I swear to god
I wasn't born to fight.
Maybe just a little bit.
Enough to make me sick of it.
I wasn't born to fight.
Maybe just a little bit.
Enough to make me sick of it.
Michael is so tired, staring into his tea, huddled in the damp warmth that rises from the cup as if he might trip and fall in at any second. He is too tired to feel the streets pressed in against him, too tired to heed the nervous flutter of his agoraphobic heart when he glances up from the table and hears the din of voices slowly rising. Hour by hour the sun is tick-tocking away in a sluggish arc toward the horizon. And Michael is far too tired to care.
He inhales deep. He breathes it out in a sigh. He casts his attention out over the street to his side, lifting the cup to his lips but forgetting to drink at all. Michael does not miss Bexley Briar, does not pretend that he does not see her and does not avert his gaze as she investigates him though it makes his heart thump loudly within him. The sound of it bounces back and forth against every wall.
He is more comfortable with Isra and her bubbling anger, Isra and her digging hands, Isra buried up to her neck in the dirt of living. When he looks at anyone else they are warped and unclear, fuzzy around the edges. When he looks at himself he is little more than a hole into which all bright and happy things disappear. He thinks sometimes that it takes the mouth of a dragon that could swallow him whole to make anything at all clear. He thinks that if Isra did not turn sand to dandelions to rocks that beat against his shore and bruise his ankles, he may not understand anyone. Certainly he cannot fathom this Bexley Briar, poised on a sword's edge at the curb.
Arched over the thin porcelain of his teacup, the pink of his lips pressed just barely against its delicate rim, Michael is watching Bexley with some far-off, unfathomable expression. When she asks, may I, he can only nod.
"Of course," he answers, because he can do nothing else, because the rapid thump of his heart is as loud as his curiosity, like hummingbird wings in the cup of his ear. "my pleasure."
And, now, here they are.
A mirror reflected, gold against gold as Michael finally takes a deep sip, still fixed on her face. It is scarred. Jagged in places. He wants to ask why. He thinks so many things but he does not say any of them aloud. Michael very, very rarely says the things he wants to.
Instead, his gaze flicks away for a moment, to pluck another cup and saucer from a passing tray and offer it to her.
"I've heard of you, I think. Nothing in particular. Just that you exist." He smiles. It is kind and genuine. "You must tell me if you always look that sad."
He inhales deep. He breathes it out in a sigh. He casts his attention out over the street to his side, lifting the cup to his lips but forgetting to drink at all. Michael does not miss Bexley Briar, does not pretend that he does not see her and does not avert his gaze as she investigates him though it makes his heart thump loudly within him. The sound of it bounces back and forth against every wall.
He is more comfortable with Isra and her bubbling anger, Isra and her digging hands, Isra buried up to her neck in the dirt of living. When he looks at anyone else they are warped and unclear, fuzzy around the edges. When he looks at himself he is little more than a hole into which all bright and happy things disappear. He thinks sometimes that it takes the mouth of a dragon that could swallow him whole to make anything at all clear. He thinks that if Isra did not turn sand to dandelions to rocks that beat against his shore and bruise his ankles, he may not understand anyone. Certainly he cannot fathom this Bexley Briar, poised on a sword's edge at the curb.
Arched over the thin porcelain of his teacup, the pink of his lips pressed just barely against its delicate rim, Michael is watching Bexley with some far-off, unfathomable expression. When she asks, may I, he can only nod.
"Of course," he answers, because he can do nothing else, because the rapid thump of his heart is as loud as his curiosity, like hummingbird wings in the cup of his ear. "my pleasure."
And, now, here they are.
A mirror reflected, gold against gold as Michael finally takes a deep sip, still fixed on her face. It is scarred. Jagged in places. He wants to ask why. He thinks so many things but he does not say any of them aloud. Michael very, very rarely says the things he wants to.
Instead, his gaze flicks away for a moment, to pluck another cup and saucer from a passing tray and offer it to her.
"I've heard of you, I think. Nothing in particular. Just that you exist." He smiles. It is kind and genuine. "You must tell me if you always look that sad."
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