Damien
i'm trying to run from our pride
He let her words settle like stones dropped in a pool, rippling slow but steady. “Sunflowers, huh…” he muttered, almost to himself, letting the sound roll lazily over his tongue. These little facts, he’d tuck them away in the corners of his mind, neat and secret. Gold. Dusky blue. He lifted a brow, a faint twitch of amusement catching him—like he could see her thoughts skimming over each color, catching the sparks in between. You paint pictures with your favorites, he thought, silent. Not out loud, not yet. Not yet, but the thought made his chest tighten just a fraction.
Then she mentioned olives, and he chuckled, low in the throat, the sound roughened by the warmth of cider. Not mocking. Easy. “Olives? Really…” He tilted his head, “More for me, then.” A faint smirk tugged at his lips, and he let it linger there, though the laugh tasted like more than just amusement—it had that slight, sticky sweetness the drink left behind.
He let the silence stretch a heartbeat longer, feeling the slow pulse of the world before dawn. He knew it—this hour, the air still thick with sleep, the sky holding its breath. Felt like being the only one awake in a room full of sleeping giants. Felt like he could slip words, thoughts, secrets into the air and no one would ever reach for them. “Yeah,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “it’s like the world’s waiting for you to take it. Quiet, just for you.”
When she lowered her gaze, biting her lip, he leaned forward, just a fraction, and let the moment hang between them. “Stop apologizing for being you,” he said, low, almost gentle, though the smirk hadn’t left him. “I don’t mind the talking. When you speak, I… pay attention. That’s the difference. And the way you describe things.. I like listening to it, Theea.” No fluff. No coaxing. Just the weight of it, resting on the words like a stone on soft earth. Most people might just hear words, nod, and move on. He, on the other hand, noticed the little things, the texture, the weight behind the things she said, the way her words filled space without him needing to work at it.
Aria’s paw tapped against the bench as if to remind them she existed. He glanced down, catching the lantern glow in her round eyes. The cub crouched, then sprang from shadow to grass, tail high, swaying like she owned every inch of the world. He couldn’t help the corner of his mouth tugging; her joy spread like the embers of a fire.
He caught movement at the edge of his vision; fireflies blinking their first hesitant lights above the grass. His free hand settled on the empty glass at his side, picking it up but decidedly not refilling it. He rose from the bench and tipped his head back slightly, eyes narrowing with faint amusement. “Come on,” he looked at Theea where she still sat, his gaze softer than his roughened voice.
He lifted his other hand out, steady but casual, in an unspoken invitation. His eyes held the faintest mischief, the kind that made you wonder if he saw more than he let on—and maybe he did. Maybe he saw her, all of her, and it made something flicker inside him, sharp and strange, and he had no word for it.
He led her onto the grass [if she'd let him], each step soft against the damp earth, the world opening just enough around them to feel separate from the bustle of the festival. The first fireflies blinked, tentative sparks, dotting the dark like scattered embers. Damien let his gaze drift over them, slow and steady, the warm scent of dew and grass rising, sticky in the air. Light flickered against the edges of Theea’s hair, brushed against her shoulders, and for a moment he noticed how small and luminous it made everything look.
Then she mentioned olives, and he chuckled, low in the throat, the sound roughened by the warmth of cider. Not mocking. Easy. “Olives? Really…” He tilted his head, “More for me, then.” A faint smirk tugged at his lips, and he let it linger there, though the laugh tasted like more than just amusement—it had that slight, sticky sweetness the drink left behind.
He let the silence stretch a heartbeat longer, feeling the slow pulse of the world before dawn. He knew it—this hour, the air still thick with sleep, the sky holding its breath. Felt like being the only one awake in a room full of sleeping giants. Felt like he could slip words, thoughts, secrets into the air and no one would ever reach for them. “Yeah,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “it’s like the world’s waiting for you to take it. Quiet, just for you.”
When she lowered her gaze, biting her lip, he leaned forward, just a fraction, and let the moment hang between them. “Stop apologizing for being you,” he said, low, almost gentle, though the smirk hadn’t left him. “I don’t mind the talking. When you speak, I… pay attention. That’s the difference. And the way you describe things.. I like listening to it, Theea.” No fluff. No coaxing. Just the weight of it, resting on the words like a stone on soft earth. Most people might just hear words, nod, and move on. He, on the other hand, noticed the little things, the texture, the weight behind the things she said, the way her words filled space without him needing to work at it.
Aria’s paw tapped against the bench as if to remind them she existed. He glanced down, catching the lantern glow in her round eyes. The cub crouched, then sprang from shadow to grass, tail high, swaying like she owned every inch of the world. He couldn’t help the corner of his mouth tugging; her joy spread like the embers of a fire.
He caught movement at the edge of his vision; fireflies blinking their first hesitant lights above the grass. His free hand settled on the empty glass at his side, picking it up but decidedly not refilling it. He rose from the bench and tipped his head back slightly, eyes narrowing with faint amusement. “Come on,” he looked at Theea where she still sat, his gaze softer than his roughened voice.
He lifted his other hand out, steady but casual, in an unspoken invitation. His eyes held the faintest mischief, the kind that made you wonder if he saw more than he let on—and maybe he did. Maybe he saw her, all of her, and it made something flicker inside him, sharp and strange, and he had no word for it.
He led her onto the grass [if she'd let him], each step soft against the damp earth, the world opening just enough around them to feel separate from the bustle of the festival. The first fireflies blinked, tentative sparks, dotting the dark like scattered embers. Damien let his gaze drift over them, slow and steady, the warm scent of dew and grass rising, sticky in the air. Light flickered against the edges of Theea’s hair, brushed against her shoulders, and for a moment he noticed how small and luminous it made everything look.
'til you set fire to my atmosphere
