Theea
they may say you're too small, you're too young
to do it all, but you're a giant on the inside
to do it all, but you're a giant on the inside
I meet his eyes, shrugging. “I dunno, I was starting to get the appeal at the last two parties I was at.” I wince a little. “Helped ease the whole sticking out like a sore thumb thing.” His joke drifts between us and I chuckle, hoping to warm the suddenly cold air, but his eyes stay frosty. What did I do?
As I truly settle on the bedroll, I try not to think about the throbbing burn in my side; I fixate instead on the little lift at the corner of his lips—evidence of a smile he doesn’t quite know how to release. I want to make him smile more, make him laugh like when I tripped him during training.
I purse my lips at the thought of laying on my stitches, bedroll or not. But it would be warmer, and shivering with tense muscles all night doesn’t sound great either.
He goes on, then stops short with a resigned sigh. I wait… and then he rolls just enough to invite me into his arms. I watch his face closely, every flash of flame across the planes of it, the way his jaw flickers when he’s tense. My lips press together, but I’m still smiling, gently, as I carefully move into him.
Somehow, I fit there just right—head tucked to his chest, under his chin, right over the beat of his heart. Mine thuds hard in answer. He’s warm, solid, protective in a way I’ve got no right to, but it’s a comfort. It’s as if my muscles finally thaw; they loosen, unspooling one by one. Under the smell of blood and antiseptic, I smell him: fresh-cut wood, a forest of pine, something entirely his own.
“Damien?” I murmur, tiredness creeping into my voice. I pause. “I’m really glad I found you again. That you’re my friend. Don’t go away after all this, okay?” I know what guilt can do to a person, watched it put my mother, and me into isolation as it ate her alive.
As I truly settle on the bedroll, I try not to think about the throbbing burn in my side; I fixate instead on the little lift at the corner of his lips—evidence of a smile he doesn’t quite know how to release. I want to make him smile more, make him laugh like when I tripped him during training.
I purse my lips at the thought of laying on my stitches, bedroll or not. But it would be warmer, and shivering with tense muscles all night doesn’t sound great either.
He goes on, then stops short with a resigned sigh. I wait… and then he rolls just enough to invite me into his arms. I watch his face closely, every flash of flame across the planes of it, the way his jaw flickers when he’s tense. My lips press together, but I’m still smiling, gently, as I carefully move into him.
Somehow, I fit there just right—head tucked to his chest, under his chin, right over the beat of his heart. Mine thuds hard in answer. He’s warm, solid, protective in a way I’ve got no right to, but it’s a comfort. It’s as if my muscles finally thaw; they loosen, unspooling one by one. Under the smell of blood and antiseptic, I smell him: fresh-cut wood, a forest of pine, something entirely his own.
“Damien?” I murmur, tiredness creeping into my voice. I pause. “I’m really glad I found you again. That you’re my friend. Don’t go away after all this, okay?” I know what guilt can do to a person, watched it put my mother, and me into isolation as it ate her alive.
