[se] between two lungs

she didn't want to love
she wanted to b e l o v e d
and that was entirely different

What emotions does she convey? Amalia hums as she considers, not quite certain how to reply. What emotions does anyone feel, and how can they possibly be distilled? "Curiosity, mostly. She wants to know everything." A little bit rueful, a little bemused; Jyoti's endless thirst for knowledge is not unlike her own, and in their two days of shared existence she has come to appreciate the world through the eyes of an innocent, to rediscover the beauty of the mundane. "But also everything else. She can feel mine, too, I think. When I'm scared or angry she comforts me. She kept the Fae from hurting me, when I got out of the pit." Another shrug of narrow shoulders, a deepening line to her frown; she would rather not dwell on those moments of fear, not remember Delah's fury, the warchief's claws around her neck.

There are better things to think about, the primary of which stands before her, living and breathing, gentle and mischievous, his skin warm and his smile wide beneath her questing fingers. An eyebrow raises at his rebuttal, teasing yet happy, remorseful yet pleased. Guilt gnaws equally with strange satisfaction: it is marvelous to have been missed, a minor miracle in her time on the earth. Yet she knows that he has lost and lost, ached and hurt and wanted in the dark. She had not meant to cause him worry, to make him think he was once more alone. "I am not so easy to be rid of." Color blossoms back in her cheekbones; she tucks a lock of hair behind his ear, black eyes glittering from below long lashes. Half tease, half promise, with much more unsaid: I am yours, remember. I will always come back to you.

She wonders what occurred in between the men, what harsh words and admonitions might have been exchanged. Try is all the girl can ask for, more perhaps than she deserves. Amalia sighs, her fingers falling from his shoulder, regret at last rising higher than mirth. She ought to have been more careful, ought to have been aware. She ought to have come back when Delah bid her, to reassure and soothe their feathers, to assuage and ease her family's fears. But how was she to leave Kiada, still lost down in the depths of the pit? How to abandon the world to chaos, to do anything but stay and fight? Every decision is double-guessed, every option heavy with unintended consequence. Trapped by her choices, Amalia falters, the walls of anxiety rising tight about her, threatening to cut off all light and air.

Only she is not trapped, because he is there, her brazier, her lighthouse, her bastion in the storm. With relentless force he beats against her, gentle vibrancy creeping stalwart through the cracks of her injured soul. One by one he tears her fears down, inviting her closer, unbearably forgiving; and what is she to do but lean against him, succumb to his guidance and let herself fall? He sits and she descends in kind, following, flowing into his embrace, finding a place on the floor against him, her head on his shoulder, her back to his breast. She reaches and wraps his arm around her, his presence a shield against anxiety, her mind lost to the patterns of his palm. Tension has made her a trembling bow, one prone to making discordant sound. It is strange and wonderful to have found someone who can play her, pluck harmony from her heartstrings, see music in her words.

She wonders how she lived without it, all those lonely years.

When she looks back up her eyes are softer, the ghost of a smile back on her lips. "My favorite?" she echoes, gently teasing, a demure mischief in her onyx gaze. Turning toward him Amalia rises, moving onto bent knees, her head tilting to the side. "It's hard to say-"

-and she smiles slightly, chewing softly at her lip-

"-but if I had to narrow it to only one-"

-hands on his shoulders, fingers on his cheeks, heartbeat a thunderstorm in her chest as the space between them narrows to a breath-

"-I would probably say this."

And Amalia leans forward to close the space, her lips a whisper and then a flood, gold and sable brought together beneath the light of the glittering stars. She is miserable at flirting, woefully out of depth; the kiss is raw and young and graceless, a million promises in this perfect space. It is lingering, longing, aching, tender; it is more than she has ever offered and an iota of what she has to give.

It lasts a moment (it lasts forever), and it is reluctantly that she breaks the exchange, her nose still on his, her hands in his hair. "I'm sorry," she shudders against his cheek, exhales onto olive skin. Obsidian eyes flutter open; her eyes are ardent as they gaze into beryl, falling and floating in cerulean skies. "For scaring you. But I'm so glad you're here."

Amalia

we are all b r o k e n
that's how the l i g h t gets in