06-18-2018, 07:14 PM
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[sup]c) miithers[/sup]
★ WHEN MY HEART IS MADE FROM GOLD AND FORGIVENESS SEEMS TOO BOLD
As Hazel watched him, concern bubbling higher and higher in her chest, she finally realized how much she cared about his safety and well-being. How much she really cared for this boy and his idiotic, self-destructive habits. How much she cared about being able to see his blue eyes the next day, even if they hardly looked at her anymore. How important it was that she knew he got out of bed and into the sunlight at least once that day. It had been tucked away under the newness of their knowing each other and Hazel's own fear of practicalities.
She didn't know where she found it. Maybe it was in who he was, or maybe it was from Hazel's own morbid curiosity. Maybe it was his eyes, and maybe it was how she felt when she stood next to him. Whatever the case, it felt out of the blue and like a hit to the chest, knocking the wind out of her. She was almost certain they had been in this stupid feud longer than they had known each other - so why the revelation?
Not that Hazel actually had time to sit down and mull over her crisis, because Bastille was already on the move. Or...trying to move. The closer Hazel got, the more he seemed to shrink on himself, like something was pressing down on him. Confused and worried, it took her a moment to consider that the thing was most likely her, and...oh. She backed away immediately, not realizing how close she had gotten - how much his warmth had started to suck her in. The electric charge between them dissolved, and Hazel found that she could breathe a little more.
Christ. Now she knew what it was like to be on the receiving end; what it was like to feel what he must have felt every time she shied away from him. The creep of confusion and sudden panic, wondering if she had done anything wrong; the flip of her stomach when she realized he was actively trying to get away from her. It stung like a bad scrape, knowing there was something about her that made him not want to be near her. It was...degrading. It dragged on her self-confidence.
She shook her head at his stumbling words, keeping her arms and hands to herself. "Don't want to what?" She echoed, feeling utterly helpless. She couldn't touch him, couldn't keep him on his feet, couldn't even be in his presence while he was stoned off his ass without him wanting to get away from her.
Then he was trying to stand, and everything came crashing down. Everything fell apart.
One moment, he was standing and trying to convince Hazel that he was fine, which she seriously doubted. The next, he was tottering, and Hazel could feel the moment of panic rise in her chest as his knees gave out. Automatically, she lunged to catch him, yelping out his name as he caught himself on her arms and she took the brunt of his weight. Immediately, the shock of contact hit her full force - the heat, the pressure, the proximity hit her like a bullet to the chest. Fuck, fuck, this was too much; she was already shaking, already shivering from it.
"Bast, I c-can't -" She could barely get the words out, could barely focus on anything because he was slipping, his arms and hands sliding down and - fuck - her bandana snagged, sliding down her arm as he did and as she sunk to the floor. In less than ten seconds it hung loose on her wrist, slipping off over her hand. A strangled noise crawled out of her throat, panicking as she set Bastille down as quickly as she could before shoving herself away from him and his suffocating heat.
There was a split moment of time where a strip of skin - lighter than the rest - was exposed, and an ugly, bumpy pink scar nearly ran all the way around the circumference of her arm. She stared at it, old horrors of the kitchen knives and finger nails that used to re-open the old wound again and again bubbling to the surface.
Close to hyperventilating, Hazel backed herself into the nearest corner, grasping her wrist. "G-give that - give it back, you weren't supposed to see - " Fuck, it felt like her world was compressing, cracking under the pressure and strain, fracturing like glass under her feet. And the worst thing was she was still tempted to keep it all in, to not let him find out, because Bastille literally looked like hell, and he didn't need Hazel's problems on his shoulders.
She didn't know where she found it. Maybe it was in who he was, or maybe it was from Hazel's own morbid curiosity. Maybe it was his eyes, and maybe it was how she felt when she stood next to him. Whatever the case, it felt out of the blue and like a hit to the chest, knocking the wind out of her. She was almost certain they had been in this stupid feud longer than they had known each other - so why the revelation?
Not that Hazel actually had time to sit down and mull over her crisis, because Bastille was already on the move. Or...trying to move. The closer Hazel got, the more he seemed to shrink on himself, like something was pressing down on him. Confused and worried, it took her a moment to consider that the thing was most likely her, and...oh. She backed away immediately, not realizing how close she had gotten - how much his warmth had started to suck her in. The electric charge between them dissolved, and Hazel found that she could breathe a little more.
Christ. Now she knew what it was like to be on the receiving end; what it was like to feel what he must have felt every time she shied away from him. The creep of confusion and sudden panic, wondering if she had done anything wrong; the flip of her stomach when she realized he was actively trying to get away from her. It stung like a bad scrape, knowing there was something about her that made him not want to be near her. It was...degrading. It dragged on her self-confidence.
She shook her head at his stumbling words, keeping her arms and hands to herself. "Don't want to what?" She echoed, feeling utterly helpless. She couldn't touch him, couldn't keep him on his feet, couldn't even be in his presence while he was stoned off his ass without him wanting to get away from her.
Then he was trying to stand, and everything came crashing down. Everything fell apart.
One moment, he was standing and trying to convince Hazel that he was fine, which she seriously doubted. The next, he was tottering, and Hazel could feel the moment of panic rise in her chest as his knees gave out. Automatically, she lunged to catch him, yelping out his name as he caught himself on her arms and she took the brunt of his weight. Immediately, the shock of contact hit her full force - the heat, the pressure, the proximity hit her like a bullet to the chest. Fuck, fuck, this was too much; she was already shaking, already shivering from it.
"Bast, I c-can't -" She could barely get the words out, could barely focus on anything because he was slipping, his arms and hands sliding down and - fuck - her bandana snagged, sliding down her arm as he did and as she sunk to the floor. In less than ten seconds it hung loose on her wrist, slipping off over her hand. A strangled noise crawled out of her throat, panicking as she set Bastille down as quickly as she could before shoving herself away from him and his suffocating heat.
There was a split moment of time where a strip of skin - lighter than the rest - was exposed, and an ugly, bumpy pink scar nearly ran all the way around the circumference of her arm. She stared at it, old horrors of the kitchen knives and finger nails that used to re-open the old wound again and again bubbling to the surface.
Close to hyperventilating, Hazel backed herself into the nearest corner, grasping her wrist. "G-give that - give it back, you weren't supposed to see - " Fuck, it felt like her world was compressing, cracking under the pressure and strain, fracturing like glass under her feet. And the worst thing was she was still tempted to keep it all in, to not let him find out, because Bastille literally looked like hell, and he didn't need Hazel's problems on his shoulders.
★ — hazel — "speech" — eight months — the ascendants — tags — ★
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WITH EVERY HEARTBEAT I HAVE LEFT
i will defend your every breath; i'll do better