07-31-2018, 09:54 PM
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with grace in your heart and flowers in your hair
Faith was...odd. Hazel's sense of faith was closely linked to her sense of divinity, of a higher power. Because sometimes, there were things that interferred, things that she witnessed, that could not be from a mortal. It was those things that made her question what her purpose was, if anyone was watching over her. It made her wonder if she really was being tugged along on a string of fate, destined to meet an end or demise that she had no input in.
But Hazel didn't have faith in the divine. She didn't have faith in what she couldn't see. Hazel had faith in people, because she could touch them. They were real - they had a beating heart and pumping blood, proof that they could function on their own. She had faith in people because people had the intelligence to make their own decisions. They could change their entire life if they really wanted to. She'd witnessed it in her Mother, and so she would keep her faith in Bastille. It didn't always make sense and it was evident that he didn't share the same point of view, but it didn't matter. All it took was one motive.
Some days, Hazel thought that he might never find that motive. That Bastille would wallow in himself and his alcohol until his days were brought to an end. And it was days like those that her mind split two ways: either convince him of her faith and show him that he could be better, or let him fall flat on his face until he learned. Weeks ago, she had considered the latter every time she was faced with the option - but now? Now she was tethered to him. She was dragged through his hell right alongside him, step for step, hangover for hangover. She didn't have a choice to be passive anymore.
And she hated it.
Which was bound to bring trouble, because Hazel knew that she didn't hate him for it, just what he did. It hurt, what he put himself through, and she could feel that now, that emotional turbulence and restlessness jostling her alignment, wherever it may lie. She couldn't understand why he did it; why he kept going back instead of searching for an alternate solution, a safer way to get that numbness he craved so much. Hazel wished she had the answer for him. She wished she could cork it in a silver bottle and give it to him like a present, hype it up like she'd found the solution to the world, that it was his turning point to being a better person. But if she knew Bastille - and she did - then he didn't just turn on his heel. He didn't turn over a new leaf at the drop of a hat.
Restless, Hazel watched him from underneath a canopy of lashes, absently scrubbing the heel of her palm against the scars on the back of her left hand. His awkwardness was palpable without the bond, and she really wished he'd just sit down and stop fidgeting, because it was making her question her decision more and more, like he might be holding back something. Then he apologized. ...For yesterday.
Hazel swallowed hard aganst the back of her throat. She had absolutely no idea where the events of yesterday had unfolded from or why; all she knew was that she'd done something completely out of character and incredibly embarrassing. But that didn't change the phantom weight of his hand in hers, of the heat that radiated off him. It didn't change the fact that she could still feel the tickling whisper of the pad of his finger as he traced the scars on her hand, near reverent with his fascination. And it certainly didn't change the fact that she wanted him pressed against her again, surrounded by the warmth he had to offer, hungover or not.
"No, it's - " She started to say, fumbling over her words. "- fine, it's fine." It wasn't. "I'm sorry that I interrupted your conversation with Player, it was...rude of me." And it was rude, that was true. But it wasn't what she wanted to say. How did she apologize for pressing her fingers between his, forcing his attention on her because she was so convinced that he might leave the delicate thing they had between them for something easier? How did she apologize for craving his touch and his touch only because she wanted to hear his heartbeat again? That she wanted to feel needed, loved, before she shut herself away from the concept forever?
People didn't just say that. It felt like too much of a confession. And maybe there was a deeper message there, a deeper meaning. Something that demanded an explanation of the nickname lumen; something that dragged her heartbeat into a stutter and made her skin flush hot. Something that said I want to spend the rest of my life with you and your stupid self-destructive tendencies.
Hazel tugged on one of her loose curls as he spoke, rubbing the curl between her forefinger and thumb until it was frayed and broken with frizz. "You're the only person I read to," he said. "...I wasn't going to read anything to her." The words felt too honest to be coming from his lips. She almost asked him to repeat them, to make sure she heard correctly, but then felt his hesitation immediately after, and knew she had heard right. The realization was muddled though, clouded against the seeping warmth of satisfaction that tugged at the corners of her mouth, though she refused to smile. It washed over her like praise, dousing her insecurities for the time being. It sang in her veins, thrummbed in her chest. She hummed her response, eyes flicking back and forth to the piece of hair she was still fiddling with and his tired expression. She reveled in the feeling for a moment, wondering if this was what it was like to know that you were special.
She wondered if it meant something more to him.
"Are you...going to sit down, or are you going to flip the book around until you wear the leather away?" She mused, finally exasperated with his hesitation. At this point, she was beginning to question if she even wanted him to read, or if she wanted to use this moment to ask him something before he began to tiptoe around her for the next two weeks. Hazel drew her knees into her chest, pondering this. In the core of her heart, she wanted him to read to her until his voice was raspy and she'd fallen asleep against his shoulder. She wanted things to be easy and smooth between them, with no awkward fumbling and fear of broken glass.
And eventually, a question welled up in her throat, one she was sure he might have answered in the past but couldn't remember the answer to. And it would be a cruel thing to ask him, especially in his current state, but Hazel's curiosity burned. She lowered her knees, folding her legs and resting her elbows against her thighs. She rubbed her thumb against the opposite forefinger, hating the uneven topography of her skin caused by the pale scars. "Hey, Bast?" She finally asked, voice so, so quiet and unsure. "Why do you drink?" It was a child's question, but an honest one.
But Hazel didn't have faith in the divine. She didn't have faith in what she couldn't see. Hazel had faith in people, because she could touch them. They were real - they had a beating heart and pumping blood, proof that they could function on their own. She had faith in people because people had the intelligence to make their own decisions. They could change their entire life if they really wanted to. She'd witnessed it in her Mother, and so she would keep her faith in Bastille. It didn't always make sense and it was evident that he didn't share the same point of view, but it didn't matter. All it took was one motive.
Some days, Hazel thought that he might never find that motive. That Bastille would wallow in himself and his alcohol until his days were brought to an end. And it was days like those that her mind split two ways: either convince him of her faith and show him that he could be better, or let him fall flat on his face until he learned. Weeks ago, she had considered the latter every time she was faced with the option - but now? Now she was tethered to him. She was dragged through his hell right alongside him, step for step, hangover for hangover. She didn't have a choice to be passive anymore.
And she hated it.
Which was bound to bring trouble, because Hazel knew that she didn't hate him for it, just what he did. It hurt, what he put himself through, and she could feel that now, that emotional turbulence and restlessness jostling her alignment, wherever it may lie. She couldn't understand why he did it; why he kept going back instead of searching for an alternate solution, a safer way to get that numbness he craved so much. Hazel wished she had the answer for him. She wished she could cork it in a silver bottle and give it to him like a present, hype it up like she'd found the solution to the world, that it was his turning point to being a better person. But if she knew Bastille - and she did - then he didn't just turn on his heel. He didn't turn over a new leaf at the drop of a hat.
Restless, Hazel watched him from underneath a canopy of lashes, absently scrubbing the heel of her palm against the scars on the back of her left hand. His awkwardness was palpable without the bond, and she really wished he'd just sit down and stop fidgeting, because it was making her question her decision more and more, like he might be holding back something. Then he apologized. ...For yesterday.
Hazel swallowed hard aganst the back of her throat. She had absolutely no idea where the events of yesterday had unfolded from or why; all she knew was that she'd done something completely out of character and incredibly embarrassing. But that didn't change the phantom weight of his hand in hers, of the heat that radiated off him. It didn't change the fact that she could still feel the tickling whisper of the pad of his finger as he traced the scars on her hand, near reverent with his fascination. And it certainly didn't change the fact that she wanted him pressed against her again, surrounded by the warmth he had to offer, hungover or not.
"No, it's - " She started to say, fumbling over her words. "- fine, it's fine." It wasn't. "I'm sorry that I interrupted your conversation with Player, it was...rude of me." And it was rude, that was true. But it wasn't what she wanted to say. How did she apologize for pressing her fingers between his, forcing his attention on her because she was so convinced that he might leave the delicate thing they had between them for something easier? How did she apologize for craving his touch and his touch only because she wanted to hear his heartbeat again? That she wanted to feel needed, loved, before she shut herself away from the concept forever?
People didn't just say that. It felt like too much of a confession. And maybe there was a deeper message there, a deeper meaning. Something that demanded an explanation of the nickname lumen; something that dragged her heartbeat into a stutter and made her skin flush hot. Something that said I want to spend the rest of my life with you and your stupid self-destructive tendencies.
Hazel tugged on one of her loose curls as he spoke, rubbing the curl between her forefinger and thumb until it was frayed and broken with frizz. "You're the only person I read to," he said. "...I wasn't going to read anything to her." The words felt too honest to be coming from his lips. She almost asked him to repeat them, to make sure she heard correctly, but then felt his hesitation immediately after, and knew she had heard right. The realization was muddled though, clouded against the seeping warmth of satisfaction that tugged at the corners of her mouth, though she refused to smile. It washed over her like praise, dousing her insecurities for the time being. It sang in her veins, thrummbed in her chest. She hummed her response, eyes flicking back and forth to the piece of hair she was still fiddling with and his tired expression. She reveled in the feeling for a moment, wondering if this was what it was like to know that you were special.
She wondered if it meant something more to him.
"Are you...going to sit down, or are you going to flip the book around until you wear the leather away?" She mused, finally exasperated with his hesitation. At this point, she was beginning to question if she even wanted him to read, or if she wanted to use this moment to ask him something before he began to tiptoe around her for the next two weeks. Hazel drew her knees into her chest, pondering this. In the core of her heart, she wanted him to read to her until his voice was raspy and she'd fallen asleep against his shoulder. She wanted things to be easy and smooth between them, with no awkward fumbling and fear of broken glass.
And eventually, a question welled up in her throat, one she was sure he might have answered in the past but couldn't remember the answer to. And it would be a cruel thing to ask him, especially in his current state, but Hazel's curiosity burned. She lowered her knees, folding her legs and resting her elbows against her thighs. She rubbed her thumb against the opposite forefinger, hating the uneven topography of her skin caused by the pale scars. "Hey, Bast?" She finally asked, voice so, so quiet and unsure. "Why do you drink?" It was a child's question, but an honest one.
© MADI
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WITH EVERY HEARTBEAT I HAVE LEFT
i will defend your every breath; i'll do better