flora
Flora breathes in like she’s trying to stitch the room back together with air; the sound comes out half a gasp when he appears, a small, surprised thing that trembles into steadier breath because she has to make it steady, because steadiness is how she proves she means it. The last time she saw Mort was a rawer memory—Remi calling him down with a voice that trembled, everyone gathered to say the things that meant goodbye—and even now the recollection tugs at her like a tide. Her body shivers though Mort's light is warm, as if the part of her that remembers loss keeps its own winter no matter the sun.
She pushes that winter back with the same stubbornness she has used for six years, and her chin lifts. The cream silk clings in the slightest to her ribs where her breath rides it; the gold ring bites into her finger when she twists it because she needs something solid to hold. Her eyes find his and hold—not pleading at first, only explaining—because she has rehearsed this explanation for a thousand private nights and it has become as clear as bone.
"It’s because of me," she says, and the words are an offering and an accusation at once, poured steady into the coloured light. "We could have gone into the Refuge. We had the chance, but I told him we didn’t need to, that we would be fine. It was because I wanted to feel like we were doing something important that we stayed in the city." Her throat works around the words, each one heavier than the last. "It was my fault we were on that street when Haulani started breaking apart." Her throat tightens but she keeps speaking, because truth is the only currency she will tender here. "If I’d gone when we were supposed to, he’d still be alive."
The silence that follows is too wide, too sharp. She breathes through it anyway, holding Mort’s gaze with all the defiance she has left. "If you want me to learn from it, I will. I have. I’ll carry that lesson for the rest of my life. But don’t make Enzo pay for what I did," she says, and the seed of anger she has learned to wear like armour flares gentle and bright, not cruel but incandescent. Tears shine at the rims of her eyes, catching the stained glass like tiny moons, and she looks at Mort with something that is almost terrifying in its simplicity: a woman who will not let her brother be the price of her mistakes.
The next words are smaller, rawer. "I don’t care that others accept their fates. I—" Her breath hitches, and then she says it without theatre, the strength of it born purely of missing: "If you won't bring him, I'll find a way to take him back myself." There is daring there, a too-bright promise made of grief and stubbornness, and it trembles on the edge of being reckless because it is.
She folds in on herself a moment, whispering so low it is nearly the pulse in the room, "Please." The single syllable is all the magic she has ever been able to keep bottled: a plea for mercy and a dare all at once. "My parents cheat death on your behalf every year. Ronin would have dragged Enzo back if this had happened now, and if anyone should bear the weight of bad timing and bad choices it shouldn't be him." She shakes her head, slow and resolute as a ship righting itself, and the plea becomes a command to the universe because there is nothing softer left in her: "Please let me have him back."
She pushes that winter back with the same stubbornness she has used for six years, and her chin lifts. The cream silk clings in the slightest to her ribs where her breath rides it; the gold ring bites into her finger when she twists it because she needs something solid to hold. Her eyes find his and hold—not pleading at first, only explaining—because she has rehearsed this explanation for a thousand private nights and it has become as clear as bone.
"It’s because of me," she says, and the words are an offering and an accusation at once, poured steady into the coloured light. "We could have gone into the Refuge. We had the chance, but I told him we didn’t need to, that we would be fine. It was because I wanted to feel like we were doing something important that we stayed in the city." Her throat works around the words, each one heavier than the last. "It was my fault we were on that street when Haulani started breaking apart." Her throat tightens but she keeps speaking, because truth is the only currency she will tender here. "If I’d gone when we were supposed to, he’d still be alive."
The silence that follows is too wide, too sharp. She breathes through it anyway, holding Mort’s gaze with all the defiance she has left. "If you want me to learn from it, I will. I have. I’ll carry that lesson for the rest of my life. But don’t make Enzo pay for what I did," she says, and the seed of anger she has learned to wear like armour flares gentle and bright, not cruel but incandescent. Tears shine at the rims of her eyes, catching the stained glass like tiny moons, and she looks at Mort with something that is almost terrifying in its simplicity: a woman who will not let her brother be the price of her mistakes.
The next words are smaller, rawer. "I don’t care that others accept their fates. I—" Her breath hitches, and then she says it without theatre, the strength of it born purely of missing: "If you won't bring him, I'll find a way to take him back myself." There is daring there, a too-bright promise made of grief and stubbornness, and it trembles on the edge of being reckless because it is.
She folds in on herself a moment, whispering so low it is nearly the pulse in the room, "Please." The single syllable is all the magic she has ever been able to keep bottled: a plea for mercy and a dare all at once. "My parents cheat death on your behalf every year. Ronin would have dragged Enzo back if this had happened now, and if anyone should bear the weight of bad timing and bad choices it shouldn't be him." She shakes her head, slow and resolute as a ship righting itself, and the plea becomes a command to the universe because there is nothing softer left in her: "Please let me have him back."
you'r under the feeling like teenagers in cars
it ain't robbing or stealing if the moment is ours
it ain't robbing or stealing if the moment is ours
