Would she even understand?; he asks.
Unlikely. Even if Manya were to show her his collection, she most likely would not. Not until he made her add to it, but no, not herself. Perhaps she would understand only if he showed her how to be the false light, the predator rather than the prey. But then… Would she still look at him with that soft love, that admiration in her blue eyes? Would she still crave his nearness? His possessives? Would she be able to forget, (to forgive), to omit, to pretend it never happened?
As much as Nunnally sees herself as part of the night, of death, of shadows, she has not crossed the line. She is still life, no matter how fiercely she denies it. Yes, she may be hurt, deeply, but not deeply enough to abandon life entirely, to let those blue eyes lose their glow and fade into something dull, lifeless. Only then would she understand? Perhaps. But perhaps she would choose something else.
For now, she is a moth; a night-born butterfly. Pale. Soft. Drawn to light, even when it burns. Feared by some, misunderstood by many, mistaken for omen, for decay, for a herald of ruin… For now, Nunnally’s still a butterfly. His butterfly. Trembling as she waits for him to do something; or rather, to say something. To confirm that they are so similar, even if vastly unalike.
She waits, and her patience is rewarded. Manya draws her back into his own personal space; into him. His eyes are on her; oh, how she revels in his attention!
“Life is warm.”; he says. And her body relaxes; Nunnally is comfortable again. She now knows he is teasing, as he always does, but his feelings for her are, as always, tender. She is colder than most, something she was born with, but when his fingers brush her cheek, he feels even colder than she is. Has she noticed this before, or is it only an illusion of this moment? Oh, how he makes her shiver when he lightly touches her lip. Can he feel that, too?
“Life’s chatty.”; he says. But now she is quiet, quietly enjoying his touch. She knows he speaks of her. Life is chatty. Life is vibrant. She wants to be vibrant for him. She wants him to see her as beautiful; full of life for him. He smiles, and she smiles back, hopeful, awaiting his next words, the confirmation of that undefined union.
Life and Death. She doesn’t understand the danger of their collision. Or perhaps she welcomes it.
“Life prefers floral scents.”; he says, and she laughs. Light and fragile, a flicker of brightness in the dark.
“I was hoping you might enjoy this scent.” – Nunnally replies; life chatting as it always does – “But… haven’t I put on too much?” – a sudden fear grips her; fear of being too much, too bright, too alive for him.
“Your finger on my lips…” – the memory haunts her now. That cold touch. That quiet claim. She needs it again: the softness, the brutality hidden beneath it. Everyone has always treated her like glass; except him. Manya sets his hands on her differently, without fear of breaking her. And she does not understand why. But difference is enough.
“Your finger on my lip…” – she repeats. – “Was it accident or intention?” – she holds her breath, even though he has told her to breathe.
“I like it there.” – life says – “But I’d prefer your lips.” – life gambles. Life dares. Of course she will lose. But she wants him to know. A gift; though she assumes he already knows.
