THE DEAD MATURE; WITH THEM, MY HEART.
The silence between them, though unexpected, is comforting. Bexley has been quiet for weeks and the vast majority of those she’s seen have tried to push and pull, tried to force her to talk, try to chat the sadness out of her. She hates it. It’s been hard to talk; every time she opens her mouth she feels as though the threat of tears is on the way, so she would rather not talk at all. This is different. This is an easy quiet that stretches between them like a promise.
Her eyes linger on his bloody shoulder. Bexley herself hosts a myriad of scars (though only one is easily seen), but none are so intricate as his. Almost like a brand — like it is a marker of some cult, homeland or religion Bexley has never been privy to, something she cannot even begin to understand. Still she watches. Her curiosity always gets the best of her; now is no different. And she is even less shameful th toan normal thanks to the bleariness in her eyes and the cold seeping into her bones.
She hardly hears him when he offers to protect her, deafened by the squeal of the wind and the dull, buzzing sound of her own brain running in circles: Bexley is staring into the middle distance with blank blue eyes until his voice registers, melodic in the cold, and then she snaps to consciousness, her gaze widening. She tilts her head closer to him. “I -“ Her voice is brittle in the cold air, cracks even before it leaves her throat, and her brow furrows.
Kindness is uncommon here, especially recently.
“Thank you,” she says finally. And though some part of her is embarrassed, she is too weak, mentally or physically, to refuse the offer. Instead she slowly comes closer and angles herself at his side so that he blocks out some of the wind. Up close she finally realizes how much taller he is than her, and looks, for a long moment, at the dark red that drips from his eyes and the fact that they are a pure, perfect silver rather than a more normal color. “Here.” With grit teeth she conjures up a little sun and throws it in an arc to rest above them, where it sheds a hint of warmth down on their backs. “Sorry. They’re normally stronger.”
But it does help a little, and that’s all that matters. “Are your eyes okay?”
