#smth smth ure in a self-loathing contest but ur opponents are yuridetta wyd

[aubins]

Bernadetta flinches, and it occurs to Yuri only then that they had not put up their mask of pleasantries and charms— that, now, it is far too late to. They ought to have made some quip about how people might've killed to sit where she does now, laughed it off and bid her rest before the tension ever had the chance to grow so thick in the air.

Too late, they think again, alarmed. Straighten up as though there are words to fumble for that might fix the way she trembles and drops her gaze, as though they do not simply linger there a beat, then slump. Legs draw up to their chest, arms curled around them as they rest their chin atop where their knees fold.

It's the cold that has them dropping their guard, they tell themself. Except Yuri knows it's just Bernadetta— Bernadetta who forgave the knife at her throat and so earnestly forgives everything afterward. Bernadetta who makes them want to be honest, because honesty is the only thing they can give her now, the only thing they can offer of any value.

Because maybe it's not really fine, but that's not her fault in the slightest. Who can Yuri even blame for it but themself?

“I'm not...” they begin, stubborn, yet still falter quick when the candy lands in their direction. They lift it slowly, hesitantly with a hand, then set it back down between them. “...Okay,” comes their exhale of agreement. “But you have to wake me, yeah? You need to rest too.”

And so their head tilts, turned in the direction opposite her, because despite how they've acquiesced, Yuri doubts they will find much sleep at all. They cannot bear to look at her all the while.

Because she flinched, and it is burned into their memory now: how their words had cut deeper than their knife ever had.

(They are, really, the worst kind of bastard. The most awful kind of ‘friend.’)

＊ woven back from violence .

anni '24 | heavy armor +1　 �� ▪ ▪ 　yuri & bernadetta