04-11-2019, 11:13 PM
For a second the hypnotism of his future breaks: Kensa’s face before his is so real and high definition it takes all of his strength to not reel back. There is heartache that pulses too intensely behind his eyes to be able to clearly understand the reality before him. The hairs that make up her face are so close and consuming, her scent too powerful in his nose, just like every minute leading up to this meeting of skins - too overwhelming.
He wants so desperately to break like the last syllable of the fuck you she’s throws at him. He wants so desperately to fall to the exact pieces he was in as that sad, hopeful boy in the lake. Who that boy was, though, is so vastly different from the actions of the man that squirms in his own skin.
What the fuck have I done?
The entire world crashes around him when she says I love you.
The sky is fucking falling, he thinks, the earth is cracking beneath his feet - there is no balance, tunnel vision is next, a rush in his ears - he is choking. It is not exactly shock, or fear, or pain - just the cold, gripping palm of realization upon his neck. He does not realize he tipped his head back to welcome her bites, that blood is smeared warm upon his neck, that her chest is strong against his shoulder. The eyes that are cast to the sky are absent in their thought:
I know what I fucking did.
I am exactly like my father, but that does not matter.
I am unforgivable.
A gasp rings in the air, gargled and almost masked by the noise of the breeze. Lie presses his nose into her tangled golden mane. The glaze over his eyes remains. Every muscle in his body is stiff: he knows he should tell her he loves her, the words dangling a single foot off of the ledge of his tongue; but he cannot. She deserves to be loved but does he deserve to love her? The confusion of her offer for his freedom, his unchecked rage . . . Where does one mistake begin and the other end?
Litotes would do anything for Kensa. Anything. If she asked him to launch himself over the cliff’s edge that protects their home to atone for his sins, he would do it. If she told him to punish himself forever, to wallow in his pain, to never right his wrongs - he would do it. He would do absolutely anything to make her feel better.
He realizes, though, that he will never be able to heal those wounds. And there was no forgiveness in that bitter I love you.
“Kensa,” he whispers. He hopes she can hear him for he cannot muster a higher pitch than that. Lie shifts so that their chests press into each other, lips pressed to the side of her neck but no kiss is placed. Tears stream down his cheeks but there is no emotion, no choking or sobbing. The cremello cannot help the tracks as they come, cannot deny the lump that grows and grows in the center of his chest.
“I am so sorry.”
She will be even angrier, he thinks. Furious and scornful, she will probably spit in his face. But for this moment he wraps his neck around hers and holds her tight.
@[Kensa]
He wants so desperately to break like the last syllable of the fuck you she’s throws at him. He wants so desperately to fall to the exact pieces he was in as that sad, hopeful boy in the lake. Who that boy was, though, is so vastly different from the actions of the man that squirms in his own skin.
What the fuck have I done?
The entire world crashes around him when she says I love you.
The sky is fucking falling, he thinks, the earth is cracking beneath his feet - there is no balance, tunnel vision is next, a rush in his ears - he is choking. It is not exactly shock, or fear, or pain - just the cold, gripping palm of realization upon his neck. He does not realize he tipped his head back to welcome her bites, that blood is smeared warm upon his neck, that her chest is strong against his shoulder. The eyes that are cast to the sky are absent in their thought:
I know what I fucking did.
I am exactly like my father, but that does not matter.
I am unforgivable.
A gasp rings in the air, gargled and almost masked by the noise of the breeze. Lie presses his nose into her tangled golden mane. The glaze over his eyes remains. Every muscle in his body is stiff: he knows he should tell her he loves her, the words dangling a single foot off of the ledge of his tongue; but he cannot. She deserves to be loved but does he deserve to love her? The confusion of her offer for his freedom, his unchecked rage . . . Where does one mistake begin and the other end?
Litotes would do anything for Kensa. Anything. If she asked him to launch himself over the cliff’s edge that protects their home to atone for his sins, he would do it. If she told him to punish himself forever, to wallow in his pain, to never right his wrongs - he would do it. He would do absolutely anything to make her feel better.
He realizes, though, that he will never be able to heal those wounds. And there was no forgiveness in that bitter I love you.
“Kensa,” he whispers. He hopes she can hear him for he cannot muster a higher pitch than that. Lie shifts so that their chests press into each other, lips pressed to the side of her neck but no kiss is placed. Tears stream down his cheeks but there is no emotion, no choking or sobbing. The cremello cannot help the tracks as they come, cannot deny the lump that grows and grows in the center of his chest.
“I am so sorry.”
She will be even angrier, he thinks. Furious and scornful, she will probably spit in his face. But for this moment he wraps his neck around hers and holds her tight.
@[Kensa]
