BEXLEY BRIAR
The cooing of the birds, and the light-winged movements of the butterflies, and the quiet, intricate sounds of harp and flute: everything around them is so obscenely calm, and it near-ruins the sanctity of Bexley’s anger. The gossamer sky would crack overhead, she thinks, if either of them said anything to ruin it, and so with effort she staves off the hunger deep in her gut, the heat in her cheeks, the cotton blackness rampant in her head. She eats her words even as they threaten to escape. Strange, how reluctant she is to let the moment in - strange that she cares for it at all, but she does.
A beat passes as their shoulders brush, and it is gone as quickly as it comes. Bexley does not lean in, as much as the idea tempts her, but she also does not step away. The half-inch between them sizzles and sparks. What for, he says in that wildfire voice, and she glances at him with dull amusement - those blue eyes warm, the thick lashes fluttering. Suspicion reigns. Her expression flickers, as if she can’t quite believe that’s the whole truth, as if she knows he still has something to hide, something sub-surface. As if he’s lying.
When is he not, though. When, she realizes, have they ever been honest with each other. Their relationship is gunsmoke and strange magic, falsehood on fiction on falsity, and Bexley would be a fool to believe anything else. She tries her best to be smart, and to be cautious - not to let her heart, soft and vicious, implode as it is wont to do - but it is difficult under this gauzy-pink sky, looking into Acton’s molten gold eyes, her pulse a drumbeat in her mouth, bang-bang-banging incessantly against her bones. Delumine is a vacuum of decaying flowers and candlelight, and romance gone sour, and light netting on glass. Long black hair and returning-to-roots.
Why are you here, Bexley Briar?
She turns to him. The scar on her cheek is latent in the dim light, moonstone and lace. Bex swallows before she speaks, clearing sand and sugar from her throat, and her white hair is a cloud as she raises her head to meet his eyes. How easy it is to fall back into that foolish old habit, how strange it is to love the fear in her chest, how very little difference there is between them - not in height, not in color, not in anger or ichor. No, she answers, voice lilted in amusement, no grudges. You’re special. Her nostrils flare in almost-laugher, the blue of those ice eyes sharpening.
And is it a joke? Who’s to say.
You know, I don’t believe you for a goddamn second, Bexley begins abruptly. Her tail snaps against Acton’s leg. Bang-bang-bang goes her heart inside her throat, and thank Solis, he'll never know. Just for fun, hmm. Plenty of alcohol to be drunk and girls to be fucked back in Denocte. Looking for something special? She tilts her head at him, undeniably coquettish, unmistakably evil.
Looking for something. If he isn't, she is: her name in his mouth.
@acton <3
