Damien
i'm trying to run from our pride
Her hand slipped the little duck into his pocket, fingers brushing the wool of his coat and the faint warmth of him beneath it. He stilled at the touch. Theea had a way of doing that—finding excuses to close the distance, to test the line he always kept so carefully drawn. It never felt like a test to her, maybe. To him, it was always one.
He didn’t move away. Instead, the corner of his mouth tugged in a small, betraying curve. The rubber squeak sat against his chest now, ridiculous and sincere, and the fact she’d thought to give one to him lit something low and quiet in him.
The lantern weighed steady in his grip, pine trees etched in the glass catching pale threads of light from the crowd. He looked down at it, then back up, catching her gaze when she asked. “Yeah,” he said softly, a nod following the word. “I’d like that.” His voice had that rough timbre again, the one that always slipped through when he wasn’t armoring it.
The crowd pressed and parted around them—laughter from children chasing one another in painted masks, a low voice singing somewhere near the food stalls, the constant hush of lanterns settling. The world was moving, busy, but he felt rooted here, in this small exchange.
He nodded toward the cider in her hands, the one she kept sipping to cover whatever she didn’t say. “That any good?” he asked, tone lighter now, almost conversational. “I could use one myself, if it is.” The implication sat between them—that maybe they’d walk over together, after the lantern was set.
He let her take the lantern from him so she could find its rightful place among the rest, fingers grazing hers in the handoff, steady but unhurried.
He didn’t move away. Instead, the corner of his mouth tugged in a small, betraying curve. The rubber squeak sat against his chest now, ridiculous and sincere, and the fact she’d thought to give one to him lit something low and quiet in him.
The lantern weighed steady in his grip, pine trees etched in the glass catching pale threads of light from the crowd. He looked down at it, then back up, catching her gaze when she asked. “Yeah,” he said softly, a nod following the word. “I’d like that.” His voice had that rough timbre again, the one that always slipped through when he wasn’t armoring it.
The crowd pressed and parted around them—laughter from children chasing one another in painted masks, a low voice singing somewhere near the food stalls, the constant hush of lanterns settling. The world was moving, busy, but he felt rooted here, in this small exchange.
He nodded toward the cider in her hands, the one she kept sipping to cover whatever she didn’t say. “That any good?” he asked, tone lighter now, almost conversational. “I could use one myself, if it is.” The implication sat between them—that maybe they’d walk over together, after the lantern was set.
He let her take the lantern from him so she could find its rightful place among the rest, fingers grazing hers in the handoff, steady but unhurried.
'til you set fire to my atmosphere
