[P] LONELY LIKE ADAM, EVIL LIKE EVE -

[Florentine]

i'm a pretty flower girl
check out my pretty flower curls

Florentine looks and looks at Bexley Briar, waiting for the seductive curve of her golden lips. She waits for the words to fall off her tongue like a Solterran whip. But nothing comes; Bexley Briar is as quiet as the dawn.
 
The sun-girl is soft in all the places she used to be sharp and fierce. How many of her barbs had cut Florentine so? And how many of those barbs had the Dusk girl admired, despite their pain? But they were all absent now. The Solterran girl standing before the Dusk queen is beautiful in only her hurt. Her wild spirit is a shadow, a mere spectre that threatens to blow away upon the wind.
 
Bexley is a flame reduced to embers.
 
That kiss, that press of golden lips to golden skin should have inspired wrath. The mere idea of it, when their skin connected, made the flower-girl’s stomach tumble and clench. It was too bold, too daring and yet… where was the fire Florentine so expected? Where was the bite of words designed to bring Bexley’s adversaries to their knees?
 
Beneath her fringe, heavy with the weight of this girl’s presence, Florentine watches. Those amethyst eyes trail over golden skin as it turns to shadow in the shade of the citadel. Within the sandstone walls their delicate feet are a dance, a tattoo upon the flagstone floor, but Flora has never wanted to dance less… Not when Bexley is here, with her eyes downcast, her hurt a river between them, a roaring waterfall that drags both girls down, down, down.
 
Even her head is low, weighted by a sorrow that grasps its fingers into Bexley’s necklace and pulls. What would it take Florentine to tear her eyes from that heavy, glittering chain? Florentine is not sure that is a price she can pay, so with a sigh she remembers what it feels like to pick that necklace up within her lips and feel the weight of its ghostly love. Such history it is, an emotional connection that is settled deep into Bexley Briar’s heart.
 
Oh it is agony to watch her, it is poison in Florentine’s veins. It pulls the girl apart, sinew by sinew. It burns in her veins and soon she knows she will be but smoke and dust. So swiftly she stops. So swiftly the fae-girl turns to drink in this wild, gilded creature she once met in the meadow, a long, calamitous year ago.
 
In silence Florentine regards this sun-girl, with her gilt skin, her wild curls like sand dunes rippling in a mirage. Flora thinks she longs to touch her again, to comfort to love, but Bexley is akin to a feral creature, wounded and low, and Florentine has already touched her once. “Where is your fire?” Florentine whispers, for she misses it so. Bexley is a plume of smoke dispersing, her fire gone out, her body soft curls and scented burning.
 
Her heart is a flutter in her breast, “Can I help?” And how many times would she try to patch Bexley Briar up? To hold her together with the twine of her own broken heart; if only to keep them both from falling to pieces.

@Bexley <3 

florentine
rocking your pretty flower world