Poet. Philosopher. She had always seen him that way. A man hungry to learn. A man with a poet’s heart. Love in him he expressed better and more beautifully without constricting himself to its simplest terms. I love you. She whispered, and in return he crafted beauty as he tried to pour his heart out for her to see. If the offering is my heart, you have it, he told her in reply. He brushed his fingers into her hair, and whispered her the names of gods. Of saints. Of immortals. He held her in his arms and helped her to dream of a future.
It wasn’t a new way she was seeing him, she’d long since seen him in this light. A softer, rosier light than most, it might be. It wasn’t as if she wasn’t aware of how dangerous he as. She knew. She’d seen it. He was an almost unmatched martial artist, and a steady, deadly shot. She had known that about him since they met. You didn’t rise high in the syndicate, you didn’t become a prince ready to be crowned without being good at killing. Mao, even her father, both men had been capable of spectacular violence. She had known from before the moment she pivoted around, the moment her eyes had touched his face, he was dangerous.
It had taken her a little longer, to know he was brilliant. A little longer to know he had a lover’s heart, hands, lips. Not so long as other though, if they ever got to see it at all. He had showed her these parts of himself, as they had gotten to know one another. She saw him clearly, the romantic, he’d put Keats to shame.
“I wouldn’t worry too much about being a starving artist, honey,” she said, a grin curling her lips as she leaned in and stole a kiss. A thief in the night. “Apparently you never make any money bounty hunting, so sounds like starving artist wouldn’t be a big change in salary,” she teased. “And besides,” she said, settling her head back against his uninjured shoulder, “You shouldn’t write poetry for money, you should write it because you have something say.” Money could be made off of art, and art could be made for a profit, but the primary reason for it should always be that there was something inside that needed to be expressed.
Mundane little task, grocery shopping. An errand, plenty didn’t want to take up at the end of their day. She offered it out to him. Go with her, or he could go ahead without her. A choice, always. She didn’t want to control him, didn’t want to tell him where to go or what to do. It was his time; he could choose how to spend it. But she hoped he wanted to spend it with her. It mattered more to her though, that he chose to spend time with her, rather than being drug along some unwilling participant. The want to be there. The want to be there with her, that was what mattered to her.
Not like there’ll be anything better to do.
Her blue-dark eyes shifted up wards towards his face, towards that sloping smile of his. It seemed it didn’t matter how often she saw that easy grin, it always caused the same reaction for her. She wondered if it would ever change. She hoped it didn’t. She wanted her heart to skip a beat. She wanted her blood to warm. She wanted it every time he smiled at her. “Glad I rank above being bored anywhere else,” she joked. “We’ll shop, then go back to the ship. Don’t let me forget about your shoulder,” she murmured. She doubted she would forget, if it was on her mind even now.
Her blue-dark eyes closed, her breathing soft and even as she fell asleep. When she woke the sun was coming in through the gauzy white curtains. She woke curled into him. She stayed like that a moment, listening to the strong and steady beat of his heart. Her eyes opened, and sunlight filled the room. White and blue. Sunshine and sea salt. It may be artificial sunlight, but he looked beautiful in it all the same. Reaching up she brushed her fingers against his jaw, his cheek, his nose. Even if pressed, Julia was not sure she could name a more beautiful person in the galaxy than him.
HE STIRS, BARELY making words spin in his tongue a little. The sentence is stolen by her lips, she takes a delight in that, lets that bleed into his own lips – and he’s left bringing his thoughts back in. Waits for them to burn, and drop into his mouth and melt to form words again. The grin’s made into something like a thin line, balancing between amusement and mock scepticism.
They haven’t told her why they don’t earn enough money. Why he doesn’t. Hungry, could be on the brink of starving, still picky, choosy, spoiled. Won’t be long before she sees that – and he doesn’t intend to hide that. Shrugs without a reply, his eyes seeking out hers. Gives into a steady humor-induced line on his face, she’s never failed in drawing that out of him. Never failed in drawing them over his face.
“And you expect me to sit and write?”
Not any different from any writer – but it isn’t as safe, writing isn’t as risky. You sell your life, you sell your heart, your soul. Publish something, there’s a price tag on it. Most cases anyway. Everything somewhere with a price labelled across the cover. And your heart, bleeding.
...won’t pick that. Not even ‘part time’. Better off saying something, whispering them to her.She’ll remember, she’ll fill her skin with it. Knows she does that.
He knows he does that with what she tells him. No care for what it is about – some task to be done, something made to be forgotten (he doesn’t forget) – a bill for some purchase, some drink.
Makes to reply, and he falls quiet. Can just make out her face – night-cut, silver under gold, azure taken in by copper. Tomorrow, then – when words are spilling from them, a pomegranate cut open, red spilling, falling into ceramic.
Lets himself lean further in, gaze fixing on the ceiling searching his thoughts. There’s something sharp under his tongue, and he tries to push the thought away, bury it down his throat. A tooth missing, a tooth misplaced, a tooth – teeth sinking into flesh.
It has to happen, eventually. Hypnos dragging your bones down, down, down a whirlpool rinsing your bones, prying off consciousness, being awake from under skin. He stops, hand settling to hold her shoulder instead, lean in, he knows how they’ll be a mess of thread, warmth, skin entwined when they wake up.
Takes him longer, it’s uneasy – always is, blame a decade’s worth of being reminded that security didn’t equate with safety. But it’s there, an isle he can call sleep. An isle beating, beating under her ribs. Devouring dark in ways she can conjure without even thinking, without waking. Tomorrow’s still there, there’s a vague itch for nicotine in the inside of his lungs, she’s breathing, breathing, breathing. Tequila dark, it’s cool. Not burning.
And it is burning now, night’s architecture, a rhythm of sleep in blood beginning to fade, and he doesn’t - doesn’t let himself wake yet. Not ready to unbind her from him yet. There’s always another night, another morning, he’s aware of as much. Harder to recollect right away when his first instinct is to hold on.
Lets himself stay in the white-wine daze, only awake, only a little sleep drunk, only a little drunk on her warmth. Sleep came in, snuffed out candles of thoughts, left a few burning. The rest are alight, and the state of the next day’s bleeding into eyes squeezed shut.
Draws further in, draws her further in at her touch – doesn’t matter how heavy the static of sleep is, he’s always recognized the way her fingers define morning-drenched features. They’ve had their fill of nights, double-shots, could do with some vodka, absinthe, daylight. Fingers in her hair, he shifts to bury his face in her neck. Still muffled, barely a twinge in his lips.
Dim wonder if he had woken up a few times or something – there’s still a trace of exhaustion to his thoughts. Wonders if he had woken her up.
Morning, its white wine – sharp, milk, honey, spilling over skin. Could almost the taste the way it might look. Warm, sticky, the way that light seems to stick some form of dread, some form of hope to your skin. And he’ll guess that it’s fairly late.
“Nope.” Hoarse, not much above a mumble. His arm dips a little further down – loose, not entirely a firm grip. She can get up if she wants. “Before you ask -” ( a pause, a pause to yawn ) “ - just a little longer.”
