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Hugh wasn't yet a man—circumstantially; undoubtedly he was, but far more often did he feel like a boy than a man, more particularly under the circumstances in which his head was pressed against an angel's lap—Fiona's fingers curling through his hair. He stared at her; her hair framing her face, ever elegant, ever the beauty—Hugh felt less responsible in the circumstances he was in now; less responsible for things he was not sure of. Yet he felt it under her watchful gaze; plush lips curled up into a slight smile.
He squirmed; he wasn't sure how to feel about it; not being responsible, not being a man in the moment. Fiona's hand grazed away from his hair; the back of it gently resting against his face—ever the gentle woman, she pressed a kiss to his eyelid.
"Is maith liom aire a thabhairt duit," she spoke; quiet, clement. Hugh's cheeks burned red; he looked away, she looked with him—following in his gaze toward the earthwork of Adam; the Sistine chapel, she never did allow him to linger in his own shame—embarrassment never dared last with her eyes staring. Not by himself at the very least. "Abair é sin amhail is nár tharla sé riamh cheana." He retorted, and he felt it; Fiona's brows furrowing, a playful smile replacing the soft one while she let the words linger in the air. Her fingers returning to their spot combing along his hair; taking a moment.
As much as it sounds—Hugh swears, majority of the time, he can feel her even when he isn't looking at her; when he isn't touching her; when they aren't near each other, he can feel her soul against his own. He likes to imagine that. "Ní ligeann tú dom a bheith séimh choíche. Ní go minic, ar a laghad." Fiona's voice carried a distinct sort of humor he rarely found in her anymore, not since the war—even before the war, if he was true to himself; his darling, his Fiona wasn't the humorous type, if ever would she speak up to make a joke.
he couldn't help the grin spreading along his own face — toothy, if not flushed. "now, that's not fair, Fee," He whispered while he stared back up at her; movements slowed, careful consideration lined within his movements—there were times-and he would rather die than let anyone else share in this view-where he stared at Fiona and he swears he can see the sun framing the back of her head; light shining down upon her no matter where it was positioned in the sky as of current. He stared at the shadows of the leaves they sat under framing her face; curling around it, and from there where she sat; back to the bark of it, the sun shined through. She shrugged at his words; lulling her head back, she clearly believed them to have no leeway within the conversation; set in her own ways, she was. Stubborn as a mule.
He let out the faintest of laughs; sitting up, lifting his head from her, hands propped against the grass. He was no longer cushioned by her; no longer burden-less as he started back toward the home and away from his darling, eyes narrowing against the sun; lips slightly parted. "you do not let me." Fiona made her way, standing as much of her ability allowed; stubborn—leaning against the wood, her voice barely a quiet whisper that drew her back into Hugh's line of sight; drew him away from the burdens he thought of. His lips parted further; staring up at her, how her face was hidden; so swiftly hidden from him. Taken from him. He swallowed down the lump in his throat.
He didn't like to think of it; didn't want to any more or any less. He stared at he grass, thoughts lingering upon his own—his own train of thought. Pestering himself; did men do that? Certainly not. It was childish; his lips pressed into a small line.
Hugh took her hand, soft; drew her back down, just for a moment longer—holding her now; arms wrapped around her waist, lips buried against her hair, staring at nothing in particular. And while he did so, he could only hope that the same worries he had; she didn't share, didn't burden herself with, no longer; not ever. Never should Fiona have to worry.
Just for awhile longer.