you ask me what this is i say i dont know ba dum tshh thats the joke
What he drops, you will not be able to reclaim for him. What he loses, you will not be able to replace.
What he needs, you might give—or you might miss it, passing quick as a shadow across his face, no louder than the blink of an eye.
What he says, he will not always mean. What he means he will so rarely say.
You will not laugh at all of his jokes. He will mention it when you do and it will be—to borrow a phrase from the dwarf—the bronto in the room thereafter. This will encourage you not to laugh again, even when the joke is funny.
More often than not, you will not have to worry that the joke will be funny.
He will be tired. You cannot rest for him.
He will be hurt. You are no healer.
He will bleed. You will know his blood better than your own.
He will stand next to you—and you will know he is lonely. He will touch you—and you will touch him.
It will settle like dust on tired pauldrons, stained and weathered and scarred, passing like wind through the torn edges of a cape, and knot itself around the wrist like a scrap of forgotten cloth. You will do him no favors. You will love him, and this will be faulty, uncertain, prone to long silences and cleared throats and snores in the night, hiccups and burps and sweat, too detailed an understanding of old wounds and weak spots, a map of freckles and his insistence on the sensitivity of the tips of your ears, the insides of your thighs, your…nipples.
What he drops, you will not be able to reclaim. What he loses will not be you. You will not tell him he is tired for it need not be said. You will not tell him that you love him until he needs to hear it.
And he will laugh when he means to cry, a sound like torn leather. ‘Fenris,’ he will say, ‘I’m beginning to think you like me.’
It will go to his head.
It will go to your heart.