Aurelia
over the riots
above all the noise
above all the noise
He holds her tight and her chest heaves with release against his own, each honest truth a labor. They're all burdens taken off her mind, too. To be able to tell him these deeper, darker thoughts that haunt and claw at her conscious. Things she would probably not tell another person - or, at least, very few. To finally not have to pretend, or hold back, or avert her gaze and attention because it's too much to handle. Although still-fresh tears continue to stream down, they don't taste so bitter. It feels like healing, or maybe that's Milo doing everything he can to alleviate her pain and stress. She's almost aware that he's using his own abilities, but she doesn't pay it much attention. If she did, she might tell him to stop, and she doesn't really want him to.
Of course she'd slip, he tells her, and she squeezes her eyes shut as a shuddering breath hollows out her lungs. But he believes in her, and her pale eyes open again in spite of the way it feels sore and puffy and there's such a protest in that small action. "At least one of us does," she says softly, lips twisting remorsefully at the implication.
She steels, her muscles hardening, and she tries to push back. It's not to spiral away and leave him but enough to be able to try to look at him through the blurriness that blots her vision. Shakily, she fights the impulse to let her fingers turn away from him and gnaw at her palms. Instead, they smooth over his arms, needing to steady herself with him still. Her gaze pleads up at him for something she doesn't know how to verbalize, shuddering across the features of his face she's come to know and love so well. It's now that she finds it within herself to force back her tears, though they already stain her face and there is no taking back the ones that have already fallen.
"I know who did it," she says, simply, tersely, because forging out across all the details might reignite her fury or draw her back into the despair, "but I still don't understand why. Sunjata will, probably... she's his ex, after all..." the last part is uttered with a bitterness she can't temper. Her gaze suddenly flutters away on broken wings, "I feel so useless, Milo. I wish I could have done more, or that things could've been done differently. But I've felt this my whole life, over and over and over," she flinches, "I'm so tired of regret... and the guilt." She wishes it hadn't happened at all - like many other terrible things - but they both know that's not possible and so here they stand in the aftermath.
Of course she'd slip, he tells her, and she squeezes her eyes shut as a shuddering breath hollows out her lungs. But he believes in her, and her pale eyes open again in spite of the way it feels sore and puffy and there's such a protest in that small action. "At least one of us does," she says softly, lips twisting remorsefully at the implication.
She steels, her muscles hardening, and she tries to push back. It's not to spiral away and leave him but enough to be able to try to look at him through the blurriness that blots her vision. Shakily, she fights the impulse to let her fingers turn away from him and gnaw at her palms. Instead, they smooth over his arms, needing to steady herself with him still. Her gaze pleads up at him for something she doesn't know how to verbalize, shuddering across the features of his face she's come to know and love so well. It's now that she finds it within herself to force back her tears, though they already stain her face and there is no taking back the ones that have already fallen.
"I know who did it," she says, simply, tersely, because forging out across all the details might reignite her fury or draw her back into the despair, "but I still don't understand why. Sunjata will, probably... she's his ex, after all..." the last part is uttered with a bitterness she can't temper. Her gaze suddenly flutters away on broken wings, "I feel so useless, Milo. I wish I could have done more, or that things could've been done differently. But I've felt this my whole life, over and over and over," she flinches, "I'm so tired of regret... and the guilt." She wishes it hadn't happened at all - like many other terrible things - but they both know that's not possible and so here they stand in the aftermath.
through all the worry
i still hear your voice
i still hear your voice
