we show off our different scarlet letters
Flora exhales, the sound a thin ribbon of air that curls between them before vanishing into the cold. Her eyes drift down to the torn pelt in front of them, to the dull sheen of blood where it’s already begun to thicken against the air. She doesn’t flinch, though something in her mouth tightens, a faint downturn at the corners as his words settle over her like frost. She knows he’s right—hates that he’s right—and still, a small, stubborn part of her aches for the easier version of the truth. The one where someone else could reach inside and take all the rotting, bitter pieces without her having to open herself up wide enough to bleed.
She wants to tell him she’s sure he’d be harder without Danta. Colder. That the sharpness in him might have cut deeper into everything if there hadn’t been someone to steady his hands when the blade slipped. But the thought curls behind her teeth and stays there. What’s the point of asking if she’s only going to disagree? And besides—there aren’t many people she’d even consider taking advice from. Asta is certainly near the top of that list.
Her breath catches and softens into another sigh, this one more surrender than protest. She leans into him, arms winding around his frame until she’s folded close, her cheek pressing against the heat of his chest. The blood there dampens her hair, clings to the fabric beneath her fingers, but she doesn’t care. "I like all the parts of you," she murmurs into the fabric, her voice muffled, the words warm against his skin. "Even the ones you thought maybe I wouldn't." And it’s true—she likes him whole, the jagged edges and the smooth ones, the parts that smell of firelight and the ones still dripping with blood.
When he speaks of Dygra carving out his trauma, her head tips back just enough to see his face, the corner of her mouth hitching into something crooked and knowing. "So you didn’t have to do it yourself," she says, and though there’s a spark of teasing triumph in it, it’s softened by understanding. She knows what he means; that the act of walking into the temple, of asking, of laying yourself bare for someone to cut you open—that part still belonged to him.
Her arms loosen, sliding away as she leans back, the space between them filling with the copper-tinged air and the soft thud of her own heartbeat. Her gaze slips to the wolf’s body, the fur already stiffening. "Do you want more," she asks after a moment, eyes flicking back to him, "or are you planning on bringing it back with us?"
She wants to tell him she’s sure he’d be harder without Danta. Colder. That the sharpness in him might have cut deeper into everything if there hadn’t been someone to steady his hands when the blade slipped. But the thought curls behind her teeth and stays there. What’s the point of asking if she’s only going to disagree? And besides—there aren’t many people she’d even consider taking advice from. Asta is certainly near the top of that list.
Her breath catches and softens into another sigh, this one more surrender than protest. She leans into him, arms winding around his frame until she’s folded close, her cheek pressing against the heat of his chest. The blood there dampens her hair, clings to the fabric beneath her fingers, but she doesn’t care. "I like all the parts of you," she murmurs into the fabric, her voice muffled, the words warm against his skin. "Even the ones you thought maybe I wouldn't." And it’s true—she likes him whole, the jagged edges and the smooth ones, the parts that smell of firelight and the ones still dripping with blood.
When he speaks of Dygra carving out his trauma, her head tips back just enough to see his face, the corner of her mouth hitching into something crooked and knowing. "So you didn’t have to do it yourself," she says, and though there’s a spark of teasing triumph in it, it’s softened by understanding. She knows what he means; that the act of walking into the temple, of asking, of laying yourself bare for someone to cut you open—that part still belonged to him.
Her arms loosen, sliding away as she leans back, the space between them filling with the copper-tinged air and the soft thud of her own heartbeat. Her gaze slips to the wolf’s body, the fur already stiffening. "Do you want more," she asks after a moment, eyes flicking back to him, "or are you planning on bringing it back with us?"
