12-15-2015, 10:41 PM
How quaint to meet again by dusk; better the almost-night because she can only suffer so much brightness and he was always ever-bright to her eyes.
Loam cannot shake that queer sense of longing all caught up in loathing. She is not meant for anything beyond dirt and death, and she cannot stomach the idea that he makes her want more than cobwebs and dust.
He is right to think her a nightmare, but he quells the nightmarish tendencies in her with a stray black glance that burns through her like dying stars and newborn galaxies. Loam is fit to gasp but swallows it on a ragged indrawn breath that hisses out if her a moment later at his caress. He was forgiving where she was not, and his tender reaction to her scathing distress disquiets her further.
She fidgets, preferring him to have lashed back at her but not this. No, never this. It was too much! Her nerves scream, raw and on fire the second he concedes that it is not her. Loam has never been denied and she is visibly taken aback by the way he retreats from her presence. She lingers, uncertain as he is not, and her uncertainty is mirrored in the fraught way her head swings from side to side.
Loam almost tells him not to go but pride shuts her mouth. Good thing her feet are independent of her mouth because they move of their own accord (the heart’s doing really) and she falls in beside him in that moment he took to catch his breath. “But you are,” she insists, perhaps a bit too haughtily but her strange moods are tamed by his nearness. “You are,” she insists again, and brushes her lips against the place where she first bit him - it is as much of an apology as he is like to get but there is a moment’s sincerity in the sidelong glance she gives him.
She doesn't want to say that it was always him who made the madness go away, but it was and all she can hear now is nightfall in the forest and every rush of their breath.