Damien
i'm trying to run from our pride
Damien’s smirk tilted a little higher at her haughty chin, at the promise in her voice. He didn’t doubt she was trained, quick with a blade, clever besides. That was half the fun of it—sparring with her was never a matter of winning or losing, not really. Where he was stronger, she was faster. Where she thought ahead, he trusted instinct. And that edge where they met, steel against steel, was sharper than anything he’d felt in a long while.
Her shoulder brushed his, and he let it stay. Gods, she laughed and the whole damn field lit up brighter than the lanterns. He drank again, heat climbing through him. The warmth of her sank deep in his chest, a little dangerous, like something bubbling that didn’t belong to him. Almost drunk. Almost. Maybe wanting to be.
She asked him about colors. About food. About time. Questions simple as bread, but no one ever really asked him, not like that. The words should have slid off him like water on stone—he knew how to shrug those things away, build his wall with ease. Only… he reached for it and found nothing. No stones to stack, no curtain to pull back into place. Just her, looking at him like she actually wanted to know.
He glanced out over the field again, at strangers laughing too loud, voices hitching on grief when they thought no one heard. The edges of sorrow and drink pressed close, and he didn’t want to share himself in the middle of it. Not with them all around.
He reached and crouched to set Aria gently on the ground, and she tottered a few steps before hopping forward, claws ticking softly against the packed dirt.
“Come, walk with me,” he said instead, quiet but sure. He grabbed his empty cup from the table and reached for hers too, tilting it in her direction with a brow lifted like it was invitation. And, a half-empty bottle for good measure.
He carried their cups until he spotted a bench tucked beneath a rowan tree, its branches feathered with clusters of red berries that caught what little light filtered through the lanterns. The seat was half in shadow, half touched by festival glow — quiet enough for talking without pulling them from the night entirely. He sank down onto one end, steady as ever, and passed Theea her drink before taking a slow sip of his own.
“Favorite color’s green,” he said at last, voice low, not rushed. He let it hang there. “Deep, ever green. Like a pine forest. Dark red is a close second, though.” He glanced sidelong at her, a faint tug at his mouth. “Time of day—sunrise. You can feel the world start over. All the noise still quiet.” He let the image sit, surprised at how easy it was to give.
Another sip, slower. The alcohol spread warm into his limbs, loosening him in ways he rarely let himself be.
“Least favorite food?” He huffed a breath, a low laugh through his nose. “Raw onions. Can’t stand ‘em. Cook ‘em down, fine. But raw…” He made a face, shaking his head like the taste lived on his tongue even now.
His eyes found hers again, steadier now. Lanternlight flickered soft at their backs, but it was the glow in her gaze he settled on. He tilted his head slightly, inviting, curious. “And you?”
Her shoulder brushed his, and he let it stay. Gods, she laughed and the whole damn field lit up brighter than the lanterns. He drank again, heat climbing through him. The warmth of her sank deep in his chest, a little dangerous, like something bubbling that didn’t belong to him. Almost drunk. Almost. Maybe wanting to be.
She asked him about colors. About food. About time. Questions simple as bread, but no one ever really asked him, not like that. The words should have slid off him like water on stone—he knew how to shrug those things away, build his wall with ease. Only… he reached for it and found nothing. No stones to stack, no curtain to pull back into place. Just her, looking at him like she actually wanted to know.
He glanced out over the field again, at strangers laughing too loud, voices hitching on grief when they thought no one heard. The edges of sorrow and drink pressed close, and he didn’t want to share himself in the middle of it. Not with them all around.
He reached and crouched to set Aria gently on the ground, and she tottered a few steps before hopping forward, claws ticking softly against the packed dirt.
“Come, walk with me,” he said instead, quiet but sure. He grabbed his empty cup from the table and reached for hers too, tilting it in her direction with a brow lifted like it was invitation. And, a half-empty bottle for good measure.
He carried their cups until he spotted a bench tucked beneath a rowan tree, its branches feathered with clusters of red berries that caught what little light filtered through the lanterns. The seat was half in shadow, half touched by festival glow — quiet enough for talking without pulling them from the night entirely. He sank down onto one end, steady as ever, and passed Theea her drink before taking a slow sip of his own.
“Favorite color’s green,” he said at last, voice low, not rushed. He let it hang there. “Deep, ever green. Like a pine forest. Dark red is a close second, though.” He glanced sidelong at her, a faint tug at his mouth. “Time of day—sunrise. You can feel the world start over. All the noise still quiet.” He let the image sit, surprised at how easy it was to give.
Another sip, slower. The alcohol spread warm into his limbs, loosening him in ways he rarely let himself be.
“Least favorite food?” He huffed a breath, a low laugh through his nose. “Raw onions. Can’t stand ‘em. Cook ‘em down, fine. But raw…” He made a face, shaking his head like the taste lived on his tongue even now.
His eyes found hers again, steadier now. Lanternlight flickered soft at their backs, but it was the glow in her gaze he settled on. He tilted his head slightly, inviting, curious. “And you?”
'til you set fire to my atmosphere
