Beautiful or not, the world takes everything into its jaws, and it bites down. There should be a word for the sound it makes.
(He is sharply aware of the lack of words in this language. He wants a word for the the veil of breath between them, and another for moonlight on water. He wants a word for her that is not a name.)
But not everything breaks. He did not break, or rather he did and then, piece by piece, he put himself back together, this time better. This time he built a dam to hold at bay all that sorrow and all that guilt. A dam hidden so completely behind a maze of doors that he could forget it was even there.
"Oh," she breathes out.
He knows she did not break, either, or if she did she rebuilt herself too. He felt it when their minds touched. He replays again the feeling of her sorrow washing over him. A leak has sprung in the dam and he does not know if he should fix it or let it burst. He was never good at big decisions. This time the choice probably isn't his to make, anyway.
"I am,"
The landscape seems to fall apart and rebuild itself with every breath, like they're standing in the lungs of the world. It is just madness, pure madness that he is here at all. And it is the word for one-step-past-madness that he is feeling these wild feelings, that his blood is buzzing like it has a story that it needs told-- like it has a story that it needs told now.
(What is love, if not madness-- and is this the former, the latter, or both?
Could it be neither?)
Oh, Isra, he does not want to devour or recreate-- he just wants to know what's real. So he steps forward, reaches out, and tentatively brushes his muzzle across her shoulder.
When they touch, it is not magical at all. It is solid and certain. It is grounding and humbling. For the first time in a long time he stands separate from the past, and the future, and he is not as small as he thought he would be without them.
He lets go a breath he did not realize he was holding.
Eik's only thought is that she is cold (how long has she been out here?) so he steps closer (slowly, so slowly it could be an accident, two boats pushed together by the tide) until their chests are pressed together, and his head finds a place to rest lightly on the small of her back.
He feels very still and very content. It is slightly uncomfortable in its foreignness, and it is not what he had expected to feel, pressed against a dream made real. He had so many questions for her but they all flew away the moment they touched. When one of his questions returns, to his own surprise it slips out with insistency-- and a certain sort of desperation. "Who are you?" He presses an uncertain kiss to the top of her hip. In his touch is another question, one he has not found the words for yet. What are we doing here?
(He is sharply aware of the lack of words in this language. He wants a word for the the veil of breath between them, and another for moonlight on water. He wants a word for her that is not a name.)
But not everything breaks. He did not break, or rather he did and then, piece by piece, he put himself back together, this time better. This time he built a dam to hold at bay all that sorrow and all that guilt. A dam hidden so completely behind a maze of doors that he could forget it was even there.
"Oh," she breathes out.
He knows she did not break, either, or if she did she rebuilt herself too. He felt it when their minds touched. He replays again the feeling of her sorrow washing over him. A leak has sprung in the dam and he does not know if he should fix it or let it burst. He was never good at big decisions. This time the choice probably isn't his to make, anyway.
"I am,"
The landscape seems to fall apart and rebuild itself with every breath, like they're standing in the lungs of the world. It is just madness, pure madness that he is here at all. And it is the word for one-step-past-madness that he is feeling these wild feelings, that his blood is buzzing like it has a story that it needs told-- like it has a story that it needs told now.
(What is love, if not madness-- and is this the former, the latter, or both?
Could it be neither?)
Oh, Isra, he does not want to devour or recreate-- he just wants to know what's real. So he steps forward, reaches out, and tentatively brushes his muzzle across her shoulder.
When they touch, it is not magical at all. It is solid and certain. It is grounding and humbling. For the first time in a long time he stands separate from the past, and the future, and he is not as small as he thought he would be without them.
He lets go a breath he did not realize he was holding.
Eik's only thought is that she is cold (how long has she been out here?) so he steps closer (slowly, so slowly it could be an accident, two boats pushed together by the tide) until their chests are pressed together, and his head finds a place to rest lightly on the small of her back.
He feels very still and very content. It is slightly uncomfortable in its foreignness, and it is not what he had expected to feel, pressed against a dream made real. He had so many questions for her but they all flew away the moment they touched. When one of his questions returns, to his own surprise it slips out with insistency-- and a certain sort of desperation. "Who are you?" He presses an uncertain kiss to the top of her hip. In his touch is another question, one he has not found the words for yet. What are we doing here?
@Isra <3
Time makes fools of us all
