I haven’t heard that one yet she says, and oh, he wants to tell her she’s better off not knowing. There were so many stories of girls slipping away, doing what they oughtn’t for a taste, a touch of pleasure, and getting much more than what they bargained for. He’s never thought before how they don’t tell boys the same things, as though they have nothing to fear from the things they want. As though there are no consequences for their tastes.
But of course the wolves (or the witches, or the fae, or wicked king or god himself) don’t give a shit if their victim is a boy or a girl. They’re just starving. They’re just playing their part.
August is sick of playing his own. So when she slips closer to him he leans toward her just-so, just enough that their shoulders whisper together, gold to rich dark brown. There is a look in her eye that he knows well, and firelight flickers in the triangle that rests on the smooth plane of her forehead; he can almost make out his own expression in it. That’s when he turns away. “There are better endings than that one has,” he says to the night, to the smoke that drifts like an offering up to the moon; he wonders if their god is listening. He doesn’t want to think of Caligo, either, possibly ever again. Had he pressed a kiss, a prayer, to her cold stones only a quarter-hour ago? It seems unthinkable now; it makes something else begin to unwind inside him, like he is a creature bound up by strings and one by one they’re being snipped.
August says to the merchant, “Two of the strongest thing you’ve got.” His gaze is level, and so is his tone; both have a dark undercurrent, a little of what’s carried on the air tonight. Maybe that’s the reason the stallion doesn’t smile or roll his eyes or smirk at the two young horses whose eyes glint fever-bright. As he pours two tumblers half-full with something deep and rich August watches him, the autumn air cold on his cheek, the curve of his shoulder and hip warm where it almost-but-does-not touch the dancer’s. He doesn’t need the liquor, he already feels like he’s burning - except for his head, his thoughts, anchored like barnacles or manacles. He pays, turns away, offers a glass to the stranger and lifts his own. Firelight seems to live somewhere within it, shifting the colors, amber-caramel-gold.
“What shall we toast?” he asks. His pulse is feathering in his throat; he can’t seem to stop watching the light flicker and slide up and down the delicate links of her chain. “And then I would like to steal you,” back to her eyes, the knowing gold of them, a smile uncurling on his mouth, “for a dance.”
August does not add if you will let me. It isn't really a question.
But of course the wolves (or the witches, or the fae, or wicked king or god himself) don’t give a shit if their victim is a boy or a girl. They’re just starving. They’re just playing their part.
August is sick of playing his own. So when she slips closer to him he leans toward her just-so, just enough that their shoulders whisper together, gold to rich dark brown. There is a look in her eye that he knows well, and firelight flickers in the triangle that rests on the smooth plane of her forehead; he can almost make out his own expression in it. That’s when he turns away. “There are better endings than that one has,” he says to the night, to the smoke that drifts like an offering up to the moon; he wonders if their god is listening. He doesn’t want to think of Caligo, either, possibly ever again. Had he pressed a kiss, a prayer, to her cold stones only a quarter-hour ago? It seems unthinkable now; it makes something else begin to unwind inside him, like he is a creature bound up by strings and one by one they’re being snipped.
August says to the merchant, “Two of the strongest thing you’ve got.” His gaze is level, and so is his tone; both have a dark undercurrent, a little of what’s carried on the air tonight. Maybe that’s the reason the stallion doesn’t smile or roll his eyes or smirk at the two young horses whose eyes glint fever-bright. As he pours two tumblers half-full with something deep and rich August watches him, the autumn air cold on his cheek, the curve of his shoulder and hip warm where it almost-but-does-not touch the dancer’s. He doesn’t need the liquor, he already feels like he’s burning - except for his head, his thoughts, anchored like barnacles or manacles. He pays, turns away, offers a glass to the stranger and lifts his own. Firelight seems to live somewhere within it, shifting the colors, amber-caramel-gold.
“What shall we toast?” he asks. His pulse is feathering in his throat; he can’t seem to stop watching the light flicker and slide up and down the delicate links of her chain. “And then I would like to steal you,” back to her eyes, the knowing gold of them, a smile uncurling on his mouth, “for a dance.”
August does not add if you will let me. It isn't really a question.
August - -
there's a lover in the story
but the story's still the same
but the story's still the same
