DESPOINA
Despoina has only ever known how to do things alone. She has only ever known how to let the world take bite after bite out of her—how to let the teeth sink into her skin and rip away until there is nothing left. She does not know how to extend that. Does not know how to let him in, lest he too bite or be bitten. But she tries. She does not flee even when her bones ache and her pulse thrashes. Instead she just bites down until she tastes copper on her tongue and wills her body to remain still, to remain rooted, to remain.
There is a noise of protest in her throat when he comes next to her, or perhaps it is a noise of submission, she can hardly tell anymore. All she knows is that he is the sun and she finds herself leaning toward him, subconsciously pulled into his orbit as always. There is a nod, the movement jerky, as she acknowledges what he says, but she doesn’t trust herself to respond right away, so she doesn’t. Instead she just feels how it is to sit near him and feel the heat of him and know that he is not repulsed by her. Not angry.
(No, she is the angry one now, she is the weak one, she is—)
Despoina cuts off her thoughts violently before bringing her red gaze up to him and searching his face. He knows, she thinks, and she cannot decide if that is relief or pain that lances through her. “Why don’t you leave,” she finally asks, and she is surprised by how steady her voice sounds, how it does not waiver.
“You have every reason to go.”
The agony writhes in her, that question that goes unanswered, and she feels it simmer beneath the surface. Would he take it from her? If she asked? She wishes he would. Wishes that he would end this. Consume every dark thought and pain-filled moment. But she remembers the self-loathing on his face and she cannot bring herself to ask.
I guess the sound of your voice in the aching will just have to do