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“Why are you being so quiet?”
He looks up at her, green eyes owlish. He blinks slowly, his cat ears twitching. “I don’t know. Am I?” He looks down at himself, as if to see if the quiet is stuck to his hands.
”I don’t know,” she says, pushing away from her chair to stare at him. He stares back at her. His hands are still outstretched in his lap, palms up to her ceiling. “Are you having fun?”
”This is the most fun I’ve had all week,” he says, genuinely. She blinks at him. “I’m being serious,” he says, seriously.
”No, I know that,” she says, because she knows when he is being serious. “But we’ve just been sitting in silence.”
”You’re busy,” he says, gesturing to her sewing machine, a pair of pants she’s fixing still stuck under its needle. “And I like sorting through your extra fabric.” He looks down at the neat piles he’d made of color-coded fabric scraps.
She tilts her head at him. “You’re having fun,” she says, a statement.
He smiles at her. “I like being around you, Marinette. You make me feel calm.”
Strikingly honest. She feels like she should thank him, somehow. Or say something equally profound. Something.
She reaches her hand out to him, holds it there. He seems to understand her immediately, a quiet little smile lifting up the corners of his lips. He touches his fingers to hers, soft touch. That’s all.
-
“Quit moving.”
“Sorry,” he says, flashing her a smile, straight teeth glinting.
”Don’t apologize,” she says, and he gives her a funny sort of look, like she just said something ridiculous. She looks back at him. “What?”
”I thought my moving was bothering you,” he says, jostling her shoulder again, and she lets her body move with his momentum, just to swing back. On a pendulum, his center of gravity. Her shoulder hits his again, the cycle continues.
”It was.”
”Not anymore?” He jostles, again. She squints at the sunset they’re watching, then down at the people passing below their dangling feet.
”I don’t know,” she says finally, with a shrug. Her shoulder hits his again. “Do you want to talk about something?”
He gives her another funny look.
”What?” she asks, feeling a little exasperated. But she lets his shoulder touch hers, again and again.
”Why are you asking if I want to talk? Is there something I should want to talk about?” he asks, and it’s her turn to give him a funny look. They trade funny looks back and forth, just because.
”No,” she says, when they’ve both given up on the funny looks. “It’s just that sometimes you get wiggly when you want some sort of interaction.”
”Oh,” he says, and he quits moving, looking down at the street below them. He looks to be thinking. She nudges his shoulder with hers, and he looks over at her.
”Was I wrong?” she asks, being serious.
”No,” he says, thoughtfully. “But I think sometimes I just get wiggly, Ladybug, because you make me excited.”
Strikingly honest. She smiles a startled sort of smile, which he returns, jittery.
They stare at each other. She wants to give him something in response, but he’s always been the better one with words. She leans her head on his shoulder, wrapping an around around his waist, and she sways them back and forth.
When she looks up at him, his lips are lifted in a quiet sort of smile. He loops his arm around her shoulders and sways with her.