@emorystarling
location: flora & micah’s cabin in the woods of lycanville
notes: cute and domestic as promised
It was early when Micah stirred, the disquiet in his heart unnerving. The mornings were the worst part, it was in the twilight between dreaming and waking that anything was possible and yet nothing was true. He’d wake and the world would come back to him in pieces. The soft bed where he lay put him comfortably in his own home, the smell of pine a reminder that he was a country boy again. Emory’s wet dream. Micah smiled at this. Emory. The faiman’s arm passed over the space behind him before he realised the bed was cooler than it ought to be, empty beside him and it was then that Micah understood he’d woken up alone after falling asleep with the witch’s face pressed against his chest.
I like listening to your heartbeat, Emory had whispered. I like that you like listening to my heartbeat, had come Micah’s reply, a breathy chuckle close behind it.
The same heart that was somehow full and broken all at once as the reality of dawn and the memory of nightfall invoked the agony that Emma was gone. Memory was cruel like that. It was there when you never wanted it to be, it gave a moment of reprieve just to wait long enough to suck the air from your lungs all over again. Where once Micah was content to lay in bed all morning he couldn’t anymore, he got anxious when he wasn’t busy, chopping wood, fixing up the cabin, busying his thoughts with Emma’s affairs at Mutat Domun. Anything was easier than sitting with himself. Anything was better than being alone.
The blonde’s arms wrapped around the other’s midsection as he pressed his lips tenderly between Emory’s shoulder blades. He’d found the witch making himself useful, though it hardly excused leaving Micah behind in his bed alone. “Is this really what you left me for?” The faiman breathed as his fingers ran up and down the other’s abdomen affectionately, Micah had been waking up alone for the last thirty years, as it turned out he hated it. He hated the feeling of emptiness beside him, especially now. Emma used to lay her head on a pillow and he’d open his eyes in the same position, the bed would adjust to the different shape and he’d slot himself into the life that she’d left for him from the night.
What was left now was the thing he’d wanted without knowing it, without being able to admit it. Maybe it was selfish to cling to the witch now when he knew that Emory was at least as broken-hearted as him, he’d known her better, even if Micah had known her longer.
