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PARISA

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[multiverse]

( its been a strange few days, although it tracks that everything wouldn't be business as usual post a speedy death and revival within a relationship. parisa is almost too busy clinging to emmrich to notice that he's clinging back to her — but he is, and she's grateful. time heals these kinds of things, she has to assume. there's a thorn between them in a spot that used to be smooth, supple flesh, but the irritation lessens day in and day out, and with enough time, even her fingernails might stop biting into his back to keep him grounded into her. one can only imagine.

parisa knows better than to be wowed by romantic gestures — of course, that doesn't stop her intake of breath at the sight of emmrich's room, less because she's impressed by flowers, and more because she's impressed every time emmrich unveils how thoughtful he is. he listens, which is a novelty. unheard of in her century's dating pool. the air in his room smells of roses and emmrich's cologne, and parisa toys with a nearby petal while emmrich approaches her, eyes going down to the corsage. recognizing it.

she smiles, small and secret, fingers scooping up his letter. she's been anticipating it since leaving her own, cracking open the seal, lifting a brow at him. ) We'll see.

( like her yes might sit in the balance of how good his letter is. like he's ever written a letter that was not good in his life.

generally a speedy reader, parisa instead gives his letter the attention it deserves, reading in front of him, looking line by line at each and every word etched in his lovely script. she breathes out at the right points, mouth twisting in wryness she tries to bite down, feeling her throat go a little dry, palms a little sweaty. love is like this — disarming, even dangerous. there's a real threat of swooning somewhere inside her. at the end of it, she thumbs across his farsi words, before folding the letter back into thirds and slapping it on her open palm, before setting it aside looking up at him. )

Right. Down here. ( she gestures to the floor in front of her. ) One knee.

( less to instruct him, more because it's easier to be on a level with him like this — her hands reaching out, cupping his cheeks stepping in close enough to him that he can almost rest his chin on her stomach. parisa's voice is melted caramel soft, eyes slightly shiny. maybe it's the light. )

Grieving you is no hardship. It's — ( she lets out a breath. ) it's like loving you. Who, with any sense to them, could help it? You're so ...

( so addictive, she thinks. so stable. so intellectual. so romantic and so, so kind. nothing serves him justice to the way she feels, more akin to an overfull cup than any voided emptiness from his death. rather than answer with words, she props up a heeled foot on his bent knee, finding the latch to a chain wrapped around her ankle — dainty and feminine, one thin, gold anklet, interrupted in equal distances by perfect, small rubies. she holds it out by the latch, chain dangling, in front of him. )

I'll go with you, my love. And I'll wear a devastating dress.