EVIE
I want your midnights
They are certainly an odd pair, seated there together in the Temple. Perhaps they were not so strange a sight, in another life. They were twins after all. And while Evie found it ridiculous to expect twins to love and complete each other wholly just for exiting the same womb at the same time, a part of her longed for a different life. One where their parents hadn't effectively killed their chances at reconciliation, at being siblings. They are both so fucked up, so broken from life in their own ways, and they hadn't even tried to merge those shattered pieces until now. So many years later. The tension that fills the space between them - the most negligible amount in Evie's recent memory - is thankfully temporary at best. Evie is not blind to her own cowardice, her cruelty, her habitually sharp tongue. Though her heart is not in it, there are still so many buried landmines in their relationship that attempting to navigate it with the intention of connection instead of war is a nearly godlike feat. Ah, the irony.
Evie can't help but roll her eyes at Sam's reticence to speak on his own issues, but she can't convince him otherwise without revealing that just by sitting beside her, the Gods have effectively turned a blind eye to him. Guilt by association and all that garbage. But when he asks her to tell him something positive, she almost chokes on the lump in her throat, because after moments of consideration she doesn't...have anything.
Her friends have all disappeared. The world has changed so much since her self-imposed exile to their family home. The Blight has appeared, and she cannot heal it even with her accursed magic. LongNight approaches. She stares down at her hands clenched tightly together in her lap, russet locks falling against her cheek. "I reopened the apothecary," she says softly instead, though perhaps it lilts a little too high at the end in a sort of question, as if wondering if this is enough to appease Sam. "That's...that's really it," she laughs sharply, disparagingly, and grips the fabric of her skirt until her knuckles go white. It makes her angry, that she is twenty-seven and unhappy, untrue to herself. But it's the Wordsworth curse, and she doesn't see an end in sight from how low she feels she has fallen. "Except...this, I guess." It's barely a whisper, tentative, for once the insecure little sister she could have been to Sam once upon a time. Refuses to lift her baby blues to gaze upon him as she confesses it. Because it's imperfect, it's awkward, it's stilted, but it's nice. To try to connect with him in a way they never have before.
Sucking in a steadying breath she forces her hands to unclench, leaving wrinkles in the fabric that she will agonize over later, and turns to Sam with a cocksure expression on her face that falls flat. "What about you? Come on, spill the good stuff."
