There are no words, for any of it. Even if there were, Bexley doesn’t think she’d want to use them.
Instead she meets Moira’s eyes, molten gold against icy blue, and blinks hard to hold back the tears that threaten to spill over her sharp cheeks. Oh, how can someone love so much? She knew, she used to know. Now she sees it in the way Moira looks at her, warm and sorrowful, and it almost makes her sick to think she used to feel that way. Sick-guilty. Sick-heartbroken.
Bexley listens to the stupid, arrogant brag of her heart, bum-bum, bum-bum, and hears the way her breath trembles against her clenched teeth, and the sound of living is so loud she almost doesn’t hear the way Moira shushes her, not patronizing, but genuinely sweet. The darkness changes a degree as they pass through the doorway. It ripples and shudders from blue to bruised yellow; the cold outside air rushes away, replaced by a stagnant warmth that smells vaguely of cinnamon. She blinks against the light as it threatens her pale lashes, dazzled, for a moment, by the re-introduction of candles and lanterns to her narrow world, and she feels so off-centered by it that she thinks it might have her hallucinating a tiger.
No, not hallucinating. Workers scatter as the huge, pretty thing flicks its tail at them, and when Bexley meets its eyes, almost the same cold blue as hers, she is surprised to see that it looks back at her with a fierce intelligence. Surprised and not a little relieved.
They move deeper into the castle. Bexley follows Moira, and it is the first she has followed someone in a long, long time.
Underfoot the cobblestone is softened by intricately woven, plush rugs; though it is the dead of night people go rushing by carrying platters of food, bundles of herbs, rolls of silk slung over their backs; they push through an ornately carved, heavy door and into a room where a fire roars and spits high into the air, where blankets and pillows are piled together in a perfectly messy nest. As soon as Moira takes a seat, servants with trays come streaming in—hot chocolate with spices that tickle at the inside of Bexley’s nostrils, figs and dates cornered by silver spoons. She stands for a moment just outside the circle of pillows, as if debating whether to join, then finally, carefully, drops each knee to take a seat.
There is but a moment of silence before Moira’s lips meet her neck, and—
What is she supposed to feel?
There is a grinding and clicking in her chest. Pure confusion. Bexley can’t move, even if she wanted to, and anyway she doesn’t. Her limbs are frozen, and her pulse thrashes against the inside of her mouth. The fire threatens her like a beast from its place in the wall. Oh, her heart hurts, it aches and falls apart like a black dahlia; she feels so many petals swirling to the bottom of her chest, and for a moment her mouth is filled with the taste of bitter greenery, oh, I still love him, but involuntarily she shudders as she feels the whisper in her hairline. Involuntarily she leans closer. Involuntarily her little monster-mouth says we want a kiss.
Involuntarily.
“I know what you mean,” Bexley mumbles. Her voice is raspy but pure, and she swears she can feel it physically as it leaves her mouth. She doesn’t want to cry anymore, but she can feel—something pooling in her bones, like a threat, and rather than face it, presses her forehead against Moira’s shoulder. What else is there to do?
Instead she meets Moira’s eyes, molten gold against icy blue, and blinks hard to hold back the tears that threaten to spill over her sharp cheeks. Oh, how can someone love so much? She knew, she used to know. Now she sees it in the way Moira looks at her, warm and sorrowful, and it almost makes her sick to think she used to feel that way. Sick-guilty. Sick-heartbroken.
Bexley listens to the stupid, arrogant brag of her heart, bum-bum, bum-bum, and hears the way her breath trembles against her clenched teeth, and the sound of living is so loud she almost doesn’t hear the way Moira shushes her, not patronizing, but genuinely sweet. The darkness changes a degree as they pass through the doorway. It ripples and shudders from blue to bruised yellow; the cold outside air rushes away, replaced by a stagnant warmth that smells vaguely of cinnamon. She blinks against the light as it threatens her pale lashes, dazzled, for a moment, by the re-introduction of candles and lanterns to her narrow world, and she feels so off-centered by it that she thinks it might have her hallucinating a tiger.
No, not hallucinating. Workers scatter as the huge, pretty thing flicks its tail at them, and when Bexley meets its eyes, almost the same cold blue as hers, she is surprised to see that it looks back at her with a fierce intelligence. Surprised and not a little relieved.
They move deeper into the castle. Bexley follows Moira, and it is the first she has followed someone in a long, long time.
Underfoot the cobblestone is softened by intricately woven, plush rugs; though it is the dead of night people go rushing by carrying platters of food, bundles of herbs, rolls of silk slung over their backs; they push through an ornately carved, heavy door and into a room where a fire roars and spits high into the air, where blankets and pillows are piled together in a perfectly messy nest. As soon as Moira takes a seat, servants with trays come streaming in—hot chocolate with spices that tickle at the inside of Bexley’s nostrils, figs and dates cornered by silver spoons. She stands for a moment just outside the circle of pillows, as if debating whether to join, then finally, carefully, drops each knee to take a seat.
There is but a moment of silence before Moira’s lips meet her neck, and—
What is she supposed to feel?
There is a grinding and clicking in her chest. Pure confusion. Bexley can’t move, even if she wanted to, and anyway she doesn’t. Her limbs are frozen, and her pulse thrashes against the inside of her mouth. The fire threatens her like a beast from its place in the wall. Oh, her heart hurts, it aches and falls apart like a black dahlia; she feels so many petals swirling to the bottom of her chest, and for a moment her mouth is filled with the taste of bitter greenery, oh, I still love him, but involuntarily she shudders as she feels the whisper in her hairline. Involuntarily she leans closer. Involuntarily her little monster-mouth says we want a kiss.
Involuntarily.
“I know what you mean,” Bexley mumbles. Her voice is raspy but pure, and she swears she can feel it physically as it leaves her mouth. She doesn’t want to cry anymore, but she can feel—something pooling in her bones, like a threat, and rather than face it, presses her forehead against Moira’s shoulder. What else is there to do?
Bexley
and love doubled is madness
and love doubled is madness
