[P] our love is god

[Acton]

Acton these violent delights have violent ends In all the heat and burn of them both Acton didn’t notice the warmth of the day start to drain away. Likewise there was too much of the gold of her skin and the blue of her eyes to see when the splintered-rainbow light faded to nothing because the sun disappeared behind the bruise of a sky. Even if he had noticed, he wouldn’t have been surprised. Acton had always expected the gods to be dicks. They didn’t know each other well (and that was part of the problem, wasn’t it, or would be if the buckskin was the kind to give a thought to things like common sense) but he knew enough of her to notice the falter, the filler-word. He didn’t think much of it, only nudged his bronze shoulder against hers, because that kind of unsure hesitation was the same way his heart felt now, too big for his ribcage, tight tight tight and stuttering. Until she led him into an alley, at least. This was familiar territory, no matter that it smelled of dust and sage – the shadows were just as thick as the ones at home. “Not exactly?” he echoed, and cocked a brow at her, waiting for her to expand. Bexley Briar, he figured, would have plenty to say about gods and regimes both, and Acton wanted to know everything and nothing at all about that day. He wondered then if she knew he’d helped try to dig, thinking of her buried again beneath the crumble-and-dust. Like that could undo anything, or restart it. Her words pull him back to the present like a golden chain; their footsteps echo on cooling stone and he is too busy replaying what she'd said to notice any shape a dim shadow might be making as he walked beside her. Until he stopped, and waited for her to stop too, and waited to see what his own heart might think of his response. “Hell,” he said, and nipped at her ear before dropping his mouth to burnish the bright gold of her necklace with a warm breath. “Babe, I’m yours.” And anything might have come after that – any word or phrase at all from his hollow-cinder heart to his brash tongue – if the first snowflake hadn’t fallen then to settle on her golden coat and melt like a fading star. Not yet in disbelief, Acton looked up. @Bexley