I can't explain why but velkleya + 81 is calling to me
81. Feeling For Them in the Dark
Vel doesn’t sleep easy here.
She hasn’t since she was young, since a budding realization that she didn’t quite fit in the place she was meant to call home prickled at the edges of her consciousness. Mon had described her as an anxious child, once— years removed from their youth, with a retrospective bitterness that tells Vel she hadn’t always been that way, that Mon remembers her light and carefree.
Chandrila wears at her, chafes even in her subconscious.
When she wakes it’s with a start and a blind grasp for Kleya in the dark, the sound of waves upon the shore and sheets cool to the touch where Kleya normally keeps them warm. She rolls over, squinting in the low light— the cabin is small, humble, all one room.
Vel takes a deep breath, salt air and sun-dew, and leverages herself upright. Her knee protests, stiff from too many old injuries for Vel to keep count, but she shakes it out as best she can and picks a shirt — hers or Kleya’s, she’s unsure in the dark — up off the floor to tug over her head.
It’s easy to find where Kleya has gone— never very far, just to the edge of the dunes, where the rolling sand starts to level out to meet the tides. Silhouetted in moonlight off the Silver Sea, Vel thinks she looks like something out of a storybook, loose hair forming a wavy halo.
The warm sand is quiet under Vel’s feet, but Kleya seems to sense her anyway.
She reaches out, eyes still on the horizon.
Vel takes her hand, then steps closer, an arm around Kleya’s waist and her chin tucked over her shoulder, following her gaze. There’s a fishing vessel on the horizon, casting shadows on the water, lights blinking in and out existence with the waves.
They’re both quiet for a moment, watching. It’s Kleya that speaks first.
Vel shrugs, her whole body tense with the answer; Kleya’s fingers dance along her forearm, a soothing, gentle touch that Vel is sometimes still surprised by.
Quiet nights remind Kleya of home, Vel knows— one long forgotten, buried, no longer a comfort. Kleya never seems to sleep soundly, years spent listening to the fractal, waiting for the end of the line to come ringing, robbing her of that peace.
Vel breathes deep, soothing herself— the ocean and Kleya, honeyblossom and the light tang of sex. Kleya leans back into her, humming something to herself that Vel can’t quite make out over the sound of the waves.
Kleya twists, slipping out of Vel’s grasp, studying her in the moonlight; Vel doesn’t flinch when she reaches out, gentle fingers over her brow, against her temple, tucking a wild strand of hair back behind her ear. Lips ghost against Vel’s cheek and she breathes deep.
Tomorrow, they’re due back in Hanna.
Tonight, Vel follows as Kleya picks her way back through the dunes, never taking the path of least resistance. She pauses in the corner of the cabin meant to be a kitchen, downs cool water from the tap like she’s dying of thirst, and watches Kleya strip back out of her nightgown before disappearing under the sheets. Vel turns on the antique radio sat in the windowsill, skims the frequencies until she finds static, and lets it fill the room with a soft, steady hum.
Sleep comes easier this time.
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areudirty
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