[SE] sky full of song

Amalia I took the stars from my eyes, I made a map In the wake of her admission, silence. Oh, there are sounds: the cries of ongoing festivity, the strains of flute and drum and bow, the roaring thunder of her heart. But he is silent, contemplative, lost in the flood of what she has said, the tender and vulnerable reveal. Every passing moment is unbearable torment; Amalia can feel her throat grow tight, her body tighten and retract at the inevitable rebuttal, the rebuke of her exposed truths. I did not do that for you, he will say - gently, kindly, the worst kind of rejection, as though she were a child. You are just another shadow of this world, another friend. I do not want you. These are the things she expects to hear, the consternation that whispers between her ears, growing louder and louder and louder and louder as she waits for him to drown them out. She wants to run before she can hear it, to shift into the leopard and vanish into the crowd. It is only his grip on her hands which keeps her moored, gentle yet firm, turning over and over as their fingers entwine and retreat. Amalia stares intently at them, unwilling to see the rejection in his face, still hopeful despite the hopelessness of it all, wishing and willing and praying that he will not let go. It is his laugh which bring her eyes up, startled by the sound, searching his face for meaning behind it, heart in her throat. The shadow of an uncertain smile creeps across her lips as she knits her fingers tighter into his, reckless and afraid. What does it mean?! her frantic mind screams. Swallowing down her uncertainty, Amalia stares at Deimos' eyes and wills herself to wait. The story she is rewarded with is melancholy and cruel. Amalia listens in silence as the Reaper begins to speak, his deep voice a rumbling ocean, tides and swells and stillest seas. He talks of a home lost, a family gone, and she squeezes gently against his hands, wishing she could wrap his arms around her, show him she isn't afraid to help carry his pain. Then he speaks of a girl, and for a moment she freezes, suddenly deeply unsure. Her heartbeat is thunder, lightning, a sinking, surging ruin rising up to swallow her back into the depths. He met a girl in the rain. He met a girl in the rain. So there is someone else, someone at home, a possessor of his affection for whom he continues to long. It makes sense, now- why would there not be, how would he possibly been without? She had expected this, braced herself against it, but it is still a crippling blow. She lets her dark gaze fall back down, tightening her brow. There have been no promises passed between them, nothing more binding than a day of sunlit fun. She does not look up as he places her knuckles against her lips, though her stomach flips in bewildered response and she wants to choke a laugh. How have they gone from carefree frolic to whatever-this-is, and where are they going, and what does it mean? Amalia has no idea, doesn't know anything except that his lips are unexpectedly soft, his breath warm against her fingers as he begins, once more, to speak. And as the story continues to further unfold she hates herself for her bitter jealousy, hates the world for hurting him so, hates the sadness in his voice, the specters in his eyes. Turning black eyes up to his blues, Amalia extends her hand to ghost across his cheek, lightly brushing over his beard, thumb curling up the angles of his face, down and to his lips. Her heart breaks for the weight of his loss; her eyes are damp with unshed tears. "I'm so sorry," she breathes into the space between them, wishing she could do more. Then her hands are on his chest, and she presses them closer, looking for his heartbeat beneath the layers of cloak and fur. And when his tale continues there is another girl, not rain-washed but shadowed, a ship to his lighthouse, a moth to his flame. Amalia does not know what to say, what to do. Every word is a broken hymn, an unearned affirmation; she clings to them like a starving child, a reverent disbelief in her wide eyes, aching and yearning and hopelessly his, raw and exposed and infinitely giving. The offer of escape is boldly rejected, her fingers tangling in his clothing, grasping and anchoring herself to him. His palms touch her cheek and she curls against them, pressing closer into his grasp, lashes fluttering as she lets him lead, turns her face up to meet him, the space between their heartbeats closing, the things unsaid left bare in their eyes. His kiss is the gentlest, tenderest of touches, and it sets the girl aflame. She pulls away, but only just, her onyx eyes searching desperately, shock and amazement and hope and bewilderment and happiness written within. Woefully inexperienced, horribly afraid, Amalia does not know what to do, what it means, only that she must not let him slip away, melt between her fingers like dew on a spring day. Her hands do not leave his chest, but her grip on him tightens, and she drops her head, leaning toward his chest, his shoulder, trying to burrow into the tender promise of his great embrace. Hold me, Amalia wants to say. Keep me. Save me. Let me belong to you. I'm frightened. I'm lonely. I'm not good enough. But you make me feel alive. "Deimos," she breathes against his shoulder, low voice shuddering with words unsaid. And I knew that somehow I could find my way back