Something deep within him comes into being.
Something long in hibernation, forgotten in the labyrinth of painful memories. It buzzes in tune with the universe. It sings,, a song he does not know the words to. A song whose words do not matter. She trembles in tune with his buzzing, and oh! How dearly he wants to leave, and how dearly he wants to hold her close, and really he wants too many things, all at once, so he does nothing but continue to embrace her in the only odd way he knows how, chest to chest, neck wrapped across her perfectly delicate spine.
I know your sorrow, he wants to say, I know-- but the words or even the thoughts don't quite come to life or mind. He feels her shattering as a near yet far sort of feeling, a tickling sensation at the back of his mind, and it devastates him, and he wants to pick up all the pieces and put them together-- but really they are still strangers, and anyway with her it seems sacrilegious to presume, to do anything without permission. In his mind she is a goddess spun of glass (yet solid at the core, the way only those who have suffered are) and she just might collapse into a pile of snow and dreams and diamonds if he presses too hard.
(In time he may learn how strong she is-- and although he has an idea of it now he doubts himself, because in the end he is always wrong)
In this moment, all his curiosity and all his yearning has been honed to a single point which he presses against (gods, he'll think about her skin for days-- weeks-- months to come) because words or even thoughts are not enough to convey his senseless desire.
(He is constantly at odds with himself, torn between intuition and logic. It is endless, exhausting work to quash the voice that cries "this is madness!"
And in truth, a part of him begins to succumb to that voice. If this is madness, it is madness of the most exquisite kind. We'll take it, hungrily.)
Eik feels like a set of dominoes would, all lined up and ready for the push, when he feels her breath on his ribs, sweeter than a touch (there is more promise to it than a touch would have, there is still a mystery there) and hears her voice from this angle, coming from the middle of him as though it is Isra her speaking but his own foolish heart. His hairs stand on end with the power of it all.
"How does it feel," he asks, voice quiet and low, "to be not yourself?"
He has a thousand other questions for her-- maybe she can feel them, barely contained as they are in his mind. But this seems the most important. Eik is never sure of when he is not himself, but he suspects it is often-- and yet-- how does one know? How does she know that she is not herself right now, and a mask all other times?
"Who are you" he wonders as he breathes her in, smokey and dreamy and wonderful, "when you are yourself?"
"Will I ever know?"
Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe all that matters is here, and now, and the way his soul feels pressed close to hers. And then a single thought bubbles to the surface-- Isra.
He grabs at the word, holds it close. Roots and barbed wire and Isra, these things dig into him and take root in some place he's forgotten ever existed. "Isra," he repeats, and it is the closest thing to a prayer that he has ever known. Isra, Isra, Isra chants his quivering heart. Roots and barbed wire, roots and barbed wire, sinking gleefully into the core of him. Isra. It is an answer to a question he did not know to ask. For now, it is the only answer he needs. For now, he does not think about the dawn.
Something long in hibernation, forgotten in the labyrinth of painful memories. It buzzes in tune with the universe. It sings,, a song he does not know the words to. A song whose words do not matter. She trembles in tune with his buzzing, and oh! How dearly he wants to leave, and how dearly he wants to hold her close, and really he wants too many things, all at once, so he does nothing but continue to embrace her in the only odd way he knows how, chest to chest, neck wrapped across her perfectly delicate spine.
I know your sorrow, he wants to say, I know-- but the words or even the thoughts don't quite come to life or mind. He feels her shattering as a near yet far sort of feeling, a tickling sensation at the back of his mind, and it devastates him, and he wants to pick up all the pieces and put them together-- but really they are still strangers, and anyway with her it seems sacrilegious to presume, to do anything without permission. In his mind she is a goddess spun of glass (yet solid at the core, the way only those who have suffered are) and she just might collapse into a pile of snow and dreams and diamonds if he presses too hard.
(In time he may learn how strong she is-- and although he has an idea of it now he doubts himself, because in the end he is always wrong)
In this moment, all his curiosity and all his yearning has been honed to a single point which he presses against (gods, he'll think about her skin for days-- weeks-- months to come) because words or even thoughts are not enough to convey his senseless desire.
(He is constantly at odds with himself, torn between intuition and logic. It is endless, exhausting work to quash the voice that cries "this is madness!"
And in truth, a part of him begins to succumb to that voice. If this is madness, it is madness of the most exquisite kind. We'll take it, hungrily.)
Eik feels like a set of dominoes would, all lined up and ready for the push, when he feels her breath on his ribs, sweeter than a touch (there is more promise to it than a touch would have, there is still a mystery there) and hears her voice from this angle, coming from the middle of him as though it is Isra her speaking but his own foolish heart. His hairs stand on end with the power of it all.
"How does it feel," he asks, voice quiet and low, "to be not yourself?"
He has a thousand other questions for her-- maybe she can feel them, barely contained as they are in his mind. But this seems the most important. Eik is never sure of when he is not himself, but he suspects it is often-- and yet-- how does one know? How does she know that she is not herself right now, and a mask all other times?
"Who are you" he wonders as he breathes her in, smokey and dreamy and wonderful, "when you are yourself?"
"Will I ever know?"
Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe all that matters is here, and now, and the way his soul feels pressed close to hers. And then a single thought bubbles to the surface-- Isra.
He grabs at the word, holds it close. Roots and barbed wire and Isra, these things dig into him and take root in some place he's forgotten ever existed. "Isra," he repeats, and it is the closest thing to a prayer that he has ever known. Isra, Isra, Isra chants his quivering heart. Roots and barbed wire, roots and barbed wire, sinking gleefully into the core of him. Isra. It is an answer to a question he did not know to ask. For now, it is the only answer he needs. For now, he does not think about the dawn.
@Isra ;_;
Time makes fools of us all
