we got that love, the crazy kind
I am his and he is mine
It hurts where his thumbs push into my collarbone, but I relish it, pushing back my own defiance, watching him bite down on his lip hard enough to bleed. Oh, I'm not going anywhere, not while you still have so many things to explain, not when I have already spent weeks shackled down and unable to fight, unable to do anything but survive (and even that not very well, because I died, I died, and you were there-).Ah, and see, here's what really pisses me off. How can it be that in the same breath he promises he hasn't forgotten me he is able to say her name, his voice so gentle and soft again, so different from what I know it should be. I glance fire at the little blonde, not really hating her but certainly wishing she would just get the fuck out because there are things that need to be said and done that do not need witnesses outside the sky. My vlam, he calls me, my flame, a pet name, I thing I once thought was only mine.
What does he call her, I wonder? What does she have, that has made him soft? She won't even fight for him, just stands aside and surrenders. If I hadn't come, would she have been so weak? Would she hold back the floodwaters of his rebel's soul?
Would she die for him, with a smile on her face?
At least there is metal in his eyes when he looks back at me, and fire between his teeth. At lease he doesn't try to handle me the way he handles her, with kid gloves and soft statements and an expression as boring as it is kind. It means a little of him is still in there, regardless of the years and years. It means that he isn't broken, just buried beneath dirt and ashes.
It means that something, at least, makes sense.
The girl makes to go, and I glance over at her suddenly, brown eyes glinting as I bite my cheek. "Thank you, Phoebe. For helping me."
And then we are alone.
Pulling my hands back from them, I wrap them across my chest, leaning on the wall in my shift and shawl and not really giving a flying fuck because if I move even an inch I might jump his bones, and where would my righteous indignation be then? "Alright," I say in my native tongue, the words rolling easier off my lips than Common. "Explain."
LUSEA
