06-13-2017, 11:34 AM
Ellyse
I'm the only one who will walk across a fire for you.
it's only fear that makes you run, the demons that you're hiding from.
He is an enigma – with mystery carefully carved into the hollow of his cheek, in the shadow of his cobalt stained mouth, in the deep abyss of his forlorn gaze, cast towards the darkened sky and its plethora of glimmering constellations and planetary matter. The muscles lining the hardened bone of his stiffened shoulder and spine are taut and wrought with tension, yet he is far from rigid – there is a slackened looseness in his posture; defeated and worn down by something burning and festering beneath the stillness of his skin. Beneath the softened curve of her own breast, her heart is hammering raggedly against the confinement of her chest, aching to be let out, longing to be set free – but she quiets it in its yearning, hushes it in its pining. The air is thick with the heat of a waning summer, and the gentle breeze that weaves its way through her wavy, carefree tresses is hardly a reprieve from its discomfort, yet it is nothing like the stifling humidity of the volcanic island she had come to know as her own. More than the temperature, the air is heavy with unspoken words, with the weight of confession and secrecy, emotions boiling and burning within each of them, and the soothing caress of evenfall cannot quell the anguish building inside of her.
He is entirely too still, unflinchingly searching the starlit heavens above despite the warmth of her breath so near to his neck, and it stirs a wretchedness somewhere in the depths of her soul that she had always tried so tirelessly to drown out.
She is hurt, and the expanse of her chest cavity is suddenly filled with dread, with disappointment, rising into her throat like the acrid acidity of bile. Quietly, she scolds herself – chastises herself, knowing she has no entitlement to his affection, or even his acknowledgement – not after leaving him alone beneath the haze of an oncoming storm.
Little did he realize the intensity of the storm raging inside of her, then.
When her voice finally does rise above the swell of her throat, it is feeble, uncertain – and then he exhales, his eyes meet with her own, and she herself can feel the tension dissolve from her, piece by piece, but doubt still clutches to her weary heart and mind. The silence is heavy; so much heavier than the weight of their secrets and she is beside herself with ambiguity.
Though she had hidden herself away to mend her own broken heart, and to bring process and grieve all that she had lost (companionship, affection, security), she had seemingly caused irreparable damage to an already bruised and battered soul, clinging precariously to a lifeline – holding on tightly to an anchor; barely tethered to anything at all.
She is not foolish enough to think that she can fix him – it is a fatal flaw of hers, to assume otherwise, to undertake such a vast and wholly impossible thing – but more than that, she craves his companionship, hungers for the familiarity of his voice, and of his face. She cannot repair the frayed and split heartstrings that barely hold his ragged, broken heart together, but she can be a pillar of unwavering support – a beacon of light, in an otherwise hazy, hopeless darkness.
We must keep our heads above the tide,” he says, and she is speechless.
He touches her cheek, gently, before pulling away, but she does not let him withdraw into himself, following the warmth of his touch with the warmth of her lips, pressed against his cheek and then trailing up along the firm line of his jaw, kissing the crease where it comes together with the thick, muscled length of his neck. Her breath is warm against his skin, and she can almost feel him trembling against her, tired and weary and broken. She breathes a quiet apology against his skin, turning her cheek to slide it across the dark, matted tendrils of hair that lay across his neck, before draping her own neck over his, embracing him tightly to her as she maneuvers herself to stand before him.
The musk of sulfur and the salty brine of the sea lingers still upon his skin, and she can almost taste the volcanic island across his shoulder. ”I’m so sorry, Warrick,” she murmurs, her own heavy lashes closing over the pale gold of her eyes. Her wings lay tucked tightly against her side, brushing lightly against his skin. ”I never meant to hurt you – and it never meant goodbye.”
when all your promises are gone, I'm the only one.
@[Warrick]