[A frown crumples Liem’s brow at the sound of the words Set repeats at him, dredged up from another private conversation months ago. Here, in this context, the words seem uncomfortably unyielding—more like a cage than an arch.
He knows he cannot receive love without wanting to give back in turn; the idea is not believable even in passing. But that is not the point. Whether he wants to give Set anything is not the point, and his embrace turns desperately tight, clutching at Set’s back as he grapples with his utter inability to be good for the man who is even now trying to confess his love for him.
It doesn’t matter. It doesn't matter if Set promises to choose Liem, if he says that he loves him, if he says he is worth it, because he still wants in return: Liem’s devotion, Liem’s loyalty, Liem’s love. And one thing he knows is that he has always disappointed the people who have wanted these things from him, and they have ever decided that they didn’t want them after all.]
I’m not.
[He mumbles it against the god’s hair, even as one hand climbs up to stroke the back of his head, a melancholy, self-comforting touch gentle over glossy red silk. Set is right, though. He’s not worth it. There’s something wrong with him—with the love he has to offer. He’s sure even Set will realize it eventually.
I want you to choose me too, he said.
It inspires a terrible panic in Liem, because choosing someone has always meant, to him, that he would try to be whatever they wanted—and that has always been the beginning of the end. Shame aches so wretchedly behind his ribs, strangles him so tightly, that he can barely breathe. He cannot stop his eyes from stinging again, spilling tears down already-damp cheeks.]
Set. I don’t know how: To love properly. To be worth loving.
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He knows he cannot receive love without wanting to give back in turn; the idea is not believable even in passing. But that is not the point. Whether he wants to give Set anything is not the point, and his embrace turns desperately tight, clutching at Set’s back as he grapples with his utter inability to be good for the man who is even now trying to confess his love for him.
It doesn’t matter. It doesn't matter if Set promises to choose Liem, if he says that he loves him, if he says he is worth it, because he still wants in return: Liem’s devotion, Liem’s loyalty, Liem’s love. And one thing he knows is that he has always disappointed the people who have wanted these things from him, and they have ever decided that they didn’t want them after all.]
I’m not.
[He mumbles it against the god’s hair, even as one hand climbs up to stroke the back of his head, a melancholy, self-comforting touch gentle over glossy red silk. Set is right, though. He’s not worth it. There’s something wrong with him—with the love he has to offer. He’s sure even Set will realize it eventually.
I want you to choose me too, he said.
It inspires a terrible panic in Liem, because choosing someone has always meant, to him, that he would try to be whatever they wanted—and that has always been the beginning of the end. Shame aches so wretchedly behind his ribs, strangles him so tightly, that he can barely breathe. He cannot stop his eyes from stinging again, spilling tears down already-damp cheeks.]
Set. I don’t know how: To love properly. To be worth loving.
You weren’t supposed to ask that of me.