The luggage of hot blooded impulses is something far from unbeknownst to her own persona; such obstinacy circulates in her nerves, dangling within a temper as thin as a foil of thin ice in the rays of premature spring and, most of all, a constant marathon where the singular and primal competitor is herself, even that one, a race she’d hate to lose. Roughly summarized —- she loathes the concept of losing and she’d rather keep the tenuous possibility in the obscurity it deserves. Yes, regardless of how truly ridiculous the situation is.
She acquaints the rather dim force in his retorts & associates it with a nonofficial victory in the back of her head, which settles among petal textured lips a lofty crane, never once contrasting with the innocently knave sheen of seafoam irises that have yet to depart from the frame lined underneath the weight of her boots.
It’s honey coiled, the lull which snows among the raw setting surrounding them, and for a fragment of time, she allows the brilliant viridian to part ways with the strings of gold edging his jawline and mold onto the writing of her book. So attentive is she, that she pays no mind to the speech he eventually trips himself through———— AT FIRST.
The nirvana of silence has been reached, inducing an alleged paralysis through fingers that have stiffened their grip on the pages she’s clipped between & aiding the untrained eye to detect a change from her initial posture only through the clue of the scarlet rain splashing against otherwise ivory skinned cheeks.
And then, voila ——- finally, a CHANGE. Digits begin to quake against the cover, a restrained half hiss, half snort warbling through her teeth. Like a plague, the tremor infects her torso, her shoulders, her whole being agitated by faint spasms in her bones. Once eyes that were to be seen become the treasured secret cloaked by the book which she ascends towards her forehead; hopefully, it would do any good in providing a lid for the sounds emitted beneath the pages.
In less than eloquent terms … she is laughing her ass off.
A forked tongue was always something to admire, he thought. An unseen weapon crafted from the foundation of one's mind & fury, contriving phrases into the sharpest knives that could slice clean through someone's heart & pride. A wordsmith was to be respected, not simply forgotten or thinking that they could achieve nothing. 'Talk is cheap'--It was a ridiculous expression then and it certainly was to this day. Words were the oddity that helped him to where he stood now, despite the fact that the foundation was comprised of the shadows of war & blood. If anything, he had gained more losses than victories, always struggling to reach for what was rightfully his. Always soaring towards a sun that seemed forever out of reach.
It was entirely possible that this was simply who he was meant to be--the underdog. The one who was destined to fight through thickest steel & highest tides to acquire what his body yearned for most of all. And he never minded working so hard, not at all. Even before all this, working & learning was treated with care--as if they were the keys to unlocking the world he knew nothing about. The struggle wasn't what bothered him. He was built to work, his mind finessed into a powerhouse of a realm that could surpass the fourteen year old genius that he had been all those years ago. No, none of that was so detrimental to him--if anything, he adored every aspect of it.
It was dragging others along with him that caused him so much grief.
Looking back on it all, he had pulled so many down with him into any abyss that he descended into for the sake of his dreams. Not willingly--not even knowingly.
The last thing he wanted to do was pull her down into such a depressing crowd.
"The--Th'hell are you laughing at?!"
A fraction of a second spent in questioning who's broken voice just bellowed forth before he arrived at the crumbling realization that it was his. A quavering intonation that had evidently buckled neath' the weight of his own flustered state, cheeks suddenly ablaze with more warmth than he would care to admit--even to himself. There was a mighty attempt in appearing assertive or furious, but all he could muster was furrowed brows and an anxious grin. "Cut it out! Dammit, it wasn't even that funny!" But her mirthful mantra continued onward, unimpeded by his mild frustration as her shoulders & torso bounced in unison.
His mind was ensnared within a haze of bewilderment, resulting in the hideous error that the next sentence happened to be. It was only loud enough so that it might get through her ears, lest he wanted this thoughtless declaration to go ignored or unheard.
"--I'M NOT SLEEPING WITH YOU IF YOU KEEP LAUGHING YOUR ASS OFF!"
