There are certain emotional outbursts that Byerly is quite practiced with. How could you, you scoundrel, followed by a ringing slap - absolutely; he has the instincts. I'm passionately in love with you, a few times, yes, and he knows how to navigate it. Or even weeping, as long as the tears are false, he's skilled with. But here, now, there is no sign of guile that he can see - because he can imagine exactly what it would be like if Wysteria were fake-crying; she'd be sneaking glances constantly to see her effect on his temperament, and would probably be screwing up her face in a very fake way, and - It wouldn't look like this.
So he stands helplessly for a moment. But then he does the only thing he can think of to do. The thing he'd do for his sister, once upon a time, when she was overwhelmed with fury and frustration over the rags that fell apart under her needle and thread, or when she was ashamed over the bug-bites that ran up and down her arms, or when hunger turned from a pang to agony.
He moves to Wysteria's side, and sits beside her on the bed. And he places a hand cautiously on her shoulder - ready to pull it away if she flinches - and he rubs her back, gently, carefully. And he offers her a handkerchief. ]
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Oh.
There are certain emotional outbursts that Byerly is quite practiced with. How could you, you scoundrel, followed by a ringing slap - absolutely; he has the instincts. I'm passionately in love with you, a few times, yes, and he knows how to navigate it. Or even weeping, as long as the tears are false, he's skilled with. But here, now, there is no sign of guile that he can see - because he can imagine exactly what it would be like if Wysteria were fake-crying; she'd be sneaking glances constantly to see her effect on his temperament, and would probably be screwing up her face in a very fake way, and - It wouldn't look like this.
So he stands helplessly for a moment. But then he does the only thing he can think of to do. The thing he'd do for his sister, once upon a time, when she was overwhelmed with fury and frustration over the rags that fell apart under her needle and thread, or when she was ashamed over the bug-bites that ran up and down her arms, or when hunger turned from a pang to agony.
He moves to Wysteria's side, and sits beside her on the bed. And he places a hand cautiously on her shoulder - ready to pull it away if she flinches - and he rubs her back, gently, carefully. And he offers her a handkerchief. ]