[SE] sky full of song

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame The Reaper believed it was his turn to face inevitable rejection, the kind of refusal and dismissal that would sting and scald, simmer and smother down into his lungs, bask and ricochet across his ribs, clench and grasp at the thawed sanctions of his heart. He thought it might freeze entirely back over then, gone and done in with it all, frigid and glacial still, walled up so readily and defiantly against the world, unattainable and impenetrable. The realms could barrage and assault and siege upon it and he wouldn’t have faltered, or crumbled, just remained still and stoic, nonchalant and apathetic, disconnected from anything but the void; drawing himself inward until the sovereignties could gaze upon a simple machine, adapted for violence and naught else. He’d given everything he had, all those secrets, all those fractured memories, all those segmented anomalies and disasters, droplets of rain and showers meant to douse and destroy. Maybe he’d misinterpreted, misheard, the ties and tethers binding, springing, tilting the sun towards his face, his features, and this would be the instance in which all his calculations and inquiries meant so little, that his curious mind had prodded too far and too deep, fathoms clenching and tightening around the warrior’s throat.  Maybe his tale was too overbearing, too much, too everything – and she saw him for what he was truly worth (nothing). They were friends and nothing more, and he’d placed himself out into the ether, exposed to the elements, ready to waste and wither, decay and ferment, like a pattern, like the scrape and click of a clock. The raw music and earth quaked and shuddered beyond them, and he couldn’t hear a damn thing, not with the doubts, the misgivings pounding in his skull. Perhaps he’s crossed a line and she was about to send him off, not taking his unsaid offers, the miniscule scale of his essence, of his presence, of his figure, eyes widening, waiting. He didn’t want to return to those lonely ramparts, casting his shade and darkness over the tempestuous eaves, desolate and forlorn, brooding and brewing (for what - more of the same nothingness?). He’d tried so damned hard to not flicker and sputter out over the drain, sinking lower and lower until he was ultimately, finally, consumed. Her eyes met his, and the beast braced himself for it, the onslaught after onslaught, the bestial, barbaric knife stuck into his chest. He didn’t expect her hand to slide along his cheek, the curls of his beard, soft and sorry, apologetic, gaze holding tears at bay; he leaned in and sighed, puffs and wisps of air that had so much to say, but remained silent, and hushed. He didn’t have the words for it; only action and reaction, staring back at her devout amazement, astonishment. Perhaps she believed she had no power over the Reaper and all his fault-lines, all his sins, all his barbaric iniquities, when it was surely, certainly, the opposite. She didn’t escape, didn’t reel back, didn’t fetter at the seams like he’d anticipated, followed the heart beat pulsing savagely in his chest (a roar, a beckoning, Cheshire howl, scintillated and ravished, begging for more more more). There was a chance written in there, in between their hands and souls and rushing ichor; he reached for her and she appeared to accept. He did laugh at her face as she pulled away from his mouth, but only because of the shock and bewilderment, not the amazement, the hope, or the exhilaration. Deimos has no idea what his face managed to conduct, probably something along the same etchings and details, except the cheekiest of smiles managing to entrench and intertwine itself through his lips. Her fingers still clenched and grabbed at him, make it impossible for him to evade anything (as if he’d want to), facing the siren song of the unknown again, and instead of eluding, avoiding, and dodging, he stayed in its embrace, welcomed its voracity. She dropped herself into his shoulder, into his chest, marking a space in his being solely dedicated to her, his arms following, tugging her in further, strong and enduring, promises and convictions burrowing deeper in his being. A long, lingering sigh unfolded from the icy barracks and barricades, a drawbridge willingly extended down for her; his gaze flicking up to the sun and spying upon the rays spanning their way along the music, song, and dance, a muffled, contented chuckle waning into the abyss. He’d never dared to dream of these things again, even in his most seditious, irreverent decadence, even in the vehement, ferocity of his vicious vanguard; now he was just a man staring back into the day, wondering how his damned soul had managed to find hope again. He caught his name whispered into his form, and then nothing more – as if they have no idea where to go from here or what to do; his grin became more devil-may-care, face bending down to envelop her entirely, mouth a ghost along her ear, woven in the gold. “Amalia,” and it’s almost a deep sing-song, drawing back to extend another kiss on her cheek, a breath billowing and lingering, skin along skin, brushing one more on the tip of her nose with a reverberation of her name again, a deliberate rumble. As he met her other cheek, his voice took on a more resonant faction, rich and potent, powerful and incandescent, a kindling of fire, incensed and gilded. “Will you have me?” master of nothing place; of recoil and grace