b e x l e y
KISS THE BOYS AND MAKE THEM DIE
She loves him, when she sees him. And even when she can’t. And there is nothing purer than that.
Even in this room that glitters with soft light and fills with the smell of incense and sings with the warmth of music, there is nothing that can tear her eyes from him, from the straight line of his jaw, from the fossil-amber of his eyes, and even when he speaks she is utterly devoted to the shapes his mouth makes around every syllable. It makes her bones ache, how much she loves him. How much she would do for him.
And how none of it matters more than a knife.
Bexley watches the way his scars ride the curve of his neck, and she wants to smile but can’t, not through the way her heart begs to die from its spot deep in her chest. And still he does not know. He never has to know. If she could not know, she would choose that, too. So she cannot blame him for it.
The press of their shoulders together is the only thing that feels faintly normal, the only thing that keeps her from floating up, up, up, like a ghost. The beat of his heart is so strong and so sure that she can feel it through the spaces where their skin connects, and her pulse falls in with his as easy as ever, a dance it knows perfectly well by now. She lays the flat of her cheek against his neck and sighs, and in the darkness her breath makes a little fire. It could be magic, or it could just be her. As if there has ever been much of a difference.
A little sun winks in and out of existence above them. Bexley tilts her head up and blinks at it, swirling stupidly against the ceiling, and names it in her head. Never out loud. Yes, she says softly. Somewhere - and even her, stubborn girl, sharp-toothed thing, feels a little flicker of guilt that somewhere is the only word she has to offer him in a time like this.
None of her has ever been enough, not really.
@acton <3
