have you ever thought about what protects our hearts?
just a cage of rib bones and other various parts
Djinni is, as always, everything that he is not.
Her touch softens him, comforts him, and he once again leans into it, gray eyes closing, squeezing tight as if he could keep out the rest of the world at bay, the wicked truths of it too much like a blade between his very ribs, their sure touch carving out spaces within him he was not sure he could recover from. Although his instinct is to pull away from the interaction, to distance himself from her, he remains rooted, the only thing moving being his head as he angles it toward her, his solemn eyes finding her face and studying it.
“Not forever,” he repeats, because it makes him feel better to think that it is temporary, to think that he could close his eyes and wake up to their sleepy, smiling faces. As if he could dream himself backward in time—as if he could wake up young and whole and untouched, his mind bright and willing. But such things are impossible. There are too many walls he has erected over the years, too many ways that he has taught himself to shield that which is most important. He is no longer the young boy that she knew.
Still, there is enough of the boy that his face splits into a grin for a moment. He bridges the gap between them to nudge her neck, a soft laugh finding its way onto his tongue and into the air. “You were truly terrible, weren’t you?” For all of her gifts, for all of her control over the world around her, that had been one thing she had not come by naturally—although he thinks he can understand why she had never truly tried. “You were a fast learner though,” he muses, the memory of their lessons washing over him.
The bright light dims again at her compliment, at her teasing, although this time it is not because he is too serious, but rather because he fumbles at handling it. Confusion pinches his brows together, the red boy uncomfortable with the insinuation of flirtation. He takes a deep breath and shuffles his weight before looking up at her from beneath his forelock. “I am not particularly handsome,” he mutters before rolling his shoulder, wondering why the words coming from her made him stutter. “I am sure there are plenty of handsome men wandering through your words.” A frown, the words sounding wrong. “These woods.”
so it's fairly simple to cut right through the mess
and to stop the muscle that makes us confess
