b e x l e y
KISS THE BOYS AND MAKE THEM DIE
Oh, you have, Bexley raps back with no semblance of humor, the words citrus-bitter in her mouth. The blue of her eyes simmers a little, though God knows if it’s the low light, or the ire, or the poison in her bloodstream, and it does not seem to even matter, now. Fucked it up beyond repair. She flashes a little waning smile at him and does not flinch when he kisses the soft skin of her nose, though some part of her aches to turn away from it. Anyway, she’d never been good at listening. Never will be, she thinks, even in motherhood.
She would feel badly about it if Apolonia hadn’t been born fully-weaponed (at least seemingly), if their daughter hadn’t been blooming with rage since the moment she tasted desert air, if she hadn’t picked up a knife and used it as artfully as a violin bow when her legs were still too spindly to carry her far. If she hadn’t been born like that - masterful in anger, and yet somehow utterly cold - then Bexley would feel bad about it, but as it is, O is stronger and sharper and smarter than either of her parents. Bex’s involvement would only have restricted her.
So she is surprised, almost, to hear Acton warn even O to watch out. That is the only thing, of all the fears he’s given to her, that makes her skin start to really tingle - the thought of a funeral, the knowledge that if O dies, she will, too. As much from grief as from ineptitude. Alright, she answers, surprisingly stable. In the faint and changing light, Acton’s skin turns from gold to copper and back again, and she brushes her lips against the place where it stretches tight over his hip with something like reverence, as if he is worthy of a prayer. Good luck -
And I love you, she wants to say, but doesn’t.
@acton <3
