The thing is: of course he is not always as happy and buoyant as he acts. But the other thing: actually sometimes he is. Frequently, even. Weariness, impatience, offense, and the occasional bout of misery will come but then go again, without having ever really taken their shoes off and gotten comfortable. Even his mild fear and discomfort at being trapped in an unfamiliar world had been chased fully out of his chest at the sight of the books.
And another thing is, feeling someone feel something is not the same as feeling it. Perhaps only by degrees, the difference between being on fire and being heated by one—or, in this case, brought to a standstill by one, frozen by feelings-once-removed that would make him sit down, if they belonged to him, and wait for someone to come convince him he should move.
Fortunately, letting go is an easy thing. It doesn't take much. His fingers go loose, his hand swings free. He takes a breath.
"We can just walk the perimeter, I suppose," begins distant, but by the end he sounds more like himself. "Read the spines until something is—you know."
He aims a little smile up, sideways. His gaze is not searching. He was better trained than that. And free of the radiation of exhaustion and unhappiness, he does think, at least he's impressed.
Already beginning to walk, talented enough to ruminate and walk at the same time, he musters up something more decisive. "Up the stairs first. I like to be tall."
two months later,
He is still holding onto Ellis' hand.
The thing is: of course he is not always as happy and buoyant as he acts. But the other thing: actually sometimes he is. Frequently, even. Weariness, impatience, offense, and the occasional bout of misery will come but then go again, without having ever really taken their shoes off and gotten comfortable. Even his mild fear and discomfort at being trapped in an unfamiliar world had been chased fully out of his chest at the sight of the books.
And another thing is, feeling someone feel something is not the same as feeling it. Perhaps only by degrees, the difference between being on fire and being heated by one—or, in this case, brought to a standstill by one, frozen by feelings-once-removed that would make him sit down, if they belonged to him, and wait for someone to come convince him he should move.
Fortunately, letting go is an easy thing. It doesn't take much. His fingers go loose, his hand swings free. He takes a breath.
"We can just walk the perimeter, I suppose," begins distant, but by the end he sounds more like himself. "Read the spines until something is—you know."
He aims a little smile up, sideways. His gaze is not searching. He was better trained than that. And free of the radiation of exhaustion and unhappiness, he does think, at least he's impressed.
Already beginning to walk, talented enough to ruminate and walk at the same time, he musters up something more decisive. "Up the stairs first. I like to be tall."