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Re: as he asks me to pray to the god he doesn't believe in | p - ★ HAZEL - 05-08-2018
[align=center]
★ WHEN MY HEART IS MADE FROM GOLD AND FORGIVENESS SEEMS TOO BOLD
Nothing had ever been quite so lonely as it was in that moment.
Her life had always been full of roller coasters; from top to bottom, Hazel had seen too much. At the ripe young age of nine, she witnessed the deaths of her four friends. At ten, she ran away from home, having crumpled under the anonymity of her siblings. At fifteen, she discovered that she was not a single person, but a body comprised of two souls, rendering her insignificant once more. At sixteen, she witnessed a ruthless clan take over her home and torture her friends publicly. At seventeen, her brother-figure attempted to kill himself, and then acted as if it never happened. At eighteen, she lost her home to a tsunami, and was forced to move and reshape her life all over again. At nineteen, her best friend disappeared. At twenty, she discovered what it was like to feel out of place in her own home. At twenty-two, her adoptive mother was found guilty of murdering an innocent in cold blood, and was banished from their home at the hands of her best friend.
She was a plague of bad luck, forced to bring both sides of the scale wherever she went. Despite her cheery demeanor, she bore the weight of an extra soul who had a grip so strong on the Underworld it had transferred into her reincarnation. And yet...amongst the misfortune and suffering that trailed after her, there was light:
At age ten, she discovered a high-spirited colt who quickly became her guardian and friend. At twelve, she met adoring new friends. At thirteen, she met a woman who would become her mentor and adoptive mother. At fourteen, she met a boy with glasses and a reckless sense of humor that became her big brother. At sixteen, she listened to music in the dead of the night, when everything was quiet and perfect. At seventeen, she was exposed to a three-way bond, rooting a sense of trust in comfort so deep in her that when it was ripped away, it took a piece of her with it.
At twenty-three, she learned that home was where the heart was.
At twenty-three, Hazel sat next to her best friend, carding slim fingers through his curly hair and watching his chest rise and fall. At twenty-three, she allowed her thumb to sweep across his freckled skin, the dark canopy of eyelashes that fanned against his cheek, and the pale skin on his once-pink lips, dragging a damp cloth over the crimson that stained him. She hummed to no one in particular an old lullaby her mother used to sing, pretending not to notice the way her voice cracked and broke.
At twenty-three, Hazel nearly killed the love of her life.
Not only would she never forgive herself for it, but she would never forget it, either. The gashes she left in his chest would scar, creating a permanent reminder of her faults. She would pretend not to see them, but in the end, the swing of her sword would haunt her mind until the day she died. The absolute fantasy of fate and chance would forever ring in her ears and close around her throat. The suffocating guilt and shame.
The horror of it all.
She wanted to remember him with such fondness; his blue eyes, the way he always smelled of smoke and pine, the books he read and tried to keep secret, his hatred for flowers but his love for the color pink, his sweet tooth, his power malfunctions, his impromptu cuddle sessions, his fierce loyalty and steadfast determination, his genuine smile that could light up a room - even the cobbles that he had splintered throughout the courtyard. She wanted to remember the way his fingers felt against her skin and the sharp breath he would take when she buried her nose in the crook of his neck; she wanted to remember what his eyes looked like when he looked at her and realized he would do anything for her.
Hazel wanted...she wanted…
Suddenly he jolted, eyes flying open and his deathly still body realizing that it was still alive. Hazel jerked backwards in her surprise, shock faltering and then rebounding against the back of her mind to hit her brain full force when he pulled her in for a kiss so overdue she swore fireworks went off in her brain.
His lips were warm and metallic with the taste of blood, but Hazel didn’t care. Fog filled her brain, thick and tangible as she melted, soft under his touch and the thing she had craved for so long. The thing she hadn’t experienced since she was seventeen; the thing that made her heart slam against her chest and the universe explode behind her eyelids. A soft sound spilled out where their lips parted, one that echoed the ache in her heart.
She watched, waited, golden eyes owlish and young and unsure in the face of his proximity. He spoke so quietly, so gently - it was something Hazel had only heard wisps of in the early morning when it was still dark outside and midnight parties blurred with the hangovers of tomorrow, and untold truths were mumbled into pillows and soft blankets. But the words tumbled faster, spinning off his tongue until she was sure that he would trip over himself. But he didn’t. He was apologizing - apologizing for trying to strangle her.
Hazel’s fragile composure - if it was ever there at all - fractured.
“Scio. I know.” She whispered, lower lip trembling when pulled into a shaky smile. She wanted to say more, to start her own ramble of apology, but was caught up in the brush of his thumb beneath her eye. It was so gentle, so uncharacteristic of him, that she almost wanted him to be rough - wanted him to drag her in for a kiss that bruised and ached and was a piece of pain and punishment all wrapped in one. She felt like she might vibrate out of her own skin with the want for him to yell and curse at her.
Then he was speaking again, still apologizing; apologizing for not making her stay, for not making her listen to him. Hazel wondered how he could possibly take the blame for that - how they had managed to spin so out of character and then collapse right back into what they were.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t hold onto Eden for you, either.”
Hazel shook her head, dead set on telling him that it wasn’t his fault, that she was being a child and a brat and he was doing his best with what he had, but instead found his lips back on hers. This time was less hesitant, less reverent. Desperation filtered through on both sides, making the kiss quicker, harder. Hazel reached up, curling shaking fingers around his wrists on either side of her face and holding him there, not wanting him to go and when he broke away she leaned in, trying to follow for a heartbeat.
“Bastille - ”
Her heart caught; snagged on something in her chest. Six words - three words, and it felt like her breath had been forced from her lungs. Six words that she wasn’t surprised were in the same sentence when it came to Bastille, and three words that she’d thought she would never hear. Three words she had been waiting to hear her entire life, spoken with the sincerity and genuine love she heard in his voice.
His quote went almost unacknowledged, for her blood roared far too loudly in her ears. Besides, she had no idea that it was a quote - it sounded a little odd; a little too poetic for the way Bast usually talked, but Hazel was really too far gone on him to really care.
“I love you. Fuck, Hazel, I love you so much.”
She felt the words fan against her lips and memorized the sensation. She felt them brush across her skin like sunlight, like music, like summer. Like love, like longing and loneliness and pain. She felt the years of an unnamed, obvious emotion explode in her chest, slamming against her ribs and crying out. Hazel felt like she was dancing in the rain. Her heart soared; ecstasy floated, light and airy in her mind while relief and guilt and shame battled for custody of her nervous system.
A breathless laugh was punched from her lungs, the corners of her mouth dancing with a smile as she tilted forward to close her eyes and rest her forehead against his. Tears dripped; she couldn’t have held them back if she wanted to. Then she was shifting up, catching his lips as he moved to catch hers and pressing forward, wanting to have a say in it, too. She tucked her lip between his, her fingers curling against his wrists like she was holding on to her lifeline.
“I love you too,” Hazel echoed, parting their lips for what seemed like the hundredth time. “Deus, te amo, Bastille. Amo te tam multo. I love you, I love you -” Fuck, she loved him. She loved him so much.
She glanced down through teary eyes, looking at the angry red that seeped around the bandages. Her smile fell, and her grip on his wrists slackened. “Paenitet me, Bast. I’m so sorry.” She murmured hoarsely. She shuffled a little closer, gently wrapping her arms around his neck so she wouldn’t hurt him more. “I’m so sorry.” She didn’t have a justification, because it was inexcusable. She just had to hope that he could find it in his heart to forgive her.
“I’m sorry you had to deal with me for all this time.” She choked out, forcing a small laugh as she drew back, wiping at her eyes. “I don’t...I don’t blame you for Eden, Bastille, I don’t.” She studied her hands in her lap. “I don’t know what we lost during then and now, but...I want to find it, whatever it is.”
She dragged her thumb under her eyelid, gently shaking her head. “I don’t deserve your loyalty or your love - not after I left you alone to run Eden and…” Hazel paused, the words “almost killed you” too painful to get out. Her next words were quiet, barely audible with the fear that he might refuse, despite his confession. “Ignosce me. Forgive me.”
Her life had always been full of roller coasters; from top to bottom, Hazel had seen too much. At the ripe young age of nine, she witnessed the deaths of her four friends. At ten, she ran away from home, having crumpled under the anonymity of her siblings. At fifteen, she discovered that she was not a single person, but a body comprised of two souls, rendering her insignificant once more. At sixteen, she witnessed a ruthless clan take over her home and torture her friends publicly. At seventeen, her brother-figure attempted to kill himself, and then acted as if it never happened. At eighteen, she lost her home to a tsunami, and was forced to move and reshape her life all over again. At nineteen, her best friend disappeared. At twenty, she discovered what it was like to feel out of place in her own home. At twenty-two, her adoptive mother was found guilty of murdering an innocent in cold blood, and was banished from their home at the hands of her best friend.
She was a plague of bad luck, forced to bring both sides of the scale wherever she went. Despite her cheery demeanor, she bore the weight of an extra soul who had a grip so strong on the Underworld it had transferred into her reincarnation. And yet...amongst the misfortune and suffering that trailed after her, there was light:
At age ten, she discovered a high-spirited colt who quickly became her guardian and friend. At twelve, she met adoring new friends. At thirteen, she met a woman who would become her mentor and adoptive mother. At fourteen, she met a boy with glasses and a reckless sense of humor that became her big brother. At sixteen, she listened to music in the dead of the night, when everything was quiet and perfect. At seventeen, she was exposed to a three-way bond, rooting a sense of trust in comfort so deep in her that when it was ripped away, it took a piece of her with it.
At twenty-three, she learned that home was where the heart was.
At twenty-three, Hazel sat next to her best friend, carding slim fingers through his curly hair and watching his chest rise and fall. At twenty-three, she allowed her thumb to sweep across his freckled skin, the dark canopy of eyelashes that fanned against his cheek, and the pale skin on his once-pink lips, dragging a damp cloth over the crimson that stained him. She hummed to no one in particular an old lullaby her mother used to sing, pretending not to notice the way her voice cracked and broke.
At twenty-three, Hazel nearly killed the love of her life.
Not only would she never forgive herself for it, but she would never forget it, either. The gashes she left in his chest would scar, creating a permanent reminder of her faults. She would pretend not to see them, but in the end, the swing of her sword would haunt her mind until the day she died. The absolute fantasy of fate and chance would forever ring in her ears and close around her throat. The suffocating guilt and shame.
The horror of it all.
She wanted to remember him with such fondness; his blue eyes, the way he always smelled of smoke and pine, the books he read and tried to keep secret, his hatred for flowers but his love for the color pink, his sweet tooth, his power malfunctions, his impromptu cuddle sessions, his fierce loyalty and steadfast determination, his genuine smile that could light up a room - even the cobbles that he had splintered throughout the courtyard. She wanted to remember the way his fingers felt against her skin and the sharp breath he would take when she buried her nose in the crook of his neck; she wanted to remember what his eyes looked like when he looked at her and realized he would do anything for her.
Hazel wanted...she wanted…
Suddenly he jolted, eyes flying open and his deathly still body realizing that it was still alive. Hazel jerked backwards in her surprise, shock faltering and then rebounding against the back of her mind to hit her brain full force when he pulled her in for a kiss so overdue she swore fireworks went off in her brain.
His lips were warm and metallic with the taste of blood, but Hazel didn’t care. Fog filled her brain, thick and tangible as she melted, soft under his touch and the thing she had craved for so long. The thing she hadn’t experienced since she was seventeen; the thing that made her heart slam against her chest and the universe explode behind her eyelids. A soft sound spilled out where their lips parted, one that echoed the ache in her heart.
She watched, waited, golden eyes owlish and young and unsure in the face of his proximity. He spoke so quietly, so gently - it was something Hazel had only heard wisps of in the early morning when it was still dark outside and midnight parties blurred with the hangovers of tomorrow, and untold truths were mumbled into pillows and soft blankets. But the words tumbled faster, spinning off his tongue until she was sure that he would trip over himself. But he didn’t. He was apologizing - apologizing for trying to strangle her.
Hazel’s fragile composure - if it was ever there at all - fractured.
“Scio. I know.” She whispered, lower lip trembling when pulled into a shaky smile. She wanted to say more, to start her own ramble of apology, but was caught up in the brush of his thumb beneath her eye. It was so gentle, so uncharacteristic of him, that she almost wanted him to be rough - wanted him to drag her in for a kiss that bruised and ached and was a piece of pain and punishment all wrapped in one. She felt like she might vibrate out of her own skin with the want for him to yell and curse at her.
Then he was speaking again, still apologizing; apologizing for not making her stay, for not making her listen to him. Hazel wondered how he could possibly take the blame for that - how they had managed to spin so out of character and then collapse right back into what they were.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t hold onto Eden for you, either.”
Hazel shook her head, dead set on telling him that it wasn’t his fault, that she was being a child and a brat and he was doing his best with what he had, but instead found his lips back on hers. This time was less hesitant, less reverent. Desperation filtered through on both sides, making the kiss quicker, harder. Hazel reached up, curling shaking fingers around his wrists on either side of her face and holding him there, not wanting him to go and when he broke away she leaned in, trying to follow for a heartbeat.
“Bastille - ”
Her heart caught; snagged on something in her chest. Six words - three words, and it felt like her breath had been forced from her lungs. Six words that she wasn’t surprised were in the same sentence when it came to Bastille, and three words that she’d thought she would never hear. Three words she had been waiting to hear her entire life, spoken with the sincerity and genuine love she heard in his voice.
His quote went almost unacknowledged, for her blood roared far too loudly in her ears. Besides, she had no idea that it was a quote - it sounded a little odd; a little too poetic for the way Bast usually talked, but Hazel was really too far gone on him to really care.
“I love you. Fuck, Hazel, I love you so much.”
She felt the words fan against her lips and memorized the sensation. She felt them brush across her skin like sunlight, like music, like summer. Like love, like longing and loneliness and pain. She felt the years of an unnamed, obvious emotion explode in her chest, slamming against her ribs and crying out. Hazel felt like she was dancing in the rain. Her heart soared; ecstasy floated, light and airy in her mind while relief and guilt and shame battled for custody of her nervous system.
A breathless laugh was punched from her lungs, the corners of her mouth dancing with a smile as she tilted forward to close her eyes and rest her forehead against his. Tears dripped; she couldn’t have held them back if she wanted to. Then she was shifting up, catching his lips as he moved to catch hers and pressing forward, wanting to have a say in it, too. She tucked her lip between his, her fingers curling against his wrists like she was holding on to her lifeline.
“I love you too,” Hazel echoed, parting their lips for what seemed like the hundredth time. “Deus, te amo, Bastille. Amo te tam multo. I love you, I love you -” Fuck, she loved him. She loved him so much.
She glanced down through teary eyes, looking at the angry red that seeped around the bandages. Her smile fell, and her grip on his wrists slackened. “Paenitet me, Bast. I’m so sorry.” She murmured hoarsely. She shuffled a little closer, gently wrapping her arms around his neck so she wouldn’t hurt him more. “I’m so sorry.” She didn’t have a justification, because it was inexcusable. She just had to hope that he could find it in his heart to forgive her.
“I’m sorry you had to deal with me for all this time.” She choked out, forcing a small laugh as she drew back, wiping at her eyes. “I don’t...I don’t blame you for Eden, Bastille, I don’t.” She studied her hands in her lap. “I don’t know what we lost during then and now, but...I want to find it, whatever it is.”
She dragged her thumb under her eyelid, gently shaking her head. “I don’t deserve your loyalty or your love - not after I left you alone to run Eden and…” Hazel paused, the words “almost killed you” too painful to get out. Her next words were quiet, barely audible with the fear that he might refuse, despite his confession. “Ignosce me. Forgive me.”
Re: as he asks me to pray to the god he doesn't believe in | p - BASTILLEPAW - 05-13-2018
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He remembered that first kiss, years and years ago; the confusion that had shut down his mental functioning completely, the complete and utter shock of her proximity. He'd been frozen, too startle by the gesture to do anything until she was already pulling away from him -- and then she was apologizing, dismissing it as dumb, and Bastille had just... accepted it. Accepted that she had been overwhelmed, that she hadn't meant it, that he could breathe again because it didn't mean anything. His lips had tingled for days after that moment, but he had pushed all thoughts of her mouth far, far into the darkness of his mind. He didn't want to remember, didn't want to admit to wanting something that he couldn't have. His first kiss was the only one he wanted, but it was also the most devastating.
As he felt her relaxing under his mouth, kissing him back, he wondered why he hadn't just grabbed her then. Why hadn't he chased after her, drowned out her sputtered apologies and gotten a real kiss from her? For two years now, he had wondered how he had been so stupid to pretend that he was anything but in love with her, and he always came back to that moment. She'd given him a chance, and he'd wasted it.
How different could things have been if he'd stopped her from pulling away?
Maybe nothing would have changed. He liked to believe that if he'd just let her in, allowed her even closer than she already was, they might have survived Dahlia's betrayal together. The last year and a half that he'd spent alone wasn't worth it to him -- there was no looking back on it and saying oh, the distance was necessary for growth. There was no justification for losing Hazel for that long, possibly forever if he hadn't run into her by chance. There was no point to it, and if he could have gone without the absence, he was convinced everything would have been so much better. Even if they lost Eden, even if it didn't make a difference -- they still would have had each other, and everything would have been a little more bearable.
The prickles of thoughts washed away in the face of her warmth, however, and for a moment Bastille just stared back at her, memorizing the glow of her golden irises. Scio. Did she know, though? He realized, belatedly, that he'd kept Pollutedsoul so hidden from her that she didn't even know who that was; he'd shoved that tormented soul so deep down into the darkness that the only person who knew him nearly as well as he knew himself didn't even recognize the deranged fucker. How could she really know if she didn't fully understand who she was dealing with?
Bastille brushed a thumb across her cheek, and murmured softly against her mouth, "He murdered his love, because she betrayed him. His whole family, too. He's... the worst of the darkness that I never wanted you to see, Hazel, but I should have warned you. You had the right to know who I am." He offered a vague half-smile, like he found it ironic that he was forced to acknowledge that Pollie was a part of him. "I don't plan on letting him see the light of day ever again, though." There was a hint of viciousness edging his voice, but it was hard to stay angry -- even at Pollutedsoul -- with Hazel this close to him, this radiant.
In a way, he was glad she didn't protest, didn't try to disagree with him; he felt lighter than he had in years, having finally gotten the chance to apologize to her for fucking everything up so badly. He had tried, he really had, but he would always be sorry that he had failed, would always regret what could have been if he'd just clung onto her harder. (If he'd just kissed her back that first time, would they have drifted so far apart when Dahlia betrayed them? Would she still have left?)
He was much more thankful that she kept kissing him back, however. As if her proximity alone could fill him up with that golden warmth, he felt like his skin was on fucking fire -- a blissful fire, though, none of the white-hot rage that accompanied his flames usually. Her fingers against the insides of his wrists were little embers, and he could feel his pulse throbbing against her grip, had an acute awareness of every point of contact between their bodies.
Once upon a time, he might have been worried to bare his soul to her, to finally tell her how he'd felt for years. He found that he frankly just didn't care any more as he looked at her; he'd waited so long to get her back, and at this point, he wasn't sure if he had any apprehension left. There was only the simple fact of his love for her and the straight-forward fashion in which he asserted it, devoid of any anxiety -- there was only the burning heat he felt and the relief at finally just saying it.
Her laugh was sunshine, and he smiled as she leaned into him, offering her one of those real, genuine grins in response to her murmuring. "Easy, princess," he breathed as she babbled in Latin, laughing lightly as he tilted his head down and cut her off with a quick kiss. He could listen to her tell him she loved him for hours, but he was pretty sure she needed to breathe at some point, too. Which meant that he should probably let her breathe, but not before he drew the kiss out for another moment before leaning back once more, offering her another grin. "Respirare, yeah?"
It seemed that the second she took that time to breathe, however, her happiness was dimming. As she tried to drop her hands, Bastille caught them, lacing their fingers together as he leaned closer to her and kissed her cheek. "Hey," he said softly, squeezing her hands slightly, "It's fine, okay? I'll be fine, and I don't blame you. It doesn't matter any more, not if I have you back finally. Nothing else matters." His mouth quirked up slightly as he said lightly, "Besides, now we're even, yeah?" He would rather she slash at him with a sword any day than let Pollutedsoul any where near her, anyway.
He ran a thumb over the back of her hand and smiled slightly, tilting his head so that she was forced to look him in the eye again. "I forgave you the second I saw you, Hazel," he said lowly, peering at her intently, "There isn't a single part of me that can bear to shut you out, you know? I don't care about what we lost, or how fucking long it took us to get here. That year and a half that I spent without you? It means nothing to me, Haze. All that matters is that you're here now, and I don't care about the in between."
Re: as he asks me to pray to the god he doesn't believe in | p - ★ HAZEL - 05-17-2018
[align=center]
★ WHEN MY HEART IS MADE FROM GOLD AND FORGIVENESS SEEMS TOO BOLD
No, she didn't know.
Hazel didn't know Pollutedsoul; she didn't know the depths of his insanity or the lengths he would go to. She didn't know his history, or what he was like, or why he was the way he was. She didn't know anything about him, but the comfort fell off her lips automatically because she was reverting back to the age-old feeling of trust. Because she was leaning back on the thing that had become such an important lifeline between them: faith. Faith and trust. But no pixie dust, because that was all sugar coated bubble wrap that got people killed.
Faith and trust had the potential of doing the same thing, but Hazel couldn't really find it in herself to care. Bastille had proven time and time again that he wouldn't let his demons hurt her, and Hazel let herself lean on it. She let herself trust in his word.
Hazel had poured herself into the cracks and crevices of this broken boy, hoping to make him whole again. Hoping that he would be happy one day. Along the way those cracks and crevices had only fractured more, and Hazel found herself to be only a temporary solution. She couldn't fix him entirely, but she could try. She couldn't make him whole again, but she could fit together the pieces she had. And Hazel did - she did so with vigor and determination. In the end, he wasn't quite whole. But...neither was she. It had her thinking that maybe, just maybe, they might be the missing jigsaw piece to each other's puzzles.
So Hazel leaned in, letting him rest his forehead against hers. She let him run his thumb over her cheek and she felt the warmth of his skin seep into hers and the way it made her heart beat faster. She let him talk against the corner of her mouth as she scooted closer so they weren't quite so far apart. She let him say what was on his mind because that was her job, and she would gladly set aside her screaming mind at any point of the day for him.
She dropped a hand, reaching forward and allowing her fingers to skim feather-light over the bandages and the skin on his exposed torso, fulfilling both her own satisfaction and his crave for touch. Horror and shame still bubbled low in her chest, but his heartbeat under her fingertips was the best sort of reassurance.
When he finished, Hazel couldn't say she wasn't shocked. The story of Pollutedsoul was a tragedy, but she didn't find herself particularly worried. Instead she reached up and wound her fingers into the curls of his hair, pulling his lips to hers. "I don't care," She breathed after a beat of silence, because she really didn't. "I don't care about his backstory. As long as he keeps you the same person that you've always been, I don't care." Maybe she should have cared. Maybe she really should have thought long and hard about the boy she loved and what type of cosmic dust he was made of, but she didn't. Because he would always be one person to her. Bastille would always be one being in her mind, and there was nothing he could do to change it.
"Someone once told me that souls don't define who you are," Hazel murmured, gaze flickering up as she paused, tongue resting against her lower teeth. Would he remember all those years ago? "But I think they might have a small say in it. They might not define you, but they influence you. And whatever influence your souls have gave me the love of my life, and I might find it in me to say thank you." She offered him a small smile that just barely tilted the corners of her mouth up. "I can't say I like him or what he's done very much, but."
But I deserve it. Is what she didn't say out loud. She deserved every second that his hands were closed around her throat, because god, she'd done so much worse. And as her breath hiccuped in her sore throat and her hands started to shake, Bastille laced his fingers through hers, and she wanted to laugh at the blood that stained their skin. But she didn't. She focused on him instead: his eyes, his freckles, his teeth. She focused on him, and his voice. His voice that flowed like ice water.
"But what if it matters to me? What if I want to make up for it?" Hazel whispered, tears gathering. "What if I want to make up for time that's already gone, and relive the parts where I missed you the most? When I woke up and went to find you, but then realized that you weren't there? That I'd left you and Eden to burn, and it's...my fault, it's all my fault." She blinked hard, wanting to get rid of the tears so she could see him better in the fading sunlight, like he might disappear when he realized what she'd done.
Hazel didn't know Pollutedsoul; she didn't know the depths of his insanity or the lengths he would go to. She didn't know his history, or what he was like, or why he was the way he was. She didn't know anything about him, but the comfort fell off her lips automatically because she was reverting back to the age-old feeling of trust. Because she was leaning back on the thing that had become such an important lifeline between them: faith. Faith and trust. But no pixie dust, because that was all sugar coated bubble wrap that got people killed.
Faith and trust had the potential of doing the same thing, but Hazel couldn't really find it in herself to care. Bastille had proven time and time again that he wouldn't let his demons hurt her, and Hazel let herself lean on it. She let herself trust in his word.
Hazel had poured herself into the cracks and crevices of this broken boy, hoping to make him whole again. Hoping that he would be happy one day. Along the way those cracks and crevices had only fractured more, and Hazel found herself to be only a temporary solution. She couldn't fix him entirely, but she could try. She couldn't make him whole again, but she could fit together the pieces she had. And Hazel did - she did so with vigor and determination. In the end, he wasn't quite whole. But...neither was she. It had her thinking that maybe, just maybe, they might be the missing jigsaw piece to each other's puzzles.
So Hazel leaned in, letting him rest his forehead against hers. She let him run his thumb over her cheek and she felt the warmth of his skin seep into hers and the way it made her heart beat faster. She let him talk against the corner of her mouth as she scooted closer so they weren't quite so far apart. She let him say what was on his mind because that was her job, and she would gladly set aside her screaming mind at any point of the day for him.
She dropped a hand, reaching forward and allowing her fingers to skim feather-light over the bandages and the skin on his exposed torso, fulfilling both her own satisfaction and his crave for touch. Horror and shame still bubbled low in her chest, but his heartbeat under her fingertips was the best sort of reassurance.
When he finished, Hazel couldn't say she wasn't shocked. The story of Pollutedsoul was a tragedy, but she didn't find herself particularly worried. Instead she reached up and wound her fingers into the curls of his hair, pulling his lips to hers. "I don't care," She breathed after a beat of silence, because she really didn't. "I don't care about his backstory. As long as he keeps you the same person that you've always been, I don't care." Maybe she should have cared. Maybe she really should have thought long and hard about the boy she loved and what type of cosmic dust he was made of, but she didn't. Because he would always be one person to her. Bastille would always be one being in her mind, and there was nothing he could do to change it.
"Someone once told me that souls don't define who you are," Hazel murmured, gaze flickering up as she paused, tongue resting against her lower teeth. Would he remember all those years ago? "But I think they might have a small say in it. They might not define you, but they influence you. And whatever influence your souls have gave me the love of my life, and I might find it in me to say thank you." She offered him a small smile that just barely tilted the corners of her mouth up. "I can't say I like him or what he's done very much, but."
But I deserve it. Is what she didn't say out loud. She deserved every second that his hands were closed around her throat, because god, she'd done so much worse. And as her breath hiccuped in her sore throat and her hands started to shake, Bastille laced his fingers through hers, and she wanted to laugh at the blood that stained their skin. But she didn't. She focused on him instead: his eyes, his freckles, his teeth. She focused on him, and his voice. His voice that flowed like ice water.
"But what if it matters to me? What if I want to make up for it?" Hazel whispered, tears gathering. "What if I want to make up for time that's already gone, and relive the parts where I missed you the most? When I woke up and went to find you, but then realized that you weren't there? That I'd left you and Eden to burn, and it's...my fault, it's all my fault." She blinked hard, wanting to get rid of the tears so she could see him better in the fading sunlight, like he might disappear when he realized what she'd done.
Re: as he asks me to pray to the god he doesn't believe in | p - BASTILLEPAW - 05-23-2018
[div style="text-align: justify; margin: auto; line-height: 110%; font-size: 10pt; width: 80%"]Bastille wondered, briefly, how they had gotten here. Well, he supposed Hazel had a soul that was meant for happiness -- she was bright and lovely and radiant; she was liquid gold, with the gentlest touches of divinity that made his head spin when he looked at her aura for too long or too intently. She was... she was good. She was the light. It didn't matter what struggles or traumas life threw at her: she always would have achieved happiness, some how, some way. She was destined for it.
He had a mixed relationship with Fate. He believed in it, as much as he believed in anything. He had always believed that his souls were damned to failure and that he was destined to fail with them. He believed that Grimm chose hosts for a reason, and that it was no coincidence that his last host before Bastille -- Grimmkit, the form he still envisioned him in -- was Zaniel's son. The fact that his own father was a drunken player who only met his mother once couldn't be chance; nor the fact that the tom had belonged to Echo's Tribe, albeit several generations after the stealth-walker had lived there. Everything in his life could be connected to his souls in some way, and he knew that in some form, Fate existed. Gods, he often said -- though he had no clear concept or care for who, precisely, he meant. Maybe he meant all of them, or maybe he just didn't care enough for any religious values to truly think about what he said and why. Maybe he'd simply borrowed the phrase from someone, a past host or past life. No, the only true absolute that he believed in was Fate and her cruelty.
So he wondered, not for the first time, how Fate could have brought Hazel to him. He had no idea what his aura really looked like, but he knew that it could never rival the vibrance or purity of hers; he knew that, no matter what he did, the darkness of his pasts would shine through. Zaniel, Pollutedsoul -- they'd be good once. Hopeful, young, in love with their families and Clans, eager to be good and do good. He imagined that at some point, their auras had been good, average, decent. But he knew that auras could change as people did, that souls could be corrupted, and he knew that there was darkness there. With Echo, there had always been darkness; Fate had chased him through his lifetime, too.
So, what did that leave him? He couldn't be sure. Of course, his entity was entirely comprised of his souls -- he didn't have a fourth one of his own, even if he tended to consider the four of them as separate identities -- and of their vices. But Bastille wasn't necessarily like them. He carried a mix of their traits, could trace more of his habits and inclinations to one or the other, and he carried their weaknesses -- but he was supposed to be their redemption, the physical manifestation of restless souls finally being put at ease as their last wishes were accomplished. He fought against the mistakes they had made and tried to be better. Did that make his aura a good one, or did it simply mean he was in denial about his reality?
He supposed he would never know, not really. Whatever the answer, he wasn't sure how, exactly, Hazel could have ever been intended for him -- the light to his darkness, so to speak. And yet she was. He knew that, had known it from the second he met her, if he was willing to be honest with himself. No one had ever struck him as intensely and wonderfully as Hazel did, and his love for her was not something that burned out or withered with time. She was it. She was his, or rather, more accurately, he was hers and always had been. Against all odds, he'd managed to find his way back to her, just as they always seemed to. It may be dramatic to consider her his sun, but she certainly seemed to have a soul-binding, gravitational pull on him.
For a beat, he simply looked back at her, at a loss. He supposed he had never really considered what she thought of his souls. Sure, he'd always assumed that she must carry the same grudge against them as he did, and he knew she wasn't particularly fond of Echo, but he hadn't really thought of the fact that for all the times he'd asserted that he was them, more or less, that she'd agreed. She'd agreed and not cared, had even been able to appreciate them for spitting out Bastille. He would remove Pollutedsoul if he could, but she was right -- without him, he wouldn't be the same.
He ducked his head to kiss her again, and found himself smiling against her mouth as she threw her words back at him. Hell, he was pretty sure that she had used them more than he had, at this point -- he remembered, briefly, the dim of her room and the vicious, gnawing guilt as he forced himself to face her in the aftermath of Echo, remembered her reminding him then of what he'd told her so long ago. He pressed another kiss against her mouth, warm and demanding, and then breathed, "Thank you." For accepting them, for loving him back, for always forcing him to take a step back and consider his own advice. For being here, warm and light and seemingly an impossibility.
His smile dimmed as she spoke, and he brought her shaky fingers to his mouth, kissing her knuckles gently. He didn't care if he'd gotten blood on them both, really — all he cared about was her, was bringing out that same bright happiness once more. ”It’s not all your fault, Hazel, any more than you’ll let it be my fault for letting you leave or letting Eden fall. I shouldn’t have acted like you alone were responsible for saving me. I don’t blame you for leaving, not any more,” he murmured, mouth hitching upwards slightly as he added, ”If I’m not allowed to wallow in self-loathing, neither are you. If forgiveness is what you’re looking for, I’ve already given it. I don’t care what happened, or what could have been, or anything else.”
He dropped their clasped hands once more, focusing instead on her eyes, her proximity. ”The only thing that matters now is that I found you again, and I don’t plan on losing you this time.” He leaned back slightly, stifled a wince, and kept going — let himself fall backwards and drew her with him, coaxing her to lay down next to him. He tugged her close against his side and leaned his head against hers, adding finally, ”Now stop being ridiculous and tell me about where you’ve been.” He thought that it might hurt, wondering where she’d been or what she’d been doing for all this time, but instead there was simply a vague curiosity. It was hard to feel sorry for the time in between when she was so warm against him, when he hadn’t felt this content in years — bloodloss be damned.