we laugh, & it pits the world against us
Nothing has ever felt so familiar as the press of Florentine’s forehead to hers, gold on gold on gold; Bexley is almost a child again, as lovely and as innocent as she was when they first met in Ruris, unscarred and unbroken. Oh, how they’ve changed. The weight of it in Bexley’s chest could almost bring her to drowning. Every part of her aches to return to that time, when Novus was still its own world of possibility, and not ones of terror or toughness - the gilded days of her first weeks here seem unreachable now, so far away she might not recognize them even if they came to visit in memory.
But this - this she recognizes. The stubborn overlap of their heartbeats. Heat radiating from Florentine’s skin. It is dizzying and blows her starry-eyed, estranged, off-balance. For the first time in weeks, Bexley does not tense at someone else’s touch; it seems she might even fall into it, fall over and over and over herself, giving in at last to the comfort of another person, and as she thinks of this she thinks of Acton, and hates herself for it, a little bit. (Why does he seem to follow her everywhere? Stupid boy. Like the scar wasn’t enough a reminder of him.)
You are not that girl anymore. They fall apart, finally, and Bexley’s tear-shiny eyes flicker up to meet Florentine’s, as scared and childish as they’ve ever been. She feels weak. She feels wrong. It is not like her to be so delicate, so terribly fatigued, and yet this cloudy darkness has followed for so long it almost seems normal now, like the Bexley Briar who used to lovable has disappeared, been buried and burnt, inaccessible from where she stands now.
She is not that girl anymore. Is she anything, anymore, but the anger that burns its embers in her heart and follows her like a storm cloud, but the want that thrums its own drumbeat inside her chest.
The name of the Night Court Sovereign makes her nerves spark. He has gone missing, she knows, and is heartsick with worry over the loss of her first-ever friend here, but still his presence lingers, as immutable and impressive as ever. I am not the same girl who fell in love with Reichenbach… Only a few months ago, that would have been a relief to hear. Such an admission would’ve sent Bexley a wave of new hope, turned her soft-hearted, light-headed, in love again. But Florentine is right. They are not the same girls they were - they never will be - and for the first time Bexley feels the truth of it rung like a bell deep in her brain, so forceful it’s almost nauseating. Thank you, she murmurs, and her voice is softer than ever.
How are you? How have you changed?
@Florentine
But this - this she recognizes. The stubborn overlap of their heartbeats. Heat radiating from Florentine’s skin. It is dizzying and blows her starry-eyed, estranged, off-balance. For the first time in weeks, Bexley does not tense at someone else’s touch; it seems she might even fall into it, fall over and over and over herself, giving in at last to the comfort of another person, and as she thinks of this she thinks of Acton, and hates herself for it, a little bit. (Why does he seem to follow her everywhere? Stupid boy. Like the scar wasn’t enough a reminder of him.)
You are not that girl anymore. They fall apart, finally, and Bexley’s tear-shiny eyes flicker up to meet Florentine’s, as scared and childish as they’ve ever been. She feels weak. She feels wrong. It is not like her to be so delicate, so terribly fatigued, and yet this cloudy darkness has followed for so long it almost seems normal now, like the Bexley Briar who used to lovable has disappeared, been buried and burnt, inaccessible from where she stands now.
She is not that girl anymore. Is she anything, anymore, but the anger that burns its embers in her heart and follows her like a storm cloud, but the want that thrums its own drumbeat inside her chest.
The name of the Night Court Sovereign makes her nerves spark. He has gone missing, she knows, and is heartsick with worry over the loss of her first-ever friend here, but still his presence lingers, as immutable and impressive as ever. I am not the same girl who fell in love with Reichenbach… Only a few months ago, that would have been a relief to hear. Such an admission would’ve sent Bexley a wave of new hope, turned her soft-hearted, light-headed, in love again. But Florentine is right. They are not the same girls they were - they never will be - and for the first time Bexley feels the truth of it rung like a bell deep in her brain, so forceful it’s almost nauseating. Thank you, she murmurs, and her voice is softer than ever.
How are you? How have you changed?
@
