02-12-2017, 11:49 PM
Luster, he says, and she is startled by the pain in the hollowness of his voice. Her eyes lift to his face again, tentative and uncertain, soft when she peers a little closer at the dark of those strange eyes and the shadows that pool in the ridges between bones strung too tight. She cannot see the change, not in those eyes, not in his face, but she can hear it in his words, in that hollow ache, that broken echo. He steps close to her again, and she realizes she can see the change in this, too. He doesn’t ask, doesn’t refrain from touching her as she had requested so many times, but he is as tentative as she is, and when he pulls her tight against his chest again, she does not fight him.
When his cheek brushes her neck, she knows she should flinch, knows she should ache with the closeness. But something feels different, changed. He doesn’t press kisses where he shouldn’t, doesn’t run his lips across the mottled blue of her throat. So when he holds her so close, holds her until her bones stop their trembling and her heart finds its feet and finally stops tripping over itself, she is soft and quiet and gentle beneath him. Find me again sometime, he murmurs against her mane, low enough that she can feel his voice where it rumbles like distant thunder in his chest, I live in Ischia.
She is so confused, so uncertain, so disoriented by this turn of events that she does not move, does not say anything when he releases her abruptly and turns to leave. But the slump in his shoulders resonates like an echo of defeat in her thoughts, feels like lonely fingers twisting anxious knots in her chest and suddenly she does not want him to go.
Except-
Her brow furrows, drawing deep lines across the delicate blue, casting deep shadows against the pale white. She knows, she knows, that she should let him go. Can still feel the throb of the wound that is little more than a mangle of raw nerves and damp blood in the crook of her neck, of a wound that he had placed there. But she can also still hear the pain in his voice, and she is certain as she watches him walk away that it is something dark and broken that caves in his shoulders that way. He is agony made tangible, bone thrust through skin, skin torn wide and weeping, and yet not once did he flinch against that pain. If there is something in his chest, in his heart, something that is strong enough to press such weight against those dark, elegant shoulders, she can only imagine that the pain must be insurmountable.
Your man is stupid for letting you out of his sight. It is this last grumbled, compliment that forces the rest of her uncertainty aside, casting a light so that the shadow can’t quite reach her. “Wait,” she calls after him, soft and hesitant and silver, “wait.” She is at his side again in a moment, peering up at him with wide, dark eyes that are soft and only a little wary when they settle against his face. “Ischia?” She repeats, brow furrowing again as she reaches her nose out gently to his shoulder to stop him. “That’s the island, isn’t it?” Worry floods her face, quiet and slow moving, pooling like shadow in every curve and hollow and delicate arch of bone until she has stepped close enough to tip her face up to him in the dark. When she speaks, there is a quaver of uncertainty in her voice, one last shred of uncertainty before she softens for this beast who is not a beast, this beast who is a man she is suddenly worried for. “You can’t mean to swim it in the dark.” She says, she asks, she worries as she traces her eyes across his face again, across bone and beauty and black as smooth and sharp as obsidian. “It’s too dangerous.” Her nose touches his neck, just once, so briefly, and then she pulls back again, uncertain. “Stay here instead.” A pause and her eyes widen and leap to his face, her skin flushing pink beneath the blue. “With me. You can leave when the sun comes up again.”
Her brow creases as she watches him, worried, wondering why she is doing this, why she is trusting the man who buried his teeth in her neck and his lips in her throat. It doesn’t make any sense, and yet here she is at his shoulder, soft and imploring, reaching up with gentle lips to brush aside the stray tangles of his forelock where they threatened to stick to the wet blood crusting around the bone plate. “I would’ve stayed with you, you know,” a pause as she draws her nose back towards her chest, “I would’ve stayed as a friend if you had just asked.” When she looks away it is to hide the bruises in her eyes, the woundedness of that delicate blue face now turned to the night. Then, quieter, gentler, “And he isn’t my man.”
When his cheek brushes her neck, she knows she should flinch, knows she should ache with the closeness. But something feels different, changed. He doesn’t press kisses where he shouldn’t, doesn’t run his lips across the mottled blue of her throat. So when he holds her so close, holds her until her bones stop their trembling and her heart finds its feet and finally stops tripping over itself, she is soft and quiet and gentle beneath him. Find me again sometime, he murmurs against her mane, low enough that she can feel his voice where it rumbles like distant thunder in his chest, I live in Ischia.
She is so confused, so uncertain, so disoriented by this turn of events that she does not move, does not say anything when he releases her abruptly and turns to leave. But the slump in his shoulders resonates like an echo of defeat in her thoughts, feels like lonely fingers twisting anxious knots in her chest and suddenly she does not want him to go.
Except-
Her brow furrows, drawing deep lines across the delicate blue, casting deep shadows against the pale white. She knows, she knows, that she should let him go. Can still feel the throb of the wound that is little more than a mangle of raw nerves and damp blood in the crook of her neck, of a wound that he had placed there. But she can also still hear the pain in his voice, and she is certain as she watches him walk away that it is something dark and broken that caves in his shoulders that way. He is agony made tangible, bone thrust through skin, skin torn wide and weeping, and yet not once did he flinch against that pain. If there is something in his chest, in his heart, something that is strong enough to press such weight against those dark, elegant shoulders, she can only imagine that the pain must be insurmountable.
Your man is stupid for letting you out of his sight. It is this last grumbled, compliment that forces the rest of her uncertainty aside, casting a light so that the shadow can’t quite reach her. “Wait,” she calls after him, soft and hesitant and silver, “wait.” She is at his side again in a moment, peering up at him with wide, dark eyes that are soft and only a little wary when they settle against his face. “Ischia?” She repeats, brow furrowing again as she reaches her nose out gently to his shoulder to stop him. “That’s the island, isn’t it?” Worry floods her face, quiet and slow moving, pooling like shadow in every curve and hollow and delicate arch of bone until she has stepped close enough to tip her face up to him in the dark. When she speaks, there is a quaver of uncertainty in her voice, one last shred of uncertainty before she softens for this beast who is not a beast, this beast who is a man she is suddenly worried for. “You can’t mean to swim it in the dark.” She says, she asks, she worries as she traces her eyes across his face again, across bone and beauty and black as smooth and sharp as obsidian. “It’s too dangerous.” Her nose touches his neck, just once, so briefly, and then she pulls back again, uncertain. “Stay here instead.” A pause and her eyes widen and leap to his face, her skin flushing pink beneath the blue. “With me. You can leave when the sun comes up again.”
Her brow creases as she watches him, worried, wondering why she is doing this, why she is trusting the man who buried his teeth in her neck and his lips in her throat. It doesn’t make any sense, and yet here she is at his shoulder, soft and imploring, reaching up with gentle lips to brush aside the stray tangles of his forelock where they threatened to stick to the wet blood crusting around the bone plate. “I would’ve stayed with you, you know,” a pause as she draws her nose back towards her chest, “I would’ve stayed as a friend if you had just asked.” When she looks away it is to hide the bruises in her eyes, the woundedness of that delicate blue face now turned to the night. Then, quieter, gentler, “And he isn’t my man.”