[SE] If I hit the bottom will I break?

melita

and she recklessly plays with matches

It was the reluctance and disbelief in his voice that made her roll her eyes, playfully scoff at the reaction. “Would I lie to you?” Gods knew all her bluntness would sink and simmer in there eventually. He’d reached forward and done something, rather than wallow in his own misery – so in her heart, in her mind, he’d deserved the praise. Ampere wasn’t going to be his anchor. He could rise on his own power and persistence. He could strike against perils and win over the leagues of his melancholy. Done and infinite.

But during her playful taunt, she must have been remiss somewhere. The Honeybee was rarely surprised; she was attuned to the chaotic semblances, bled bedlam and melded upheaval as easy as breathing – she just didn’t expect it to come from him. Suddenly his chest was in front of her, then his face, and she was somewhere along the bottom of the boat, staring upward with her brow arched and wondering if she was going to have to draw a knife into his ribcage –

A very brief moment of recognition dawned on her, perhaps through the murky fog of alcohol, perhaps through her habitual tendencies towards violence first, everything else second. Or she was mistaken, trying to peer and read through actions without overt explanation; only unwinding, unfurling things underneath years upon years upon years. She might’ve even questioned it out loud, with her confused, rattled features, waiting for him to say something, golden eyes tracing over the way his gaze maneuvered to hers and then to her mouth, as if she was supposed to put the remains together. Maybe she would. Maybe she didn’t have a clue either. She wasn’t above errors or stomping over lines drawn in the sand. Half the time she did it without a singular thought, pushing and pulling and grating until it was hers and hers alone.

But she wouldn’t be lingering and lying there on some metal floor. She wouldn’t be caged. She wouldn’t be caught. She wouldn’t be tethered on a line and waiting to be drawn out. Boldness, either enhanced through liquor or her own gilded audacity, had her meeting him more than halfway, rising from the foundations and bursting through of her own accord, taking the unspoken invitation and running with it – smirking, snickering, lips meeting his. In some partial way, it could’ve been a combined fragment of ‘what took you so long’ and ‘why do I have to do everything’, or just pathways, built by their own rocky trails.

ISKRA

For a heartbeat or two he braces for the worst. The whipcrack of her rebuff, a rise of her ire, likely nuanced with magic or might, or some cutting remark about his inability to properly read a damn thing. She doesn't do any of that though, instead she surges.

It’s chaos in the shape of lips and laughter, of relief and certainty, of her. It crashes into him with a kind of force he’s wholly unprepared for, a kiss full of that wild heat only Mel has ever known how to wield. His breath stutters as he presses back into her, caught between disbelief and the burn of finally. He melts into her with reverence, the kiss not smooth, not practiced, but real—one hand cupping the back of her head now to support her rise, to hold her to him like he's always wanted. He tastes the salt of the sea spray, the burn of the bottle, the years between them, all folded into this one impossible, inevitable moment. A laugh escapes him against her mouth, unguarded and golden. “Always gotta beat me to it,” he breathes, eyes bright, lips brushing hers as he pulls away just enough to speak.

His body hums like lightning waiting to strike, but he doesn't press further, just revels in this moment where he has finally reached for her and she has delightfully tugged back. He presses his forehead to hers, tenderness seeming to flood all the places his grief had been living, granting him something shimmering instead of swallowing. It's his turn now to draw his fingers through her hair, thumb rubbing along her jaw, pulling back to search her eyes and offer a lopsided smile. He's dreamed of doing that since the day he met her, and gods, it was everything and more. He's so afraid to ruin it now though, so he withdraws, rising back to his feet and offers a hand to help her up.

There's an awkwardness to him, like he isn't sure how to be next to her now, like he'd never imagined what next after that, as short sighted as ever. He clears his throat, “I guess we should head back?” He rubs the back of his neck, the wind tugging at his shirt and stealing away the last of his bravery. The warmth of her still lingers in his hands, still presses a shy smile to his lips.

I'm losin' my grip, caught up in the current
I can't swim, I'm startin' to slip
I'm runnin' out of breath, I'm scared to death
I gotta keep my head up, Up above the water

melita

and she recklessly plays with matches

What did one do when finality reached and plucked and struck? Melita wasn’t entirely sure – her machinations commonly went to present and now, and caught in the flow of tenacity, time, hands, mouths, she really didn’t have an answer. The thereafter didn’t seem like much of a burden when there were other things to occupy her impulsive and brazen mind; senses not on the ocean or the boat, but him, responding to her audacity with his own compulsion, and there they were. She blinked, opening her eyes to see his, foreheads and lips brushing.

She snorted, breaking apart that tension with some bountiful laughter that spoke highly of liquor but also those needs carved out of somewhere; the impetuousness leading to only confusion as he touched, then pulled away. She might’ve offered something dumbfounded if he didn’t seem equally uncertain and rattled. “Yeah, well, you had plenty of opportunities,” she wrinkled her nose in response, hovering on the edges of asking what the hell they were doing, and then not wanting to dive deeper into the semantics and questions. Instead, her smile turned Cheshire and she swiftly maneuvered around, stepping over lines and her stunned companions features, to unfurl at the sails again. “Need to learn to take them,” was a recommendation on her impeccable challenges –

Of course, she wasn’t going to say that she didn’t know what came next either. So heading back might’ve been the next best thing to facing the precariousness they stomped upon.

[FIN]