[P] our love is god

[Acton]

Acton these violent delights have violent ends He could let himself forget all about belonging, he thought, if he stood out here in the heat for long enough. Let the sun bake away all memories of Denocte and silver markets scented in cinnamon and spice, let it give him a new sheen of sweat to salt his body, a reverse baptism. But all that vanished like so much smoke when she touched him again, a grounding, a sparking, a lightning rod that drew him over and over again. He doesn’t even remember to wonder how they got here from so much blood and dust, violence in not-so-veiled threats, spelled in each echoing tumble of a rockslide or lick of flame. Acton was not the kind of man to make space, and so he didn’t bother to move but let the crowds wind around them like an altered current. Solterrans – save the one leaning against him now – seemed so far a discreet sort; most of them didn’t give the pair so much as a look. This was probably for the best, as his gaze was bright as burning, and it wouldn’t take much of a challenge for it to catch. For a moment he dropped his muzzle against her hair just behind her ear, inhaling the scent of her, now finally growing familiar. He missed the warmth when she pulled away again – though something about it had seemed hotter on the summit. Maybe it was just that everything was hotter here, and one golden girl couldn’t compete with the sun itself. So entranced was he by the way she walked before him (he could make an effort to catch up, but he didn’t much mind the view – suddenly he found himself less interested in the city than he had been a moment ago) that he doesn’t notice when the skies began to darken, strange clouds gathering at the corners like rot on a blue tapestry. “Yeah,” he drawled, “enough to make your knees sore.” In his eyes was a bright gleam, though the joke between them didn’t make the muscles and tendons ache any less. At least the heat had been like a poultice on the way. In the sunshine the colored glass turned the path before them into a rainbow, splintering her into a thousand pieces of color as she passed beneath its chaotic shadow. He was almost sorry when they’d both moved beyond it, but then came the rest of her statement, and Acton huffed a breath that bordered on a laugh. “You tell me,” he said, grinning all the while. “I came to learn all about keeping promises, if I recall.” In truth, it felt as dangerous to answer as any dagger-point they’d danced on or struck each other with. Acton did not have a good relationship with the word commitment. Some part of him worried that he was less himself if he didn’t stand alone – and this girl was different than being a Crow or a blood-brother to Raum. “So you didn’t get smited, then.” This was meant lightly – he didn’t know (couldn’t know) about Solis’s punishment for her, but something in him twisted anyhow. There was no cut-and-dried story of what had happened to his own regime, and rumors loved to take on a life of their own. None of them had a happy ending for the Denoctians. Though the clouds that gathered like bruises didn’t promise a happy ending for any of them.   @Bexley this blows, I'm sorry D: