Brinly
He speaks of his death so casually, and that in itself seems to further stoke whatever unrest is brewing inside of her.
Because she has to bite back the urge to argue against the bitterness she senses in his voice when he says not even death had wanted him; has to rein in the instinct to tell him that could not be—is not—true. She has nothing to hold her word against, after all, because what has she done that would lead him to ever believe that she thinks otherwise? She used him as the fuel to her fire, she coaxed that anger and self-loathing out of him because there was something cathartic in seeing what she despised about herself staring back at her, knowing that it lived in someone else and not just her.
Misery truly loved company and neither of them were lacking in that department, but something she has never been able to figure out is why he is so unhappy.
She finds herself staring at him, closer than she has before. She looks at him the same way she has seen others look at her, as if they are trying to peel back the layers and find the root of her anger like it is some great mystery when to her it always seemed so glaringly obvious and now, now that it lived on her skin it was. It was almost a relief to be made of fire; for them to see her for what she is and to no longer have to spell it out for them and to not have to feel guilty if they tread too close and get burned.
Maybe he is on fire, too, and she is too blinded by her own flames to see it.
“It would have certainly been a shame for either of us to miss this opportunity for another joyous conversation,” she quips, adding with a sardonic smile that edges on the verge of being genuinely amused, “clearly it’s the reason we are both still alive.” She follows this with a small laugh, flames sparking across her lips at the faint exhale of breath. “Fate has an odd sense of humor.”
She lets the silence settle between them, though it is hardly a relaxed one. Her eyes are still tracing the hard angles of his face, recognizing how long he had to have worn the stony expression in order to appear as though he is carved of granite itself. With a tilt of her head she finally asks him the question that has been burning on her tongue, knowing that it might ignite another fight between them but also accepting that perhaps that was simply the way of them—their own chaotic version of destiny. “Why are you so angry?” It is asked in such a matter of fact way that she does not think he will miss the true nature of her question. That it is not an accusation, or not even one of concern. She asks because she thinks it is obvious to him by now why she is angry, and she cannot help but to think it has put him at an unfair advantage in their imaginary playing field.
— if i’m on fire, you’ll be made of ashes too —
muscle relaxer reply as promised <3