Aurelia
over the riots
above all the noise
above all the noise
At first the look on his face is confusing, that scrunch of his nose and the spark of playfulness. She's relieved to see it there, though she doesn't really know why it's there until he makes that little comment of his. Her brows flatten with the opposite of amusement and she narrows her eyes at him with a playfully soured pout. As she walks away, she shakes her head to herself, letting the light of it ease all the hardened parts of her heart.
There's compassion in her next words, as if it's extended offer. The last time she'd taken a shower when her emotions were like this, heightened and lowered and alive and shut down all at once, it hadn't helped. It had been an escape, and she wanted less of those. She wanted to heal and pull herself back from it all, and she wanted him there with her through every moment of it - not just the parts where she nearly died in his arms. He deserved to heal from it, too, even if his wounds weren't so clearly visible as hers.
He accepts the offer and her gaze simmers with warmth as she waits for him there in the doorway. As he reaches his arms around her, she welcomes him. One of her hands reaches down to gently take his, pulling it up to her cheek. Tiny kisses caress the ridges of his knuckles before she closes her eyes to breathe him in. "Thank you," she hums softly. When her eyes reopen, she moves away to turn the water on, though her fingers remain within his. Giving it a moment to heat up, she faces him again.
She blinks down towards the tattered hems of her shirt and pointedly lets go of his hand. She breathes out a long sigh, as if bracing herself for the feeling of freedom from shedding such war-torn garments. First are the pants, as she pushes them down firmly, finding herself more and more eager to be out of these soot-stained clothes. But as she discards them, her eyes catch sight of something that traces down along the top of her thighs. Like veins, almost, but not.
Her brows furrow as she fumbles to undo her shirt, and what she finds beneath it casts a dark shadow across her face. In shapes that curl and protrude cruelly across her skin, fresh scars line the length of her torso. She scarcely knows where they begin, but they spread out in all directions like the branches of a tree. If that tree were dead. She says nothing, drenched in a silent shock. She can only try to swallow the knot that's in her throat as she stares down at her devastated skin, gaze wandering down her arms where she thought that had been all.
There's compassion in her next words, as if it's extended offer. The last time she'd taken a shower when her emotions were like this, heightened and lowered and alive and shut down all at once, it hadn't helped. It had been an escape, and she wanted less of those. She wanted to heal and pull herself back from it all, and she wanted him there with her through every moment of it - not just the parts where she nearly died in his arms. He deserved to heal from it, too, even if his wounds weren't so clearly visible as hers.
He accepts the offer and her gaze simmers with warmth as she waits for him there in the doorway. As he reaches his arms around her, she welcomes him. One of her hands reaches down to gently take his, pulling it up to her cheek. Tiny kisses caress the ridges of his knuckles before she closes her eyes to breathe him in. "Thank you," she hums softly. When her eyes reopen, she moves away to turn the water on, though her fingers remain within his. Giving it a moment to heat up, she faces him again.
She blinks down towards the tattered hems of her shirt and pointedly lets go of his hand. She breathes out a long sigh, as if bracing herself for the feeling of freedom from shedding such war-torn garments. First are the pants, as she pushes them down firmly, finding herself more and more eager to be out of these soot-stained clothes. But as she discards them, her eyes catch sight of something that traces down along the top of her thighs. Like veins, almost, but not.
Her brows furrow as she fumbles to undo her shirt, and what she finds beneath it casts a dark shadow across her face. In shapes that curl and protrude cruelly across her skin, fresh scars line the length of her torso. She scarcely knows where they begin, but they spread out in all directions like the branches of a tree. If that tree were dead. She says nothing, drenched in a silent shock. She can only try to swallow the knot that's in her throat as she stares down at her devastated skin, gaze wandering down her arms where she thought that had been all.
through all the worry
i still hear your voice
i still hear your voice
