[P] DO THE HUNGRY EVER SLEEP?

[Acton]

Acton whatever you feed me I'll feed you right back   The way she looked at him in that moment made Acton think of gods. All that bright hate, all that choking feeling - it made him feel known, made him feel seen, in a way the performances could only approximate. Even the other Crows didn’t truly know him; they only had what he’d told them, and Acton never told anyone everything. But Bexley was different. And when he shivered again, it was not entirely because of fear, not entirely because of the cool-fingered spring breeze. Some of it was the electricity that seemed to have replaced blood in his veins, to hear his name from her bloody mouth. And then her smile was gone and he wondered if any part of it had been real. Acton welcomed her threats, the way they made the blood sing in his veins, alive alive alive. His fear was buried by his anticipation; any good sense he might have had was buried along with it. When the lanterns exploded he should have run, the way the last few strangers had at that first flash of fire. Instead he flinched, and then he laughed, and wondered how she’d done it. Fire was his element, the smoke his favorite stage – didn’t she know? Come here, honey, she said, and he shouldn’t have been able to hear it over the sound of chaos, of hooves on stone and raised voices and of course the burning, but he does. And he did step toward her, his grin curling more into a grimace with every word she said. There was an incoherent roaring building in his head, he thought he could feel his skin shimmering like gauzy fabric; but maybe that was only the sound, the heat. Her necklace, when she showed it, was brighter than the glinting glass, brighter than the flames reflected in her eyes, even through the smoke. He dropped his head as he stared at it, feeling the wanting wash him in waves. He only looked up when her sudden movement caught him; the sharp snap reminded him of bones breaking and his vision was all hazy at the edges. Must be the smoke. “You ought to have kept that,” he said finally, gesturing with his chin toward the discarded arrow, though his gaze did not leave hers. “Then maybe you could give me one to match yours.” Like a locket, he thought, and his grin was wide and wicked. “I should have known you’d be back for more,” he continued, closing the space between them with another slow step, the reflection of the firelight dancing on his dark hooves. “I bet you liked it, learning you were too stubborn to die. Wanna be reminded again?” Acton flicked his gaze up at her from where it had been resting once more on the glinting golden locket. He licked his teeth. Dog-like, he cocked his head. “Or did you come for something else? Starting to sound like it.” In the background the fire crackles and seethes and he is reminded, again, of that day years ago in another world. The sound had been the same, at first, until the screaming had begun. Just the low burn that ate and ate and only asked for more. Oh, he loved it, loved the way it nipped at his heels, made his dark hair curl. Even the way the smoke drifted between them, stung his eyes. Pain meant life and life was good. In that moment Acton was sorry for what he nearly took from her. They were very close, now. He could see ashes on her eyelashes. He could see the fire glint off of the wet red blood that wept from the cut, marring the pretty gold, the perfect white. He wondered if it still stung. For all she was right, for all she knew him, his black napalm heart, she was wrong about this: he did not hate her. “Sure, honey. I love a bet.” For now, they are alone. @Bexley