Aurelia
over the riots
above all the noise
above all the noise
She has to swallow down the adamance that rises against her voice before she can speak.
"If my scars are ever healed... I want you to be the one to do it," there's tenderness in the admittance, though her fingers tighten around the fabric of his shirt. It wrinkles in her hands.
It's because she trusts him, trusts that he'll understand what it will force her to process, that it will be the death of such a huge part of her. Within that, too, it would be a release. Even if he doesn't understand it, she'd want to go through that with no one else.
He tucks her in against him and her nerves settle once more. His voice soothes the sharp, jagged pieces of her heart time and time again. He always makes such a tireless effort. She finds that, here within his arms, it's impossible to truly be broken.
With a deep inhale of breath, she begins to pull his shirt up. "C'mon. You plan on showering with your clothes on?" she teases meekly, sniffling. The humor doesn't find its way to her crippled voice. Nonetheless she tries to meet him halfway, because she knows he just wants to help her however he can. And he is, but she knows she's shit at showing it.
If he'll let her, she'll pull away his shirt and toss it into the heap of her own clothes. Then she turns to feel the water for herself. The temperature is welcoming, not scalding, and she finds herself unable to resist it anymore. Leaving Milo to fend himself off against his pants, the rest of her own undergarments are shed.
She steps carefully beneath the flow of water. It rains down through her hair, past her shoulders, rolling down over her hips. The layer of ash and dust is filtered out with it. A relieved sigh parts her lips and her eyes shut. After several renewing moments and a few repeated rinses of her hair, her pale gaze reopens to peer up at Milo. Droplets of water have settled across her lashes, making them feel even heavier.
Her hand reaches out. Just one, at first, until he draws nearer and the other can find its place with him too. She pulls him close this time, but she's gentle and hesitant, the pressure only enough to be influencing. She wants him closer, that their bodies might meet and the warmth can be shared between them - their own and the water's.
"If my scars are ever healed... I want you to be the one to do it," there's tenderness in the admittance, though her fingers tighten around the fabric of his shirt. It wrinkles in her hands.
It's because she trusts him, trusts that he'll understand what it will force her to process, that it will be the death of such a huge part of her. Within that, too, it would be a release. Even if he doesn't understand it, she'd want to go through that with no one else.
He tucks her in against him and her nerves settle once more. His voice soothes the sharp, jagged pieces of her heart time and time again. He always makes such a tireless effort. She finds that, here within his arms, it's impossible to truly be broken.
With a deep inhale of breath, she begins to pull his shirt up. "C'mon. You plan on showering with your clothes on?" she teases meekly, sniffling. The humor doesn't find its way to her crippled voice. Nonetheless she tries to meet him halfway, because she knows he just wants to help her however he can. And he is, but she knows she's shit at showing it.
If he'll let her, she'll pull away his shirt and toss it into the heap of her own clothes. Then she turns to feel the water for herself. The temperature is welcoming, not scalding, and she finds herself unable to resist it anymore. Leaving Milo to fend himself off against his pants, the rest of her own undergarments are shed.
She steps carefully beneath the flow of water. It rains down through her hair, past her shoulders, rolling down over her hips. The layer of ash and dust is filtered out with it. A relieved sigh parts her lips and her eyes shut. After several renewing moments and a few repeated rinses of her hair, her pale gaze reopens to peer up at Milo. Droplets of water have settled across her lashes, making them feel even heavier.
Her hand reaches out. Just one, at first, until he draws nearer and the other can find its place with him too. She pulls him close this time, but she's gentle and hesitant, the pressure only enough to be influencing. She wants him closer, that their bodies might meet and the warmth can be shared between them - their own and the water's.
through all the worry
i still hear your voice
i still hear your voice
