[P] Linger

[Marisol]

there will be singing
about the dark times.

If there was not the matter of Theodosia to stand between them, and Orestes besides—

Well, if there were not other things to be dealt with, maybe the thing coiling in Marisol’s stomach would be closer to lust than envy. Even now she is not sure which is which, or what is what, or why, exactly, her heart has picked up so much speed inside her chest. It bangs against her throat. Then the underside of her tongue.

In the dead silence of the office, the world is still. Like a dream. Like a painting or a picture, capturing something mid-movement.

In this painting, there is only dim light: only Anandi’s skin, shining like silver, and her eyes, jewel-bright, eerie green. There is only thin yellow light from the flickering lanterns, which cast strange shadows, sort of monstrous, over the cobblestone.

In this painting, everything has gone quiet. There is nothing to listen to but their pulses. Anandi’s light breaths. The faint sound of birdsong just outside the window. None of it is stronger than the buzzing of blood in Marisol’s ears, how it rises and abates, like waves beating on the sand.

Mari presses her lips together. She is trying to hold something (everything) back. When she breathes in, it smells like sea salt, or blood, and really—what’s the difference?

Anandi steps forward. So much heat comes off her (as if pouring out of a fire) that Marisol almost shudders. And  they are quite close now, maybe closer than she should be, but how can she care when a girl so pretty is doing so much to impress her? The room seems quieter. Darker. Smaller. With a telekinetic hand, Mari reaches out to shut the door behind them; as she moves, her chest brushes Andi’s, then her shoulder, light enough it could (it isn’t, though) be an accident. 

A satisfying click as the door closes. Anandi wants to know where you would have me, and Mari, drawing back to her original standing position, pauses halfway. When she laughs, short and quiet, they are still standing cheek-to-cheek, and her breath stirs the fine hairs behind the Emissary’s ear. “Oh, anywhere,” Mari answers mildly. “We can always start with the desk.”

Then she steps back fully. Suddenly her eyes darken, and her voice grows totally sincere: “Anandi—Andi—forgive me for being mistrustful. You know better than anyone it is the nature of politics. But I hope we can become friends soon enough.” The word is weighted. Her tone is light enough, but the suggestion in it is too heavy to be completely disregarded. 

A beat of silence. The room seems to widen; a weight has been lifted from the Commander’s shoulders, despite her uncertainty as to Anandi’s response. She tilts her head and flashes God’s faintest smile, continuing: “Your personal matter, then, first.” 

Her interest is only growing stronger.

“Speaking.”

credits