the stars lined our heartbeats

Deimos

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

A studious observer, he witnessed her neck, her cheeks burn and blush, arching a brow in response, would’ve been a challenge in goading and provoking, in instigating and playful upheavals, had she not seemed so anxious and nervous thereafter. The Sword hadn’t intended to invoke any apprehensive response, safe here, in their threshold of hearts, minds, and bonds, hands empty as she drew away.

Other than a ring, he had no expectations or predictions as she traced over pockets, and eventually extended the circlet: eyes widening, taking in the polished hues of lilac, argent, and gilded artistry, instantly recognizing the colors before she could even say. Because they were her; representations of qilin beats and preservation of life, light flames and solar qualities, rays of the sun and beacons of shields. His fingers reached out to touch, to hold, drawing them over hers for a few tender moments, before lifting the circlet closer, inspecting, cherishing, something in his chest welling and breaking; a dam maybe, those chambers and vessels thawing and clawing their way out. Sometimes he was simply overwhelmed by loving and being loved in return, surprised and bewildered by the extensions, by the notions of it, by the grandeur and wonder of it all.

He could hear her explanation as his eyes welled, as he blinked rapidly and tried to swallow down every damned emotion slinking back to the surface; but they pried and plied onwards, slinking out of the corner of his gaze as he took his empty palm to rub them away. She’d given him another guard, another force, another mode of protection, to chase away the horrors of others, to war against the darker folds and ferocities. “Perfect,” he uttered, and then afraid the choking, stammering nuances didn’t get the point across, he murmured again. “It is perfect.” Then to signify the notion, he placed it on his finger, claimed and shielded, before reaching, entangling, threading, enfolding her in his arms again, against his chest, fierce and unwinding, unrelenting and overcome. “Thank you,” a murmur in her ear, not enough words to convey any of the ambience coiled in his soul.

keep the ones who
h e a r d y o u
when you never said a word