He doesn't know how long he stays there, lost in her and a kiss that's both soft and intent. Certainly it can't be very long, but in those moments, the rest of the world is shut out and nothing else matters, and it might as well be a lifetime. If this was all he ever got from her, he could be content with that. Already it's more than he expected, both at the start and after thinking he'd lost her for good. Instead, for a moment, a part of him wants nothing more than to draw back just enough to ask her to stay, improper and startling a thought as that is. It might even seem worth acting on if not for the part of him that still doesn't quite know where they stand. This is a beginning, not a continuation. They can't just ignore the last few weeks. He knows she wouldn't lie to him about something like this, but a part of him still can't help but wonder what might happen when Dmitry enters the picture again, and that in itself would keep him from rushing forward, no matter how right it might feel in the moment.
That much, he buries, dismissing it as out of place and inexplicable. He shivers a little as, finally, he draws in a deep breath. "I choose this, too," he says, perhaps belatedly, perhaps needlessly. He chose her in Paris, even if Anya standing before him now didn't experience that herself; he chose her on a relived night in Yekaterinburg, over and over until he died in her arms. It seems unlikely that anything would prompt him to want to make a different choice now. "I always will."
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Even if he wanted to, he doubts he could. Her arms around him are like an anchor; her fingers burn where she touches him, as if to mark him as hers the way he knows he is. He feels cut open and bled dry and healed all at once, and all because of her. One person shouldn't have so much power. There's an irony in the fact that she does now, that he's given it to her like this, that he would do so over and over rather than try to cut himself off from her. If that were ever an option, he would have been able to do so a long time ago. He's well past that point now.
He doesn't know how long he stays there, lost in her and a kiss that's both soft and intent. Certainly it can't be very long, but in those moments, the rest of the world is shut out and nothing else matters, and it might as well be a lifetime. If this was all he ever got from her, he could be content with that. Already it's more than he expected, both at the start and after thinking he'd lost her for good. Instead, for a moment, a part of him wants nothing more than to draw back just enough to ask her to stay, improper and startling a thought as that is. It might even seem worth acting on if not for the part of him that still doesn't quite know where they stand. This is a beginning, not a continuation. They can't just ignore the last few weeks. He knows she wouldn't lie to him about something like this, but a part of him still can't help but wonder what might happen when Dmitry enters the picture again, and that in itself would keep him from rushing forward, no matter how right it might feel in the moment.
That much, he buries, dismissing it as out of place and inexplicable. He shivers a little as, finally, he draws in a deep breath. "I choose this, too," he says, perhaps belatedly, perhaps needlessly. He chose her in Paris, even if Anya standing before him now didn't experience that herself; he chose her on a relived night in Yekaterinburg, over and over until he died in her arms. It seems unlikely that anything would prompt him to want to make a different choice now. "I always will."