01-29-2017, 10:43 AM
She misses the first time his says her name – not entirely, there is some part of her that traps that sound of Luster from the dark of his lips and buries it in the thrumming of her chest – but enough that it does not pull her attention from the silver chain against his skin. She misses the second time, too, misses the way his eyes feel when they turn soft and molten and spill like water over every dip and hollow of her delicate blue face.
She doesn’t miss when they settle against the brown of her eyes, though, because suddenly her moorings are cut loose and she is floating through the night, through space, and there is no air left to breath.
Her lungs burn, her face burns, her skin burns and she finds she has to turn away from him, just for a moment, until her heart stops its treacherous struggling and she can remember how to breathe again. When she turns back, when, It isn’t right, sails through the blue of her lips, she finds that the tight in her chest, that the sudden weightlessness and the stirring in her belly is almost bearable now.
Luster. He says again, for a third and final time, and her eyes sweep up to his face, bright and hurt and uncertain, but wholly his. I am fine. But something about this confession coaxes new sad, new frustration into the well of her chest. “Of course you are.” She says in a small, silver voice, easing closer still because the distance between them feels like the distance between the lonely stars. Of course he was fine, whole, unbroken by the life that had been dropped into his lap – a life she wholly believed he did not deserve. It is because he is better, because he is everything, because he can find solace in the still waters of the lake and in the coolness of lonely stars, because when he looks at her and lets her drift so close so warm against the smooth of his black skin, he believes it is, somehow, enough. But it isn’t enough, not for him. The bruises of her eyes trail softly across his face, and though they lack to sharp fire that burns in his, there is something deep and dark in hers that does not begin to scratch the surface of the longing that hums in her chest. “It doesn’t feel like nothing.”
He smiles at her again, gentle and boyish and something crumbles in her chest. When she returns to him, folding the distance between them in half and then half again, he doesn’t hesitate to join her, stepping easily forward to push his nose against her cheek. The gesture is so kind, so gentle, and she cannot help the way her breath stutters and hitches at the unexpected contact. “Stillwater?” She whispers his name like a question, soft and tremulous, peering up at him with eyes as dark and lonely as the aching night sky. He chuckles and she is molten beneath his touch, fever-bright and beautiful in that quiet, uncertain way she watches him. “Stillwater.” She breathes again, not a question this time, closing her eyes when his lips pushed aside one of the tangles of her dark forelock.
He notices though, the way her body ached with weariness and sleep and something much darker, and when he pushes his mouth against her cheek to paint whispers across her skin, she eases closer. “Stillwater,” she whispers a third time, one final time, easing under his chin and under his neck so that she can stand curled in the waiting hollow of his dark chest. Through the heat of his dark skin she can feel the beating of his heart, the humming rhythm of a quiet pulse. It is mindless when she pushes her mouth against his skin, reflexive when her pale and bright lips trace careful shapes in the smooth black. When she finally answers him, it is in a quiet voice, an uncertain voice, and she is glad he cannot see the woundedness of her delicate face while she is pressed against his chest like this. “I’d rather stay with you.” Then, realizing he might be wanting space from her, that this might be an effort to reclaim some of the distance he must be so terribly used to, she pulls away from his chest, disentangling herself from his neck and his chin and the long tangles of mane that had been draped across her skin. She is still close, still greedy, but she shrugs back and apologetic, lifting eyes like dark bruises bashfully to the plains of that dark, handsome face. “This would be the first time I ever slept alone,” she amends quickly, quietly, dragging her eyes from his face to peer out into the deep and starry dark, “I’m usually with my family.”
There are still butterflies in her stomach, a hundred impossible creatures with wings as soft as snowflakes and they are tying knots and tearing holes and leaving wounds in her heart because everything hurts, everything aches, and she doesn’t want to breathe. “I,” she starts, she tries, and her eyes settle somewhere high above him, lost in dark and silver and the loneliest stars, “I don’t want to sleep just yet.” If she sleeps now, buries herself in the dark home of his cave, it will be morning when she opens her eyes again. When morning does come, she will have to leave again, to reassure her parents that she is safe and sorry and wholly fine. But she wonders how they will ever believe her past this new weight, this new sorrow that settles like night over her face.
Her eyes sink back to his face, quiet and dark and sad, and she aches to return to the warmth of his chest, the thrumming of that beautiful heart. But she is still, immobile, tied to the ground upon which she stands. Instead, quietly, barely able to shape the words she needs beneath the weight of this confession, “I have to leave in the morning, Stillwater.” A pause and she feels heartsick. “I’m sure my family is worried.” She can’t help it when she reaches across the distance again to touch her lips to the curve of his jaw, to trace that line all the way down to the soft hollow at the corner of his mouth. “So I would rather not sleep yet,” another pause and her nose drops back to her chest as she turns from him stand nearby at the edge of his quiet lake, “I’m not ready for it to be morning.” For several long moments she watches what remain of her stars as they bob and float across the surface, skimming the black-water like lost fireflies. Then, looking back over her shoulder at him with the hint of a smile etched carefully into the pale pink of shy mouth, "You called me starshine."
She doesn’t miss when they settle against the brown of her eyes, though, because suddenly her moorings are cut loose and she is floating through the night, through space, and there is no air left to breath.
Her lungs burn, her face burns, her skin burns and she finds she has to turn away from him, just for a moment, until her heart stops its treacherous struggling and she can remember how to breathe again. When she turns back, when, It isn’t right, sails through the blue of her lips, she finds that the tight in her chest, that the sudden weightlessness and the stirring in her belly is almost bearable now.
Luster. He says again, for a third and final time, and her eyes sweep up to his face, bright and hurt and uncertain, but wholly his. I am fine. But something about this confession coaxes new sad, new frustration into the well of her chest. “Of course you are.” She says in a small, silver voice, easing closer still because the distance between them feels like the distance between the lonely stars. Of course he was fine, whole, unbroken by the life that had been dropped into his lap – a life she wholly believed he did not deserve. It is because he is better, because he is everything, because he can find solace in the still waters of the lake and in the coolness of lonely stars, because when he looks at her and lets her drift so close so warm against the smooth of his black skin, he believes it is, somehow, enough. But it isn’t enough, not for him. The bruises of her eyes trail softly across his face, and though they lack to sharp fire that burns in his, there is something deep and dark in hers that does not begin to scratch the surface of the longing that hums in her chest. “It doesn’t feel like nothing.”
He smiles at her again, gentle and boyish and something crumbles in her chest. When she returns to him, folding the distance between them in half and then half again, he doesn’t hesitate to join her, stepping easily forward to push his nose against her cheek. The gesture is so kind, so gentle, and she cannot help the way her breath stutters and hitches at the unexpected contact. “Stillwater?” She whispers his name like a question, soft and tremulous, peering up at him with eyes as dark and lonely as the aching night sky. He chuckles and she is molten beneath his touch, fever-bright and beautiful in that quiet, uncertain way she watches him. “Stillwater.” She breathes again, not a question this time, closing her eyes when his lips pushed aside one of the tangles of her dark forelock.
He notices though, the way her body ached with weariness and sleep and something much darker, and when he pushes his mouth against her cheek to paint whispers across her skin, she eases closer. “Stillwater,” she whispers a third time, one final time, easing under his chin and under his neck so that she can stand curled in the waiting hollow of his dark chest. Through the heat of his dark skin she can feel the beating of his heart, the humming rhythm of a quiet pulse. It is mindless when she pushes her mouth against his skin, reflexive when her pale and bright lips trace careful shapes in the smooth black. When she finally answers him, it is in a quiet voice, an uncertain voice, and she is glad he cannot see the woundedness of her delicate face while she is pressed against his chest like this. “I’d rather stay with you.” Then, realizing he might be wanting space from her, that this might be an effort to reclaim some of the distance he must be so terribly used to, she pulls away from his chest, disentangling herself from his neck and his chin and the long tangles of mane that had been draped across her skin. She is still close, still greedy, but she shrugs back and apologetic, lifting eyes like dark bruises bashfully to the plains of that dark, handsome face. “This would be the first time I ever slept alone,” she amends quickly, quietly, dragging her eyes from his face to peer out into the deep and starry dark, “I’m usually with my family.”
There are still butterflies in her stomach, a hundred impossible creatures with wings as soft as snowflakes and they are tying knots and tearing holes and leaving wounds in her heart because everything hurts, everything aches, and she doesn’t want to breathe. “I,” she starts, she tries, and her eyes settle somewhere high above him, lost in dark and silver and the loneliest stars, “I don’t want to sleep just yet.” If she sleeps now, buries herself in the dark home of his cave, it will be morning when she opens her eyes again. When morning does come, she will have to leave again, to reassure her parents that she is safe and sorry and wholly fine. But she wonders how they will ever believe her past this new weight, this new sorrow that settles like night over her face.
Her eyes sink back to his face, quiet and dark and sad, and she aches to return to the warmth of his chest, the thrumming of that beautiful heart. But she is still, immobile, tied to the ground upon which she stands. Instead, quietly, barely able to shape the words she needs beneath the weight of this confession, “I have to leave in the morning, Stillwater.” A pause and she feels heartsick. “I’m sure my family is worried.” She can’t help it when she reaches across the distance again to touch her lips to the curve of his jaw, to trace that line all the way down to the soft hollow at the corner of his mouth. “So I would rather not sleep yet,” another pause and her nose drops back to her chest as she turns from him stand nearby at the edge of his quiet lake, “I’m not ready for it to be morning.” For several long moments she watches what remain of her stars as they bob and float across the surface, skimming the black-water like lost fireflies. Then, looking back over her shoulder at him with the hint of a smile etched carefully into the pale pink of shy mouth, "You called me starshine."