[Nikolas stares down at their hands, briefly surprised—and then he wonders why he's surprised, and begins to laugh.
He hates the sound of it, not because it's cruel or mocking, but because he remembers a time when it would have been. This laugh is fraught with nerves, but under that, genuinely joyful and fond . . . and yet he can't help but fear that Winter won't know that. How could he, after all? Nikolas has raised him to expect torment, not fondness. He convinces himself that Winter is already pulling back, whether or not that's the case, and grabs both of Winter's hands in his own in turn, squeezing them tightly.]
Oh, forgive me. It's more than I deserve, dear, but forgive me. I am not laughing at you! I'm only so . . . so very happy. I can't think of any other way to express it. I've always been awful at that, you see. You should well know by now what a wretch I am! And yet—here you are.
[He squeezes those cold hands again, more pointedly this time.]
Entirely too literal, as always, but . . . I would not have you any other way.
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He hates the sound of it, not because it's cruel or mocking, but because he remembers a time when it would have been. This laugh is fraught with nerves, but under that, genuinely joyful and fond . . . and yet he can't help but fear that Winter won't know that. How could he, after all? Nikolas has raised him to expect torment, not fondness. He convinces himself that Winter is already pulling back, whether or not that's the case, and grabs both of Winter's hands in his own in turn, squeezing them tightly.]
Oh, forgive me. It's more than I deserve, dear, but forgive me. I am not laughing at you! I'm only so . . . so very happy. I can't think of any other way to express it. I've always been awful at that, you see. You should well know by now what a wretch I am! And yet—here you are.
[He squeezes those cold hands again, more pointedly this time.]
Entirely too literal, as always, but . . . I would not have you any other way.