01-26-2017, 01:59 PM
She can feel her surprise still prickling uncertainly beneath the mottled blue of her skin; can still feel the thump of her heart where it sits unsteady in her chest. It does slow, that uneven beating, does soothe and settle until even the muscles in her shoulders are soft and slack, until all the tension has bled away from the delicate lines of that quiet face. But there is still something else the prickles inside her, something like curiosity, delight.
“Stillwater,” she repeats, testing the weight of his name against the curl of her tongue – and then, flushing softly beneath the blue, “thank you.” She cannot help the way her eyes drift across his face, soft and unnoticeable like snowflakes caught in the wind. He has a quiet way about him, a stillness and a depth that feels as impenetrable as the dark that settles around them. She wonders about it, wonders why and where it comes from – wonders, too, if she has only imagined it. But she has even caught glimpses of this weight before, in the smiles shared between her parents when they think she isn’t watching, so it feels easier to recognize now.
Her brow furrows, uncertain, though the expression is invisible in the dark, invisible beneath the tangles of that dark corn-silk forelock. She wants to ask him more, wants to peer just a little deeper into those quiet eyes the color of night and deep-shadow, but her chest expands and those pale lips part, no sound comes out. He won’t tell you, and she knows it’s true, even without the pointed whispering of her sub-conscious, you’re just a stranger. So instead her mouth closes, her face darkens, and those quiet eyes fill with the bruises of indecision.
If only she could bury her light beside his heart in the quiet of his chest, maybe it would help.
Would you do it again, Luster? His voice is so low and lonely, like the wind when it gets lost and howling within the stones of her caves. For him, for the sad, she softens and tips her face forward, reflecting the pale silver of cold starlight in the blue of that dusky skin. At once the strange twilight fades and the black of night deepens around them – not so dark that they are invisible to one another again, but dark enough that when her lights explode like a million tiny stars caught in a snowglobe, it is beautiful. For a moment her eyes slide from his face to look around them, to start counting the flickering lights and then give up again with a small half-smile that tickles at her lips. Some of the lights are soft and watery, more like the glow of fireflies, but others are like hard points, bright and sharp and plucked from the velvet sky itself. They float past their faces and hang like birds in the sky, they sink into the ripple of the waves below and hide in the sand – some of them even find the leaves of the trees and swaddle themselves away, flickering on like a million heartbeats in the night.
But then her eyes do drift back to his face, to the quiet dark, to the strange stillness that makes her heart feel heavy where it hums in her chest. “There’s a place by a coast where I grew up, a stretch of beach – it feels like sitting on the edge of the world once everything is dark and there is only the stars staring back.” A pause and she looks away, flinching at the knot that ties and unties itself in the pit of her stomach. Homesick. “You should go see it sometime.” Her eyes drift back to him again, soft and brown, quiet even as they explore the lines and angles of his dark face. Then, softly, and against the muted mumbling of her instincts, “Are you alright, Stillwater?”
“Stillwater,” she repeats, testing the weight of his name against the curl of her tongue – and then, flushing softly beneath the blue, “thank you.” She cannot help the way her eyes drift across his face, soft and unnoticeable like snowflakes caught in the wind. He has a quiet way about him, a stillness and a depth that feels as impenetrable as the dark that settles around them. She wonders about it, wonders why and where it comes from – wonders, too, if she has only imagined it. But she has even caught glimpses of this weight before, in the smiles shared between her parents when they think she isn’t watching, so it feels easier to recognize now.
Her brow furrows, uncertain, though the expression is invisible in the dark, invisible beneath the tangles of that dark corn-silk forelock. She wants to ask him more, wants to peer just a little deeper into those quiet eyes the color of night and deep-shadow, but her chest expands and those pale lips part, no sound comes out. He won’t tell you, and she knows it’s true, even without the pointed whispering of her sub-conscious, you’re just a stranger. So instead her mouth closes, her face darkens, and those quiet eyes fill with the bruises of indecision.
If only she could bury her light beside his heart in the quiet of his chest, maybe it would help.
Would you do it again, Luster? His voice is so low and lonely, like the wind when it gets lost and howling within the stones of her caves. For him, for the sad, she softens and tips her face forward, reflecting the pale silver of cold starlight in the blue of that dusky skin. At once the strange twilight fades and the black of night deepens around them – not so dark that they are invisible to one another again, but dark enough that when her lights explode like a million tiny stars caught in a snowglobe, it is beautiful. For a moment her eyes slide from his face to look around them, to start counting the flickering lights and then give up again with a small half-smile that tickles at her lips. Some of the lights are soft and watery, more like the glow of fireflies, but others are like hard points, bright and sharp and plucked from the velvet sky itself. They float past their faces and hang like birds in the sky, they sink into the ripple of the waves below and hide in the sand – some of them even find the leaves of the trees and swaddle themselves away, flickering on like a million heartbeats in the night.
But then her eyes do drift back to his face, to the quiet dark, to the strange stillness that makes her heart feel heavy where it hums in her chest. “There’s a place by a coast where I grew up, a stretch of beach – it feels like sitting on the edge of the world once everything is dark and there is only the stars staring back.” A pause and she looks away, flinching at the knot that ties and unties itself in the pit of her stomach. Homesick. “You should go see it sometime.” Her eyes drift back to him again, soft and brown, quiet even as they explore the lines and angles of his dark face. Then, softly, and against the muted mumbling of her instincts, “Are you alright, Stillwater?”