07-07-2018, 08:54 PM
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[sup]c) miithers[/sup]
★ I NEVER HAD NOBODY TOUCH ME LIKE I’M G L A S S WITH A MOON BIRD KISS
ooc using same fancy bc this is the one piece of consistency i can keep in my life
Hazel rubbed her thumb against the pad of her forefinger, knowing it was a method of self-comfort and tossing the useless fact out of the window as she rested her temple against her wrist. She could see the rise and fall of his chest, the ache of it, the struggle. She could feel the wrinkle of his brow under her thumb, knowing that it was put there because he was in pain. Knowing that her rambling probably wasn’t helping him, even though that was the only thing she wanted to do: help.
Deus, he must feel awful. She’d never been through a come-down, but it looked horrific. “Sorry,” she murmured, voice soft. “Sorry. I...you must be in a lot of pain. I can go get Rin — she’ll have — “ Hazel bit down on her tongue as he spoke, her ears scarcely catching the words that rattled out of his throat.
She blinked, refocusing, light locking on him and holding him there. Information was handed to her in jagged, incomplete pieces that sketched a picture; most of these pieces were things that Hazel could spend days dwelling on, mulling over and asking questions about. But here? She got raspy bits of things that would just stick in her mind like cotton candy.
Her brain snagged on souls, but didn’t linger too long; she could piece together what he was saying, having realized that his multiple souls were probably half the reason for the turmoil in his aura. His souls must’ve been the pop and fizzle against the frothing smoke of his aura, confined and caged within him. It was strange to think about, she supposed, because Hazel was never big in philosophy or the idea of souls. She generally lumped every part of a person into one, because you couldn’t be three different people at once. It was physically impossible.
Nevertheless, Hazel dragged her focus back, listening to him talk about Latin and Margy. Something in Hazel boiled at the idea of him thinking she was being forced to hang out with him just because he spoke Latin. Shouldn’t she be allowed to hang out with him because she wanted to? Because she found him fascinating and interesting and she wanted to learn more?
“Well that’s stupid, too.” Hazel mumbled. “I wasn’t being forced to hang out with you because you speak Latin. That was one of the reasons I enjoyed it, sure, but it wasn’t the only one. Deus, Bastille, there’s so much more than that.” A small huff was accompanied by the soft shake of her head, curls of hair falling against her eyelashes.
The words he gave her next felt raw; completely, totally honest. Hazel felt like she was reading something out of his diary: private, straightforward. The words when I think about losing you felt wrong to hear, like a confession coming too soon. Liquid gold studied him closely, and curiously, slowly, she bridged the gap that separated them, kneeling next to him.
She could feel the heat that radiated from his skin, the feverish sauna crackling between them. “You never lost me,” and you never will. Hazel’s voice was quiet, her mind persistent but soft. She wanted this. She didn’t want to be afraid of him; she didn’t want to live her life trying to chase after him. She needed him to know that she was his friend for who he was, not because of a single attribute.
Swallowing, she nervously rubbed her fingers against her knee. “Hold up your hand,” She told him.
Hazel rubbed her thumb against the pad of her forefinger, knowing it was a method of self-comfort and tossing the useless fact out of the window as she rested her temple against her wrist. She could see the rise and fall of his chest, the ache of it, the struggle. She could feel the wrinkle of his brow under her thumb, knowing that it was put there because he was in pain. Knowing that her rambling probably wasn’t helping him, even though that was the only thing she wanted to do: help.
Deus, he must feel awful. She’d never been through a come-down, but it looked horrific. “Sorry,” she murmured, voice soft. “Sorry. I...you must be in a lot of pain. I can go get Rin — she’ll have — “ Hazel bit down on her tongue as he spoke, her ears scarcely catching the words that rattled out of his throat.
She blinked, refocusing, light locking on him and holding him there. Information was handed to her in jagged, incomplete pieces that sketched a picture; most of these pieces were things that Hazel could spend days dwelling on, mulling over and asking questions about. But here? She got raspy bits of things that would just stick in her mind like cotton candy.
Her brain snagged on souls, but didn’t linger too long; she could piece together what he was saying, having realized that his multiple souls were probably half the reason for the turmoil in his aura. His souls must’ve been the pop and fizzle against the frothing smoke of his aura, confined and caged within him. It was strange to think about, she supposed, because Hazel was never big in philosophy or the idea of souls. She generally lumped every part of a person into one, because you couldn’t be three different people at once. It was physically impossible.
Nevertheless, Hazel dragged her focus back, listening to him talk about Latin and Margy. Something in Hazel boiled at the idea of him thinking she was being forced to hang out with him just because he spoke Latin. Shouldn’t she be allowed to hang out with him because she wanted to? Because she found him fascinating and interesting and she wanted to learn more?
“Well that’s stupid, too.” Hazel mumbled. “I wasn’t being forced to hang out with you because you speak Latin. That was one of the reasons I enjoyed it, sure, but it wasn’t the only one. Deus, Bastille, there’s so much more than that.” A small huff was accompanied by the soft shake of her head, curls of hair falling against her eyelashes.
The words he gave her next felt raw; completely, totally honest. Hazel felt like she was reading something out of his diary: private, straightforward. The words when I think about losing you felt wrong to hear, like a confession coming too soon. Liquid gold studied him closely, and curiously, slowly, she bridged the gap that separated them, kneeling next to him.
She could feel the heat that radiated from his skin, the feverish sauna crackling between them. “You never lost me,” and you never will. Hazel’s voice was quiet, her mind persistent but soft. She wanted this. She didn’t want to be afraid of him; she didn’t want to live her life trying to chase after him. She needed him to know that she was his friend for who he was, not because of a single attribute.
Swallowing, she nervously rubbed her fingers against her knee. “Hold up your hand,” She told him.
★ — 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