05-07-2018, 08:14 PM
★ WHEN MY HEART IS MADE FROM GOLD AND FORGIVENESS SEEMS TOO BOLD
At his lopsided smirk of amusement, Hazel’s grin only grew a bit wider, peaking the corners of her eyes with sincerity. She was sure it was the first time she’d seen him smile, and it was something of a comfort to know that she wasn’t so much a burden here. She was capable of amusing a brooding boy, and that was plenty enough for her.
His sarcasm went unacknowledged with the exception of a deepening twinkle in her eyes and the subtle shift of giddy-ness to a small roll of her eyes in her expression. When he stood from the door frame, she took notice of his own chilling gaze sweeping across her room. Suddenly just the slightest bit anxious that he might judge her for how little she had accomplished over the course of the day, Hazel’s playful expression faltered, and her chest rose with a breath that she might have used to defend herself had he not taken it upon himself to lead the way out the door.
She followed him with her thumbs hooked in the straps of her overalls, eyes wide and wandering as she studied the blandly colored observatory. Goosebumps crawled up her legs from the heat transfer occurring between the bottom of her bare feet and the floor. Quickly, she found that the observatory was indeed like living in a basement: gray walls with gray floors and gray railings; old clutter stuffed in corners and papers with scribbled nonsense that were probably older than Hazel herself. Absently, she wondered if Starry would let her paint a mural along some of the walls - maybe even use some glow in the dark paint to paint constellations on the floor. Then they would be like night lights, and -
Oh, they were here. Hazel waited, falling back into a state of hesitation until he gestured for her to enter. Surprise frosted her expression, as she had only just met this boy - and yet, here he was, inviting her into his room. There was a strangeness to steppng into someone elses’s personal space; like she didn’t belong here, or she was intruding. Mostly, it felt invasive and rude, and she was about to turn around and wait outside the door when suddenly - books.
Hazel froze in a fascinated, transfixed sort of way, because this boy who seemed so angry and brooding all the time kept books. Real books that she could touch and open and feel and that told stories of far off places and mankind’s history. Deus, what she would give to have a personal library like this.
“You have books,” Hazel stated, her voice dreamy and full of wonderlust.
Mother never let her keep books. She said they were a reward when Hazel was supposed to serve a punishment. Many times, she had snuck out at night to find the old library, where she would read ancient Latin until the early hours of the morning and someone found her, curled up in a pile of poems and novels. In fact, that was part of the reason Mother started locking Hazel’s door in the first place.
Her eyes snagged on a particular spine, it’s gold lettering seeming to rattle and glow in the leather until she noticed it. It was Latin, she knew that much (Latin was the only thing she could read), and wanted so deseparately to touch it. But Bastille’s voice startled her out of whatever fixation she held, making her shoulders jump.
Ear tips burning with embarrassment, Hazel nodded. “I’m ready whenever you are.” She managed, taking a step towards the door with only a slightly forlorn look at the books.
His sarcasm went unacknowledged with the exception of a deepening twinkle in her eyes and the subtle shift of giddy-ness to a small roll of her eyes in her expression. When he stood from the door frame, she took notice of his own chilling gaze sweeping across her room. Suddenly just the slightest bit anxious that he might judge her for how little she had accomplished over the course of the day, Hazel’s playful expression faltered, and her chest rose with a breath that she might have used to defend herself had he not taken it upon himself to lead the way out the door.
She followed him with her thumbs hooked in the straps of her overalls, eyes wide and wandering as she studied the blandly colored observatory. Goosebumps crawled up her legs from the heat transfer occurring between the bottom of her bare feet and the floor. Quickly, she found that the observatory was indeed like living in a basement: gray walls with gray floors and gray railings; old clutter stuffed in corners and papers with scribbled nonsense that were probably older than Hazel herself. Absently, she wondered if Starry would let her paint a mural along some of the walls - maybe even use some glow in the dark paint to paint constellations on the floor. Then they would be like night lights, and -
Oh, they were here. Hazel waited, falling back into a state of hesitation until he gestured for her to enter. Surprise frosted her expression, as she had only just met this boy - and yet, here he was, inviting her into his room. There was a strangeness to steppng into someone elses’s personal space; like she didn’t belong here, or she was intruding. Mostly, it felt invasive and rude, and she was about to turn around and wait outside the door when suddenly - books.
Hazel froze in a fascinated, transfixed sort of way, because this boy who seemed so angry and brooding all the time kept books. Real books that she could touch and open and feel and that told stories of far off places and mankind’s history. Deus, what she would give to have a personal library like this.
“You have books,” Hazel stated, her voice dreamy and full of wonderlust.
Mother never let her keep books. She said they were a reward when Hazel was supposed to serve a punishment. Many times, she had snuck out at night to find the old library, where she would read ancient Latin until the early hours of the morning and someone found her, curled up in a pile of poems and novels. In fact, that was part of the reason Mother started locking Hazel’s door in the first place.
Her eyes snagged on a particular spine, it’s gold lettering seeming to rattle and glow in the leather until she noticed it. It was Latin, she knew that much (Latin was the only thing she could read), and wanted so deseparately to touch it. But Bastille’s voice startled her out of whatever fixation she held, making her shoulders jump.
Ear tips burning with embarrassment, Hazel nodded. “I’m ready whenever you are.” She managed, taking a step towards the door with only a slightly forlorn look at the books.
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WITH EVERY HEARTBEAT I HAVE LEFT
i will defend your every breath; i'll do better