Deimos
suns for bones and constellations for eyes
They’d both known what it was like to survive on nothingness, carved and sculpted and whittled from bare bones and heartache, while desperation and sorrow forged alongside. Building away from that, in virtuous rivulets of contentment and happiness, were new, uplifting, but still foreign, no matter how practiced they’d become at finding ways to nourish, reclaim. So he wasn’t bothered at reminding her, and she could continue to surprise him, and they’d find their way amidst cobblestones and roots. The foundations could maneuver downward now, instead of constantly being scattered amongst chaos, incapable of finding purchase or stability. Their hearts were sturdy and their souls were strong. “Both,” he snorted, smile curling as he imagined the depths of this house. “Larger kitchen, small greenhouse, workshop and armory…,” listing off the intended ramparts with a shake of his head, amused. “Might as well add a second floor.” Half in jest, half in actuality, picturing the stretching of the single, small house outwards until it crammed its way against a neighbor. At least, by those notions too, they could piece and parse together rooms upstairs, design it to their tastes.
