05-17-2018, 05:42 PM
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★ 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.
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WITH EVERY HEARTBEAT I HAVE LEFT
i will defend your every breath; i'll do better