[ When Alina falters, nearly draws back from his approach, Reggie stops short, stricken once again by how much she can say just through body language alone, through what she doesn't say; can she even tell how obvious it is that she would rather be anywhere else but here right now? Doubtfully.
He's hesitant himself, of course, and all the more so once those vague and ominous words, "It's my fault" are uttered, because as vague and ominous as Alina's been acting (not that he has anything to compare it to), how the hell would it be her fault he's got... amnesia, or whatever? Pretty much everyone else who had responded to his network post had also been vague, too, but many of them still had similar things to say: that this is apparently actually a somewhat common thing to happen in Duplicity, and that it usually only lasts about a week.
And if it's a known, semi-regular phenomena around here, how could it be her fault?
Reggie continues to stand there, expression more quizzical now, more troubled, like she's making so little sense she might as well be speaking another language. He places one hand on his hips, using the other to rub at his mouth thoughtfully not too unlike how she also wipes a palm over her lips. ]
Okay, but like, you gotta know that makes no sense, right?
[ she chokes on the words. the tears come, and immediately alina feels a surge of anger, not hurt or guilt or shame. anger. hot in her chest. how dare she make this about her and her feelings? selfish. stupid.
but she hiccups, her breath a sharp gasp as she tries to get enough to get the words out. she shakes her head, as if that would loose them from her pursed lips better. but there is only one way out through this. ]
[ Reggie stares at her blankly, like he didn't hear her right-- and he couldn't have heard her right, could he? Because from how Alina's making it sound, that would mean she'd have had to have killed him, right? And that's...
His lips twitch like he wants to smirk, laugh this whole thing off, but he feels a nauseating weight drop from his chest to his gut, emotional heartburn that's making him suddenly feel ill.
It happens to people when they die.
One would think it should go without saying, but to Reggie's recollection, he's sure as hell never died before, and he'd always been pretty damn proud of that, too; Riverdale is no easy town to survive. Surviving Riverdale makes surviving a place like Duplicity no friggin' sweat, probably, so how...
He doesn't look quite stricken, maintaining something of a pokerface except for the disturbed confusion that takes over it feature by feature. ]
But... [ That sentence dies, a long pause between that first word and the one he finally manages to follow it: ] Why?
[ Hopefully his meaning is clear enough, even if articulating it is still a bit overly complex for him as he's processing such unbelievable, impossible-to-process information: not Why does it happen?, but Why would you kill me? ]
[ she bites down on her lip. holds back the tears that redden her face and make her voice watery, shaky. she breathes fast, trying to level herself out.
a glance over her shoulder assures her that no one is coming by, no one is interrupting. it's just her paranoia and her reluctance to be alone with him, to have to face this. ]
I'm not a good person, Reggie. I'm jealous and selfish. I wanted you to myself and the city took advantage of it, but those feelings were mine. When I saw you with Ronnie, I ... All I could think of was every reason you would like her more than me. And why you'd be right to. How am I supposed to compete with that?
[ He bites down on his own lip, too, although for different reasons than she is; Reggie's are uncertainty, confusion, genuine shock, the latter especially which has struck him squarely at his center like a physical blow. Somehow he keeps standing, despite feeling like any second he'll just crumple like paper, fold in on himself like a broken lawn chair or some other equivalent analogy. Some other flimsy, damaged thing.
Any other time, he knows he would still want to close the distance between them and take her in his arms, hold her, reassure her, because that's just what he does-- people hurt him and he always stays, always comes back. Reggie doesn't have to remember his life in Duplicity to know that much about himself.
Any other time but this one. He's been hollowed out of every trace of her: the comforting warmth of their history that usually lives in his chest; every curve and angle and texture of her body that his fingers and mouth are always striving to know by heart; the way the dark spill of her hair looks in the mornings, like ink dripping down her face, down her body, that he can't ever help but want to touch.
Her eyes. Her eyes when she's happy, when they're not shining full of tears.
Her smile. As far as he knows right now, he's never even seen her smile.
Right now, she's barely more than a stranger to him.
He can't make his feet move, just scrubs his palm over his mouth idly, slowly, waiting for the right words to manifest themselves on his tongue; eventually words always do whether they're the right ones or not, but he'd prefer they at least not be the wrong ones. ]
You're not competing... I mean, like, you wouldn't be. Not if I'm dating you. [ And he means that, all of it, and not only because it's the best he can offer at the moment. ] I dunno what else to say, though.
[ whatever absolution she'd hoped to find, alina finds only hollow affirmations and utter lack of recognition in his face. he says the words, but β but he doesn't know what she is to him. what they are to each other.
nothing that he could say would mean enough, she realizes. because it's not him. not entirely him, at least. she lowers her head. ]
You don't have to say anything. I ... I just needed to tell you. I needed you to hear it from me. Maybe that's selfish.
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sidehustles) wrote2021-10-19 02:46 pm
no subject
He's hesitant himself, of course, and all the more so once those vague and ominous words, "It's my fault" are uttered, because as vague and ominous as Alina's been acting (not that he has anything to compare it to), how the hell would it be her fault he's got... amnesia, or whatever? Pretty much everyone else who had responded to his network post had also been vague, too, but many of them still had similar things to say: that this is apparently actually a somewhat common thing to happen in Duplicity, and that it usually only lasts about a week.
And if it's a known, semi-regular phenomena around here, how could it be her fault?
Reggie continues to stand there, expression more quizzical now, more troubled, like she's making so little sense she might as well be speaking another language. He places one hand on his hips, using the other to rub at his mouth thoughtfully not too unlike how she also wipes a palm over her lips. ]
Okay, but like, you gotta know that makes no sense, right?
no subject
[ she chokes on the words. the tears come, and immediately alina feels a surge of anger, not hurt or guilt or shame. anger. hot in her chest. how dare she make this about her and her feelings? selfish. stupid.
but she hiccups, her breath a sharp gasp as she tries to get enough to get the words out. she shakes her head, as if that would loose them from her pursed lips better. but there is only one way out through this. ]
It happens to people when they die, Reggie.
no subject
His lips twitch like he wants to smirk, laugh this whole thing off, but he feels a nauseating weight drop from his chest to his gut, emotional heartburn that's making him suddenly feel ill.
It happens to people when they die.
One would think it should go without saying, but to Reggie's recollection, he's sure as hell never died before, and he'd always been pretty damn proud of that, too; Riverdale is no easy town to survive. Surviving Riverdale makes surviving a place like Duplicity no friggin' sweat, probably, so how...
He doesn't look quite stricken, maintaining something of a pokerface except for the disturbed confusion that takes over it feature by feature. ]
But... [ That sentence dies, a long pause between that first word and the one he finally manages to follow it: ] Why?
[ Hopefully his meaning is clear enough, even if articulating it is still a bit overly complex for him as he's processing such unbelievable, impossible-to-process information: not Why does it happen?, but Why would you kill me? ]
no subject
[ she bites down on her lip. holds back the tears that redden her face and make her voice watery, shaky. she breathes fast, trying to level herself out.
a glance over her shoulder assures her that no one is coming by, no one is interrupting. it's just her paranoia and her reluctance to be alone with him, to have to face this. ]
I'm not a good person, Reggie. I'm jealous and selfish. I wanted you to myself and the city took advantage of it, but those feelings were mine. When I saw you with Ronnie, I ... All I could think of was every reason you would like her more than me. And why you'd be right to. How am I supposed to compete with that?
no subject
[ He bites down on his own lip, too, although for different reasons than she is; Reggie's are uncertainty, confusion, genuine shock, the latter especially which has struck him squarely at his center like a physical blow. Somehow he keeps standing, despite feeling like any second he'll just crumple like paper, fold in on himself like a broken lawn chair or some other equivalent analogy. Some other flimsy, damaged thing.
Any other time, he knows he would still want to close the distance between them and take her in his arms, hold her, reassure her, because that's just what he does-- people hurt him and he always stays, always comes back. Reggie doesn't have to remember his life in Duplicity to know that much about himself.
Any other time but this one. He's been hollowed out of every trace of her: the comforting warmth of their history that usually lives in his chest; every curve and angle and texture of her body that his fingers and mouth are always striving to know by heart; the way the dark spill of her hair looks in the mornings, like ink dripping down her face, down her body, that he can't ever help but want to touch.
Her eyes. Her eyes when she's happy, when they're not shining full of tears.
Her smile. As far as he knows right now, he's never even seen her smile.
Right now, she's barely more than a stranger to him.
He can't make his feet move, just scrubs his palm over his mouth idly, slowly, waiting for the right words to manifest themselves on his tongue; eventually words always do whether they're the right ones or not, but he'd prefer they at least not be the wrong ones. ]
You're not competing... I mean, like, you wouldn't be. Not if I'm dating you. [ And he means that, all of it, and not only because it's the best he can offer at the moment. ] I dunno what else to say, though.
no subject
nothing that he could say would mean enough, she realizes. because it's not him. not entirely him, at least. she lowers her head. ]
You don't have to say anything. I ... I just needed to tell you. I needed you to hear it from me. Maybe that's selfish.