Evie
When hope and peace begin to fray
There had been nights she told herself she didn’t want this. Didn’t need it. So long she had stood in shadows of people and things greater than her; the Wordsworth name, Amalia’s radiant light, The Voice’s unfairly unshakable love for Sam. Seeing what he was worth, what he was worthy of, it had seemed ludicrous to imagine a simple gardener from the Grounds, with no love of or for the Gods, could ever compare to what he’d had. Until she’d seen the scars left behind by having those things ripped away. And then she had begun to wonder if maybe he was just another lost thing thrown aside in the search for something better. If he was more like her.
He’s not the only one who considers that this could be regretted. Years of painstakingly cultivated friendship lay in the balance. Evie knows exactly what she’s risking; but she thinks she knows the worth of what could be gained as well.
All her life she had focused on her ability to heal. Mending wounds and setting bones was learned alongside grammar and poise. Maybe it was all leading up to this in the end. All those years of experience, all that time spent alone, so that she might have the chance to heal his heart.
His skin ripples beneath her hand, and her fingers splay gently over his chest. Perhaps it’s arrogant to assume there is any healing left to be done that he has not painstakingly crafted already. To give herself more importance than she should lay claim to.
All Evie knows is that he makes her happy. He makes her laugh even when she’s certain there’s nothing left to laugh about in the world. He helps her grow when she asks for the sky. Gives her peace when the world is set on chaos. All she wants is the chance to give that back. To give him the happiness he always should have had. She wants to spend the rest of her days finding different ways to make him smile, to hear him laugh, and - selfishly - she wants to do that from his side. As more than just his friend.
She leans her cheek into his touch, the warmth of his unsteady breaths awash upon them as he bends to meet her. Pauses, so she might take this final step for the both of them. And with his consent she smiles, though her lips tremble with nerves and she has to brace her hand against his chest to remain standing. “Thank you,” she whispers, because his consent is a gift she won’t overlook. Tilting her head the last little bit, she presses her lips gently to his. Lingering, but chaste. Evie’s free hand comes to trace the line of his shoulder, up to the slope of his neck, where her fingertips lay just against his nape; just enough to pull him closer, until their skin is touching more freely, and to press her mouth firmer to his.
He’s not the only one who considers that this could be regretted. Years of painstakingly cultivated friendship lay in the balance. Evie knows exactly what she’s risking; but she thinks she knows the worth of what could be gained as well.
All her life she had focused on her ability to heal. Mending wounds and setting bones was learned alongside grammar and poise. Maybe it was all leading up to this in the end. All those years of experience, all that time spent alone, so that she might have the chance to heal his heart.
His skin ripples beneath her hand, and her fingers splay gently over his chest. Perhaps it’s arrogant to assume there is any healing left to be done that he has not painstakingly crafted already. To give herself more importance than she should lay claim to.
All Evie knows is that he makes her happy. He makes her laugh even when she’s certain there’s nothing left to laugh about in the world. He helps her grow when she asks for the sky. Gives her peace when the world is set on chaos. All she wants is the chance to give that back. To give him the happiness he always should have had. She wants to spend the rest of her days finding different ways to make him smile, to hear him laugh, and - selfishly - she wants to do that from his side. As more than just his friend.
She leans her cheek into his touch, the warmth of his unsteady breaths awash upon them as he bends to meet her. Pauses, so she might take this final step for the both of them. And with his consent she smiles, though her lips tremble with nerves and she has to brace her hand against his chest to remain standing. “Thank you,” she whispers, because his consent is a gift she won’t overlook. Tilting her head the last little bit, she presses her lips gently to his. Lingering, but chaste. Evie’s free hand comes to trace the line of his shoulder, up to the slope of his neck, where her fingertips lay just against his nape; just enough to pull him closer, until their skin is touching more freely, and to press her mouth firmer to his.
know that daybreak is not far away
