[SE] sky full of song

Amalia I took the stars from my eyes, I made a map He is a patch of sunlight that peeks through the clouds, threatening to illuminate her in his warmth but also to burn her with his heat, a searing thing, a dangerous thing, that she does not yet know how to handle. Or perhaps it is she who is the dangerous one, alternating sharp and muted, bright and shadowed, vibrant and afraid. An alien dropped into foreign waters, she is rudderless, wanting and aching but so unsure, pulled by a warring of head and heart. Where he has been open she has been shut, ebbing and flowing far faster than tides, flickering and flippant in the face of his ministrations. How can she tell him what he needs when she had no knowledge of it herself? Only that she could take and take and take and take but it must be at her discretion, her desire. And she wants to give, too, to repay the debt she already owes and so much more beside. Amalia aches to give him the things he asks for and the things he does not, those unspoken but still made so clear, loudly told by touches and glances, fervent lips and shortened breaths. He is her lighthouse, her sunlight, her bastion, her shield. If she could take her heart into her hands and give it to him she would, beg him to cherish and keep it safe, to hold it against the trials of the world. She does not know how to care for herself, to deserve the things he inspires. And the baker would do anything to hold this moment, to fall into his arms and let him have it all, if only it means he will stay. She wants him to love her, and in her desire to fill that want she would give him anything, regardless of the cost. But all he asks - all he has ever asked - is what he can do for her. And Amalia does not want to tell him. But she knows, deep down, she must. She steps away from his boyish smile, away from his sunlight and into the shade, reluctant and uncertain, wrapping herself in her arms. A troubled expression crosses her face, darkening the joviality, the youthful bliss. So much of her screams to stop, to go back to him and his arms and his lips, to shy away from selfishness lest she break their tenuous thread. It is so brittle, so fragile, so perfect and new; she should bask in it and ignore her doubts, ignore the stupid part of her that cries for him to wait. For what good could she be to him, if she fails so soon to fulfill his whims? "Deimos, I-" But she cannot finish, because the truth is she does not know. Amalia swallows and tightens her grip, dark eyes on the man. Here in the shadow of the trees she is duller, her hair less gilded, her smile less bright. Insecurity is her constant friend; it rises like bile on her tongue, bites and screams and scalds her mouth, threatens to crush her beneath its heel. Shut up! her blood shrieks in her ears, a roar of thunder to swallow her whole. If only she were braver. If only she were better. I admire your strength. You are bold. You are radiant. These are the things Deimos sees in her, and she clings to the words, replays them in her mind. They are her lifeline, her harbor, the rope which keeps her from plummeting down, down, into the gaping abyss of her anxious mind. "I don't know what I want," she whispers, brow pulled tight into a frown, pleading, praying to find the words, to help him - and help herself - understand. "I... I haven't done this in a long time, and when I did..." The memory is wet tar, threatening to anchor her deeper into doubt when she wants nothing more than to return to the buoyancy of his embrace. But Amalia is older than she was, wiser, and as afraid as she is to break the fragile thing they have, she is infinitely more terrified of failing to lay foundations that will allow it to be strong. Whatever you want, I will try to grant it. "You are... so important to me." A small, shy smile, but full of meaning, rosy and timid on her worried face. I need you. "And I- I want to- I want this to be more than today. And more than tomorrow. And I want it to be everything, because you make me so happy and I-" Love you, Amalia does not say. Looking down at the grass beneath her feet, the anxious baker sighs. "But I want to take it slowly, too. I want... I want to know you. And I want you to know me. I want this to be real. And I... I know that's a lot. And maybe it isn't what you wanted, or what you were hoping for, and if it isn't I'm sorry and I understand-" And here she stops, unable to go on, apprehension at last choking down her alto voice. There are tears in her eyes but she will not shed them, will not force him into guilt. Biting her lip, she raises her head, determined to meet his gaze and hide her pain, trying and failing to mask the hope and fear in her expressive face, the shiver of her cold and creeping loneliness, the gripping terror that she has said too much, asked too much, and offered too little in return. And I knew that somehow I could find my way back