The music is quiet, crooning. Michael can see the string lights in her eyes, small as the star-freckled sky and just as dark. The murmur of other patrons has become almost comfortable now: this is it, this moment that separates them, a moment on the precipice. He holds her so gently, like he's afraid, though he isn't.
Michael knows now that there is no fear on earth that could grip him any tighter than he lets it.
Isra is not all monsters and gods. Sometimes she is still an aspiration. Sometimes.
Moira turns her eyes down, under lashes that bat like a wing, and Michael lets her go, as he has let many things go before her. Letting go is as easy as opening the hand and tipping it -- all the sand falls out in wet clumps or streams, with only a stray grain or two that sticks to the palm, the fingers. He lets her go like a bottled letter, green-glassed and waiting.
He lets her go like he had let everything else go: with little more than a hitched breath, not a second thought. This is simply the way of things. It always has been. It always will be.
What do you want, Michael?
This, he thinks. It isn't so hard to draw new lines on a map. It isn't so hard to point yourself toward a new star, a brighter star. She takes stock of his suffering and does not see that not everyone is owned by their trauma or drowned in the blood of their hemmorhaging heart. When she is looking away he takes just a moment to be very sad, in a way that he recognizes but can't quite name, in a way that is as familiar to him as his own skin.
And still, at the end of the day, nothing is lost.
Michael lifts that same strand of hair off her forehead and rests his lips on the space left behind. He closes his eyes. He breathes slow: in, out.
What are you doing to me? She asks. He wants to say it. He wants to say it so bad it hurts.
Instead, Michael says, "Pushing you, a little too far, I think." before kissing the space between her eyes as gently as he can before. He leans back, smiling like the sun. It is genuine, and kind, and loving. Perhaps it says more than he ever could. Michael picks up the drink left behind on the table, grimaces as it burns its way down his throat, then smiles, again.
"You can tell me when you're ready. Do you want to go home?"
He wishes he could say it in a way that doesn't sound like old ships, or breaking waves. He wishes he could say it like it wasn't an apology. He can't.
Michael knows now that there is no fear on earth that could grip him any tighter than he lets it.
Isra is not all monsters and gods. Sometimes she is still an aspiration. Sometimes.
Moira turns her eyes down, under lashes that bat like a wing, and Michael lets her go, as he has let many things go before her. Letting go is as easy as opening the hand and tipping it -- all the sand falls out in wet clumps or streams, with only a stray grain or two that sticks to the palm, the fingers. He lets her go like a bottled letter, green-glassed and waiting.
He lets her go like he had let everything else go: with little more than a hitched breath, not a second thought. This is simply the way of things. It always has been. It always will be.
What do you want, Michael?
This, he thinks. It isn't so hard to draw new lines on a map. It isn't so hard to point yourself toward a new star, a brighter star. She takes stock of his suffering and does not see that not everyone is owned by their trauma or drowned in the blood of their hemmorhaging heart. When she is looking away he takes just a moment to be very sad, in a way that he recognizes but can't quite name, in a way that is as familiar to him as his own skin.
And still, at the end of the day, nothing is lost.
Michael lifts that same strand of hair off her forehead and rests his lips on the space left behind. He closes his eyes. He breathes slow: in, out.
What are you doing to me? She asks. He wants to say it. He wants to say it so bad it hurts.
Instead, Michael says, "Pushing you, a little too far, I think." before kissing the space between her eyes as gently as he can before. He leans back, smiling like the sun. It is genuine, and kind, and loving. Perhaps it says more than he ever could. Michael picks up the drink left behind on the table, grimaces as it burns its way down his throat, then smiles, again.
"You can tell me when you're ready. Do you want to go home?"
He wishes he could say it in a way that doesn't sound like old ships, or breaking waves. He wishes he could say it like it wasn't an apology. He can't.
"Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us."
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