Clemente
Though it's harder than hell to talk about his life, something he's only really done once with Dante, he can at least appreciate Rexanna's silence. That she is clearly upset by the words running off his tongue is a weird, backwards comfort. Like a validation that maybe he hadn't been playing it up, that life had really been shitty to him. Clemente had spent so long just trying to get by, trying to make the best of things. It had warped his view a little of what was normal, what was right.When he's finished, or at least close to, his eyes still brimming with tears too stubborn to dry up, Rexanna finally moves. The movement snaps his gaze to her instinctively, years of defensiveness and sneaking around keeping his attention firmly fixed on any potential targets. But he knows she doesn't want to hurt him, and when she sits beside him, arms coming up to embrace him, Clem...lets her.
At first he's stiff, unfamiliar with the physical touch for what little he can feel it, but then he folds inward, making himself as small as possible and turning his head into the cool crook of her neck. The tears slide faster then, but there are no sobs, no hitching breaths, because he has no need for it anymore. It's sure to wet her blouse, and he will feel guilty about it later, but for now he simply cries out the unfairness of his life into her skin and listens to her soft attempt at comfort. In this they are the same. This pervasive doubt, awkwardness, and he laughs pitifully in her grasp.
"Don' tell Wessex that then," he jokes, though Clem's voice is still weak and watery. He pulls back reluctantly, only to clean his cheeks with the blanket, afraid - or ashamed - to meet her beautiful eyes. "Sorry 'bout your shirt," he whispers, though he lingers in her embrace, drinking it up like a man rescued after years in the desert.
i stopped being a kid the day
you sent me down here to die
