[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.