What he doesn’t realize, as turns back to look out across the rippling quiet of a lonely lake, is that he has already given her everything. More than she could have been bold enough to hope for. For every one of her twinkling stars, gifted to him and to the night to form a spinning galaxy above their heads, he pushed a different kind of light inside of her. In those bright and solemn eyes, in the tension along his jaw, in the guilt on his shoulders she could nearly reach out and touch. It was in his closeness too, in the way his lips coaxed such easy, instant heat to the surface of her skin, the way his smile sent her heart humming wild in the prison of her chest.
He changed her, he filled her, he made her light even in the dark.
Here, Luster, the dark says in his voice, and at once the knot in her chest eases so that she can breathe again. She reaches out to touch him, surprised and maybe even a little disappointed that the distance between them is so strangely deep again. When her nose finds his neck, uncertain and unassuming, she is surprised to feel so much tension there, to trace the thick cords of muscle that ripple beneath her worried lips like slithering snakes. “Stillwater?” She asks, concerned, her voice just a broken sound shattered through with uncertainty.
He is illuminated at once by her light. It is not the brightness of day or even dawn, not the watery glow of the stars, it is the light of when moonlight finds a world draped in snow, a world made to catch and reflect and fill with silver. You’re hurt, he says in a voice that sounds stiff, with a face tight and stoic and carved from marble. She watches his eyes drift to her shoulder, to that gash that is only a few inches long and not terribly deep but still spills blood like rubies across the blue of her skin and the slate of his cave. “I’m okay,” she tries to tell him quickly, tremblingly, turning it from him so that those midnight eyes will look anywhere, anywhere else, “I’m fine, just clumsy.” But it isn’t clumsiness, she has always been a creature of ease and grace, delicate and soft – it is the exhaustion burying sharp, broken fingers in the pit of her belly and pulling her down, down and away from him.
But she isn’t tired, she can’t be, morning will come too, too soon.
He catches her anyway, hugging her tight against his chest and she cannot help the soft whimper, like a hum of sad and solemn and sorrow, that echoes in her chest. She can feel his eyes on her but she can’t look up yet, refuses to look up, dreads the judgment she expects to find waiting for her, carved perfectly into the dark marble of his face. He says it again, you’re hurt, luster, and finally she does look up, startled by the unfamiliar dark swimming in the backs of his eyes. But he blinks and it’s gone again, and it is easy enough to think that she had only imagined it. “It’s nothing,” she whispers, inhaling sharply, and then turns away from him again, from those prying eyes, “I’m fine.”
He steps away and her legs feel broken beneath her – too small, too brittle, too tired to hold her up. Don’t go, she wants to say, wants to pull him back to her side, to her skin so that he can trace quiet kisses along her neck until she forgets her shame, forgets her shoulder, forgets the red pearls spilling across the murky blue of her skin. But she is too tired, too small, and instead when she lifts that delicate face to him it is a mask of pain and uncertainty, etching deep furrows across the black and blue and white.
Lie down and rest, he says and she can see the way concern knots beneath the black of his face, the way it ripples beneath his skin when he finally, finally returns to her side. She is supple against him, made molten to fit against the plains and ridges of a body carved from dark and marble – shy, when his mouth traces the line of her jaw and something inside her chest explodes. But the suggestion of sleep (though she fights the way it makes her eyes so heavy) is enough to buckle her knees and in an instant she is curled and sleepy against the cool, smooth stone. Stillwater settles like a shadow beside her, dark and soft and it is reflexive when she reaches over to touch him again, when she lips at the line of his jaw in a way that is unabashedly affectionate. “Stillwater,” she hums, her breath warm and sweet where it tickles his skin – soft, where her lips travel to the curve of a small, dark ear, “don’t let me fall asleep.”
She shifts slightly, barely, enough to take the pressure away from the wound in her shoulder that she cannot reach to clean – a wound that, despite Stillwater’s best efforts to distract her, still stings and throbs with a heartbeat all its own. Laying her cheek against his neck, the lights flicker out until there is only one left, and the absence of the nights reflection in the dark void of his silhouette. Her eyes feel heavy with sleep, heavy with the pleasure that burns in her chest at the way they are curled together like puzzle pieces in the dark, but she forces them open, choosing instead to busy herself with tracing shapes and constellations in the dark of his perfect neck. Then, quietly, with a heart that trips and skitters and shatters in her chest, “I feel like I’ve know you forever,” a pause and she remembers to be bashful again, to turn her heated flush away from him in the dark, “and I feel like forever isn’t nearly long enough.”
“Give me a reason to come back, Stillwater.” Her eyes are against his face again, soft and sad and invisible in the dark, and she aches to reach out and touch him but something, something holds her back.
He changed her, he filled her, he made her light even in the dark.
Here, Luster, the dark says in his voice, and at once the knot in her chest eases so that she can breathe again. She reaches out to touch him, surprised and maybe even a little disappointed that the distance between them is so strangely deep again. When her nose finds his neck, uncertain and unassuming, she is surprised to feel so much tension there, to trace the thick cords of muscle that ripple beneath her worried lips like slithering snakes. “Stillwater?” She asks, concerned, her voice just a broken sound shattered through with uncertainty.
He is illuminated at once by her light. It is not the brightness of day or even dawn, not the watery glow of the stars, it is the light of when moonlight finds a world draped in snow, a world made to catch and reflect and fill with silver. You’re hurt, he says in a voice that sounds stiff, with a face tight and stoic and carved from marble. She watches his eyes drift to her shoulder, to that gash that is only a few inches long and not terribly deep but still spills blood like rubies across the blue of her skin and the slate of his cave. “I’m okay,” she tries to tell him quickly, tremblingly, turning it from him so that those midnight eyes will look anywhere, anywhere else, “I’m fine, just clumsy.” But it isn’t clumsiness, she has always been a creature of ease and grace, delicate and soft – it is the exhaustion burying sharp, broken fingers in the pit of her belly and pulling her down, down and away from him.
But she isn’t tired, she can’t be, morning will come too, too soon.
He catches her anyway, hugging her tight against his chest and she cannot help the soft whimper, like a hum of sad and solemn and sorrow, that echoes in her chest. She can feel his eyes on her but she can’t look up yet, refuses to look up, dreads the judgment she expects to find waiting for her, carved perfectly into the dark marble of his face. He says it again, you’re hurt, luster, and finally she does look up, startled by the unfamiliar dark swimming in the backs of his eyes. But he blinks and it’s gone again, and it is easy enough to think that she had only imagined it. “It’s nothing,” she whispers, inhaling sharply, and then turns away from him again, from those prying eyes, “I’m fine.”
He steps away and her legs feel broken beneath her – too small, too brittle, too tired to hold her up. Don’t go, she wants to say, wants to pull him back to her side, to her skin so that he can trace quiet kisses along her neck until she forgets her shame, forgets her shoulder, forgets the red pearls spilling across the murky blue of her skin. But she is too tired, too small, and instead when she lifts that delicate face to him it is a mask of pain and uncertainty, etching deep furrows across the black and blue and white.
Lie down and rest, he says and she can see the way concern knots beneath the black of his face, the way it ripples beneath his skin when he finally, finally returns to her side. She is supple against him, made molten to fit against the plains and ridges of a body carved from dark and marble – shy, when his mouth traces the line of her jaw and something inside her chest explodes. But the suggestion of sleep (though she fights the way it makes her eyes so heavy) is enough to buckle her knees and in an instant she is curled and sleepy against the cool, smooth stone. Stillwater settles like a shadow beside her, dark and soft and it is reflexive when she reaches over to touch him again, when she lips at the line of his jaw in a way that is unabashedly affectionate. “Stillwater,” she hums, her breath warm and sweet where it tickles his skin – soft, where her lips travel to the curve of a small, dark ear, “don’t let me fall asleep.”
She shifts slightly, barely, enough to take the pressure away from the wound in her shoulder that she cannot reach to clean – a wound that, despite Stillwater’s best efforts to distract her, still stings and throbs with a heartbeat all its own. Laying her cheek against his neck, the lights flicker out until there is only one left, and the absence of the nights reflection in the dark void of his silhouette. Her eyes feel heavy with sleep, heavy with the pleasure that burns in her chest at the way they are curled together like puzzle pieces in the dark, but she forces them open, choosing instead to busy herself with tracing shapes and constellations in the dark of his perfect neck. Then, quietly, with a heart that trips and skitters and shatters in her chest, “I feel like I’ve know you forever,” a pause and she remembers to be bashful again, to turn her heated flush away from him in the dark, “and I feel like forever isn’t nearly long enough.”
“Give me a reason to come back, Stillwater.” Her eyes are against his face again, soft and sad and invisible in the dark, and she aches to reach out and touch him but something, something holds her back.