toaru
Between them is the world and it snatches their breaths away, intermingled in the winds that will not return to them, if ever it will pass through Solterra once more. With his advance, she shies back; eyes dart from his own burning gaze and he wonders what it is she fears. Does Fever truly believe he could ever bring harm to her? Part of him wonders the same, but he knows (he thinks he knows) that she will be forever safe from him. Of all the faces, the people and places, Fever alone could be spared from it all. And if it is futile and he should fail, she should not crumble beside him upon the city that broke them both and built them up again. But he cannot watch her burn it. Cannot watch her stomp her pretty little foot again and huff out indignantly, almost like a girl throwing a fit.
But this is a woman before him, and clearly she knows that she is anything but a girl anymore. Their youth was ripped from them long ago and far, far too early. There are scars they wear and bare and scars they hide. What is it then that she hides behind the purr that slips from her lips? He wants to lean into that purr, that silky soft voice that's meant to entice and leave you wanting. It is the voice of a fever dream, just like her name. Clearing his throat, his brows lower as he asks "Is that all you want? Fire and death and bloodshed?" There are ashes on his mouth, there are cigarettes on his skin again (he remembers them well, the nights he was borrowed and traded, sold from man to man to woman to man. The face never mattered in the end,) and he can't help the disgust that must be etched on the corners of his mouth. Now it is his turn to stomp a hoof, digging into the ground and scarring it just as they both were. "What about the kids who were just like us, Fever? What wrongs have they done to you?" He can barely hiss out the words, hardly get past the red haze clouding his eyes, his judgment.
She would kill them without hesitation.
He thinks of the girl clinging to her doll, her mud-smeared face full of tears when Toaru takes her from her brother in the alley. It is a brother who would not rise. A boy he was too late to save. Toaru thinks desperately of the colt that's brash and bold and dreaming, that's more trouble than he might be worth but has a sparkle in his eye that hasn't quite been stomped out yet. He thinks of the faces of those who would kill each other for a scrap of bread; the thousands who are not pretty enough to be a slave, and so must sell their children to feed their husbands and wives and parents, just to make ends meet.
He feels the rage rise; it is a tide that washes towards her as she walks away. Trailing her, a shadow with every step she takes, he listens and can only roll his eyes. Snaking forward, he pulls at her tail to stop her, coming forward with his broad shoulders and bleeding horns. They were barely anything to write home about when they were young, but he has grown into his own skin just as she has. Now, he uses that to walk around her; circling, assessing. What would she make of his heated stare as it passes over her like a piece of meat (and he hates himself for it, for the way his skin would crawl if their positions were reversed.) "If I said yes, would you be jealous? Would you swish your pretty tail and bat your pretty eyes and hope to hypnotize me again and again?" There is a cold laugh. When did it get so cold? Why is he so cruel when every cell is lit up with joy just knowing she is not dead. When did she become so unkind?
Stopping then, face to face, nearly chest to chest, he meets her eyes unflinching and asks in earnest "What would you really do if I were happy, Fever?" Because he doesn't know that he is happy; he doesn't know if he's been quite happy since she left. But he has survived, made ends meet, and gotten by each day. Without her... Why had it been without her? Chewing on her whine, on the final admission of sorrow in her voice, it nearly makes him fold. He should lament, he should stop this silly charade now. There are so many should-be's that never will be, and so he looks to her mouth guiltily, he moves the sand aimlessly instead..."Supposed to doesn't cut it anymore. Stop living in a dream," he says because it is the kindest truth he can give her. While his tail lashes the sand behind them, he can't quite meet her eyes again. Not yet. Not when there are so many things he wants to say, so much building and building in his throat that it's nearly raw from not screaming... But he can't.
He can't watch her suffer and tear them both down. Never did he want to see her frown as she does now.
"speech"
But this is a woman before him, and clearly she knows that she is anything but a girl anymore. Their youth was ripped from them long ago and far, far too early. There are scars they wear and bare and scars they hide. What is it then that she hides behind the purr that slips from her lips? He wants to lean into that purr, that silky soft voice that's meant to entice and leave you wanting. It is the voice of a fever dream, just like her name. Clearing his throat, his brows lower as he asks "Is that all you want? Fire and death and bloodshed?" There are ashes on his mouth, there are cigarettes on his skin again (he remembers them well, the nights he was borrowed and traded, sold from man to man to woman to man. The face never mattered in the end,) and he can't help the disgust that must be etched on the corners of his mouth. Now it is his turn to stomp a hoof, digging into the ground and scarring it just as they both were. "What about the kids who were just like us, Fever? What wrongs have they done to you?" He can barely hiss out the words, hardly get past the red haze clouding his eyes, his judgment.
She would kill them without hesitation.
He thinks of the girl clinging to her doll, her mud-smeared face full of tears when Toaru takes her from her brother in the alley. It is a brother who would not rise. A boy he was too late to save. Toaru thinks desperately of the colt that's brash and bold and dreaming, that's more trouble than he might be worth but has a sparkle in his eye that hasn't quite been stomped out yet. He thinks of the faces of those who would kill each other for a scrap of bread; the thousands who are not pretty enough to be a slave, and so must sell their children to feed their husbands and wives and parents, just to make ends meet.
He feels the rage rise; it is a tide that washes towards her as she walks away. Trailing her, a shadow with every step she takes, he listens and can only roll his eyes. Snaking forward, he pulls at her tail to stop her, coming forward with his broad shoulders and bleeding horns. They were barely anything to write home about when they were young, but he has grown into his own skin just as she has. Now, he uses that to walk around her; circling, assessing. What would she make of his heated stare as it passes over her like a piece of meat (and he hates himself for it, for the way his skin would crawl if their positions were reversed.) "If I said yes, would you be jealous? Would you swish your pretty tail and bat your pretty eyes and hope to hypnotize me again and again?" There is a cold laugh. When did it get so cold? Why is he so cruel when every cell is lit up with joy just knowing she is not dead. When did she become so unkind?
Stopping then, face to face, nearly chest to chest, he meets her eyes unflinching and asks in earnest "What would you really do if I were happy, Fever?" Because he doesn't know that he is happy; he doesn't know if he's been quite happy since she left. But he has survived, made ends meet, and gotten by each day. Without her... Why had it been without her? Chewing on her whine, on the final admission of sorrow in her voice, it nearly makes him fold. He should lament, he should stop this silly charade now. There are so many should-be's that never will be, and so he looks to her mouth guiltily, he moves the sand aimlessly instead..."Supposed to doesn't cut it anymore. Stop living in a dream," he says because it is the kindest truth he can give her. While his tail lashes the sand behind them, he can't quite meet her eyes again. Not yet. Not when there are so many things he wants to say, so much building and building in his throat that it's nearly raw from not screaming... But he can't.
He can't watch her suffer and tear them both down. Never did he want to see her frown as she does now.
