07-15-2018, 11:07 PM
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i never had nobody touch me like i'm glass
She could feel his desperation.
Part of her thought that it might be herself; that it might be that part of her brain that tossed everything she’d been through in her life right out the window for the boy that drank to feel happy. The part of her that somehow managed to drown all her self conflict to see him smile, to hear him laugh, to finally feel it from his side of the bond.
Truth was, she had no idea if it was her or him. There was no other part to that metaphor — she was desperate for him, to see him happy. To have his comfort and reassurance that he was her friend and he would never abandon her for someone else. And maybe that made her possessive, but fuck it if it wasn’t true. Maybe it made her weaker and maybe it made her a horrible person, she didn’t know. She’d hear about it from Titanium later on, anyway.
Hazel felt his gaze follow her as she walked back to her drawer, and her skin burned with the knowledge. She could feel his hunger, his hesitation and confusion — she’d done something so incredibly conflicting to him he didn’t know what he was allowed to do and what he wasn’t. That was horrible, too.
She almost broke, her hands stilling over the broken art supplies in the drawer as she watched him take a shaky step in. Almost walked over and pressed herself against him, just to feel his warmth, to hear his heartbeat. To smell his shirt and remind herself that not every part of him smelled like wine and alcohol. That every time she looked at him, she wouldn’t have to remember that he broke his unspoken promise of staying sober. That she put her faith in him and he broke it, piece by piece, and how it was well and truly starting to crumble.
But she didn’t break.
Hazel set her hand against the edge of the filing cabinet to steady herself against the sudden wave of dizziness that threatened her vision. She stared down at the broken pencils and torn paper in that stupid drawer, remembering how she almost went to Bastille and presented him with every drawing she owned and asked him to burn it to ash. Burn it so she would never have to look at it again and hear Genevieve’s words. But she kept them, as a reminder. A different form of self-punishment. Had she burned them, it would have been classified as running from what she didn’t want to deal with. But Genevieve had been right, and Hazel needed to learn to deal with the fucking truth. So she kept the supplies, but never told anyone.
Her hands stalled again as Bastille spoke, low and miserable. Her heart cracked; he’d been so happy and excited when he was with Player, so eager to be with someone new and willing to learn. Hazel couldn’t do that for him — she’d only make his misery worse.
Still, at his question, Hazel finally looked up. Finally met his eye across the room, locking on those startling babe blues that shone at her from underneath a mop of curly bangs. Could he stay here? Here, where Hazel would be forced to think about him the entire time he sat five feet away? Where she would be unable to touch him, because she didn’t deserve it at this point. Where he would be able to feel her every mood shift and thought and heartbeat through the bond. ...Where her skin stopped itching so uncomfortably because he was finally near. Where she could keep an eye on him and look after him and have the chance to make both of them feel a little better.
His explanation confirmed her answer. It even brought a small spark of surprise and light, hearing that he didn’t want to fall off that cliff again. Something inside Hazel rejoiced, screaming I knew it! He is a good person with good morals at heart, he just needs help getting there. And by the gods, was she willing to play the roll.
Her expression remained neutral, passive, but the hard line of her mouth softened, the hardness in her eyes melting just a little. She swallowed, throat dry. “Sure,” She finally managed. The word cracked with her voice, a side effect from her parched tongue.
She probably should have offered him a seat or something for him to do to distract him from the jitters, but Hazel could only stand there, rooted to the spot as he held up a book. She sucked in a breath, sharp and lashing against her throat. He hadn’t read to her in...weeks? Months? A very long time. Easily giddy at the idea of sitting so close to him while hearing a Greek tale, Hazel smiled to herself, mouth pressing dimples into her cheeks. “Yeah,” She mumbled, thumb rubbing against her forefinger. “I’d like that.”
It wasn’t much; this was still awkward, but something felt a little more familiar now. Carefully climbing on her bed and grabbing a blanket to wrap around her shoulders felt like walking down an old known road, and she wanted to bask in the feeling forever.
As she looked back to him, hand at the ready to invite him over, she finally noticed the book he was holding. Equal parts of her withered and fell prey to confusion, because...wasn’t that...? “Wasn’t that the book you were going to read to Player?” She asked softly.
Part of her thought that it might be herself; that it might be that part of her brain that tossed everything she’d been through in her life right out the window for the boy that drank to feel happy. The part of her that somehow managed to drown all her self conflict to see him smile, to hear him laugh, to finally feel it from his side of the bond.
Truth was, she had no idea if it was her or him. There was no other part to that metaphor — she was desperate for him, to see him happy. To have his comfort and reassurance that he was her friend and he would never abandon her for someone else. And maybe that made her possessive, but fuck it if it wasn’t true. Maybe it made her weaker and maybe it made her a horrible person, she didn’t know. She’d hear about it from Titanium later on, anyway.
Hazel felt his gaze follow her as she walked back to her drawer, and her skin burned with the knowledge. She could feel his hunger, his hesitation and confusion — she’d done something so incredibly conflicting to him he didn’t know what he was allowed to do and what he wasn’t. That was horrible, too.
She almost broke, her hands stilling over the broken art supplies in the drawer as she watched him take a shaky step in. Almost walked over and pressed herself against him, just to feel his warmth, to hear his heartbeat. To smell his shirt and remind herself that not every part of him smelled like wine and alcohol. That every time she looked at him, she wouldn’t have to remember that he broke his unspoken promise of staying sober. That she put her faith in him and he broke it, piece by piece, and how it was well and truly starting to crumble.
But she didn’t break.
Hazel set her hand against the edge of the filing cabinet to steady herself against the sudden wave of dizziness that threatened her vision. She stared down at the broken pencils and torn paper in that stupid drawer, remembering how she almost went to Bastille and presented him with every drawing she owned and asked him to burn it to ash. Burn it so she would never have to look at it again and hear Genevieve’s words. But she kept them, as a reminder. A different form of self-punishment. Had she burned them, it would have been classified as running from what she didn’t want to deal with. But Genevieve had been right, and Hazel needed to learn to deal with the fucking truth. So she kept the supplies, but never told anyone.
Her hands stalled again as Bastille spoke, low and miserable. Her heart cracked; he’d been so happy and excited when he was with Player, so eager to be with someone new and willing to learn. Hazel couldn’t do that for him — she’d only make his misery worse.
Still, at his question, Hazel finally looked up. Finally met his eye across the room, locking on those startling babe blues that shone at her from underneath a mop of curly bangs. Could he stay here? Here, where Hazel would be forced to think about him the entire time he sat five feet away? Where she would be unable to touch him, because she didn’t deserve it at this point. Where he would be able to feel her every mood shift and thought and heartbeat through the bond. ...Where her skin stopped itching so uncomfortably because he was finally near. Where she could keep an eye on him and look after him and have the chance to make both of them feel a little better.
His explanation confirmed her answer. It even brought a small spark of surprise and light, hearing that he didn’t want to fall off that cliff again. Something inside Hazel rejoiced, screaming I knew it! He is a good person with good morals at heart, he just needs help getting there. And by the gods, was she willing to play the roll.
Her expression remained neutral, passive, but the hard line of her mouth softened, the hardness in her eyes melting just a little. She swallowed, throat dry. “Sure,” She finally managed. The word cracked with her voice, a side effect from her parched tongue.
She probably should have offered him a seat or something for him to do to distract him from the jitters, but Hazel could only stand there, rooted to the spot as he held up a book. She sucked in a breath, sharp and lashing against her throat. He hadn’t read to her in...weeks? Months? A very long time. Easily giddy at the idea of sitting so close to him while hearing a Greek tale, Hazel smiled to herself, mouth pressing dimples into her cheeks. “Yeah,” She mumbled, thumb rubbing against her forefinger. “I’d like that.”
It wasn’t much; this was still awkward, but something felt a little more familiar now. Carefully climbing on her bed and grabbing a blanket to wrap around her shoulders felt like walking down an old known road, and she wanted to bask in the feeling forever.
As she looked back to him, hand at the ready to invite him over, she finally noticed the book he was holding. Equal parts of her withered and fell prey to confusion, because...wasn’t that...? “Wasn’t that the book you were going to read to Player?” She asked softly.
HAZEL ELISE CAELUM — THE ASCENDANTS — KUIPER CORPORAL — TAGS
© MADI
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WITH EVERY HEARTBEAT I HAVE LEFT
i will defend your every breath; i'll do better