06-20-2018, 04:06 PM
AND I'M JUST A DEAD MAN WALKING TONIGHT
He should have been more careful. Story of his life, though, wasn’t it? Fuck, he should have known he couldn’t hold himself up, should have realized that she was closer than she looked, should have been paying attention to the proximity even when she wasn’t. He couldn’t handle seeing her flinch away from him again — it made him feel cold and sick and like the ground was unstable, made him remember with sudden clarity that his souls were rotten things that could never revel in her presence, made him lose a little bit of faith in himself every single time it happened. Because he knew that she had her issues with contact, but it wasn’t just that. It was also him. No one’s touch spooked her as terribly as his own, and a part of him died with that knowledge but accepted that it made sense. Why shouldn’t such radiant light shy away from his darker edges?
How badly he wanted to touch her, wanted to soak in that warmth; he’d already been feverish, heat flushed with over-heat, but the second his fingers hit her skin his body was on fire. And it was a fire that warmed the freezing cold in his gut, that stalled the chills and the shudders, that felt right and addictive and the answer to a need he didn’t realize he’d had until he had that fire in his bones. And perhaps what really killed him was how badly he ached for it, even in the face of her flinch.
”Fuck—“ he swore, jerking backwards, away from her. In the flurry of movement, him trying to get away as he lost his balance, her trying to push him and yet not drop him entirely, his great weight tipping them over — in those few moments of chaos he could swear he could feel something, the flicker of panic, the dread, the fucking hell, as his back hit the wall of Octavia’s wall, finally, finally putting distance between them. He sat staring back at her at a loss, the sudden loss of her warmth making him sick — or perhaps that was the come-down, the pills he’d taken punishing him for his hubris.
He held her bandana in one hand, he realized — had curled his fingers around it instinctively and taken it with him, and for a beat he just stared. Stared as her aura flickered and flared with panic. Stared as his head spun and the tremors started up again, weakening his resolve. Stared as his ice blue gaze finally fell on the raised pink lines that skated up her arm, as she yelled at him.
Stared as his vague hunches were realized, more clearly and completely than he could have imagined. Of course he’d assumed that, on some level, someone had hurt her once. That she shied away from touch because she didn’t know the good it could bring. That she had her demons like everyone else. But seeing the reality of it, her darkest secret — it broke something in him that he didn’t know was there to break. It was the damning evidence that she had suffered and still suffered and that he couldn’t do anything to help her. No, the only thing he seemed capable of was hurting her more.
”Sorry,” was the first thing of his tongue, the word dull and coarse with the rasp in his throat. Fuck. He couldn’t tell if he was feeling regret or simply feeling the warning signs of more vomit, but he pushed the bandana away from him, towards her, as if it’d burned him — pushed it and then jerked his hand back, away from where she might brush against his skin if she reached out. He pressed a little firmer into the stall door, swallowing the bile in his throat, and breathed, slightly unfocused, ”Sorry, I’m sorry, it’s— I’m fine, you can go, I know you don’t want to be near me.”
Particularly not now. He knew she was too nice to ignore his requests that she go before, but perhaps now she would listen, would trust her instincts about him and get the fuck away from him. He tilted his head back against the door and tore his gaze away from her, closing his eyes as if that might expel the image of that scar.
[align=center]BASTILLEPRISONER — ASTRAL SERAPH — TAGSHow badly he wanted to touch her, wanted to soak in that warmth; he’d already been feverish, heat flushed with over-heat, but the second his fingers hit her skin his body was on fire. And it was a fire that warmed the freezing cold in his gut, that stalled the chills and the shudders, that felt right and addictive and the answer to a need he didn’t realize he’d had until he had that fire in his bones. And perhaps what really killed him was how badly he ached for it, even in the face of her flinch.
”Fuck—“ he swore, jerking backwards, away from her. In the flurry of movement, him trying to get away as he lost his balance, her trying to push him and yet not drop him entirely, his great weight tipping them over — in those few moments of chaos he could swear he could feel something, the flicker of panic, the dread, the fucking hell, as his back hit the wall of Octavia’s wall, finally, finally putting distance between them. He sat staring back at her at a loss, the sudden loss of her warmth making him sick — or perhaps that was the come-down, the pills he’d taken punishing him for his hubris.
He held her bandana in one hand, he realized — had curled his fingers around it instinctively and taken it with him, and for a beat he just stared. Stared as her aura flickered and flared with panic. Stared as his head spun and the tremors started up again, weakening his resolve. Stared as his ice blue gaze finally fell on the raised pink lines that skated up her arm, as she yelled at him.
Stared as his vague hunches were realized, more clearly and completely than he could have imagined. Of course he’d assumed that, on some level, someone had hurt her once. That she shied away from touch because she didn’t know the good it could bring. That she had her demons like everyone else. But seeing the reality of it, her darkest secret — it broke something in him that he didn’t know was there to break. It was the damning evidence that she had suffered and still suffered and that he couldn’t do anything to help her. No, the only thing he seemed capable of was hurting her more.
”Sorry,” was the first thing of his tongue, the word dull and coarse with the rasp in his throat. Fuck. He couldn’t tell if he was feeling regret or simply feeling the warning signs of more vomit, but he pushed the bandana away from him, towards her, as if it’d burned him — pushed it and then jerked his hand back, away from where she might brush against his skin if she reached out. He pressed a little firmer into the stall door, swallowing the bile in his throat, and breathed, slightly unfocused, ”Sorry, I’m sorry, it’s— I’m fine, you can go, I know you don’t want to be near me.”
Particularly not now. He knew she was too nice to ignore his requests that she go before, but perhaps now she would listen, would trust her instincts about him and get the fuck away from him. He tilted his head back against the door and tore his gaze away from her, closing his eyes as if that might expel the image of that scar.
Honey, you're familiar, like my mirror years ago, Idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on his sword, Innocence died screaming; honey, ask me, I should know, I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door. [b][sup]▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃[/sup][/b]