five story fire when you came
love is a losing game
love is a losing game
There is too much riding on this moment for Bexley to feel anything but her own adrenaline, running rampant and feral in the livewire map of her nerves. As she walks she thinks that every step might be her last - that she very well might fall or trip or stumble at the mere sound of his voice, the way it makes her skin shudder, her pulse sputter feebly agains her ribs. Even his breath against her skin is too much to process, in a world where everything has gone warm and gold and loudly overwhelming.
Shards of colored light on the cobblestone break and split and are ground to fine dust as Bexley slips over them, moving as quietly and comfortably in the sun as a fish moves in water.
She slows her steps as they emerge from under the shadow of the citadel. This deep in the court the crowds start to dissipate, the mica-flecked streets thinning of distractions until the world around them is eerily quiet. It only takes a moment of shortened strides until she’s level with Acton again, gliding shoulder to shoulder with him, blue eyes turned up with a surprising earnestness to watch the Denoctian as he speaks - there is no coy fluttering of dark eyelashes, no sharp-tongued comment, no lilting, half-smug smile to be found.
The hopefulness on her face is awfully, sickeningly genuine.
But it passes as he makes that smited comment, moving on from Bexley’s question so easily she can’t do anything but blink in surprise, falter just-barely in her step. Um - (It might be the only uncertain thing she’s ever said to him. Might be the weakest word she’s ever used.) Yeah, I guess not. Not exactly. She forces a smile and turns a quick corner.
Now they’re squeezing into a narrow alley, lined with drooping, unlit lanterns and desert sage overhanging each windowsill. Overhead the sky has gone a deep purple, lamentably dark, and in that lack of light Bexley’s burnished gold skin seems almost dull, velvet instead of gild, more easily lost.
An errant plant limb makes the shadow of a crooked heart on the cobblestone, and she steps over it with military precision.
Well, I did ask you first.
Her heart sings inside her mouth.
And even if I did tell you, you probably wouldn't like it.
@acton
