She stands taller, letting him curl into her, shoulders bracing like there's someone likely to attack, or start fighting right in the street next to them.
The description curdles in her stomach: she can't reconcile the image. She can imagine plenty of things that might set Ronan off, especially since he's younger than them, even those few months enough to leave him a little more angry and a little less settled to who he is, what he can lose. But she can't see them trying to tear each other apart, can't even deal with the notion. She'd approved of Krem: he was charming and patient and just a little shy about Noah, but Ronan's still the same boy who let himself cry on her shoulder at the lake, whether or not he remembers that.
Anger flares up in her, though, at the idea of Ronan telling Noah -- of all people -- that he picked sides. "Picked sides?" she repeats, her voice going cold. "What sides? There aren't sides. Or there wouldn't be, if --"
The hell of it is that Cremisius is probably right. Almost definitely. Somehow it feels almost as bad as Adam confronting her about not kissing him. Like Ronan's owed something by virtue of blessing them with his presence, some sort of forswearing of anyone else ever. She wants to go yell at his stupid face. They're not at home anymore, not anywhere where everything feels solid, and Ronan has to dig his hands into sore spots? With Noah as collateral damage?
"He doesn't mean that," she says, and her voice is done with it. She tries to reign her fury back in a little, turning to wrap her arms around Noah. "You know he doesn't mean that. Ronan's just -- being Ronan."
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2015-10-08 09:59 pm (UTC)The description curdles in her stomach: she can't reconcile the image. She can imagine plenty of things that might set Ronan off, especially since he's younger than them, even those few months enough to leave him a little more angry and a little less settled to who he is, what he can lose. But she can't see them trying to tear each other apart, can't even deal with the notion. She'd approved of Krem: he was charming and patient and just a little shy about Noah, but Ronan's still the same boy who let himself cry on her shoulder at the lake, whether or not he remembers that.
Anger flares up in her, though, at the idea of Ronan telling Noah -- of all people -- that he picked sides. "Picked sides?" she repeats, her voice going cold. "What sides? There aren't sides. Or there wouldn't be, if --"
The hell of it is that Cremisius is probably right. Almost definitely. Somehow it feels almost as bad as Adam confronting her about not kissing him. Like Ronan's owed something by virtue of blessing them with his presence, some sort of forswearing of anyone else ever. She wants to go yell at his stupid face. They're not at home anymore, not anywhere where everything feels solid, and Ronan has to dig his hands into sore spots? With Noah as collateral damage?
"He doesn't mean that," she says, and her voice is done with it. She tries to reign her fury back in a little, turning to wrap her arms around Noah. "You know he doesn't mean that. Ronan's just -- being Ronan."