Post by Kit on Apr 13, 2010 23:56:55 GMT 10
Title: Ash
Rating: PG-13
Length:644
Prompt: 31 days: 6: Perhaps it's because it's not sad enough
Summary: Losing yourself in yourself can hurt, and not just the way you think.
Kisses. Sweetness.
Breath-to-breathless, their hands clasped and the slickness of polished brass mixing with skin against her skin, so the world was both far away and trapped behind her eyelids. Laughter and lips parting from her own so she could voice the old-new shock.
“Why me?”
Hoarse and strained, smiling as she sat and shook herself, and reached for her. A hand, slow and experienced over Daja’s breast, her side, her hip.
“You, I understand.” She had kissed the brass palm, amazed she could taste more of herself than metal. She had shuddered. “But you keep doing this. With me…Daja?”
The withdrawal had been subtle, and absolute. Too many wrong words at once.
***
“You’re angry.”
Strange, how obvious words slip out at the worst moments. These met tense shoulders and hands clenched in the sheets. A wall made from her back.
“Daja.”
The wall breathed. “I should nor be angry.”
Polyam closed her eyes. “But you are, so I don’t think you should just—”
“Now you talk like this?”
She turned, and Polyam saw a pinched look. A tired look. The faintest of cracks in this voice she had not heard raised since a she had channelled a forest fire. This was much more painful. “Talk like what?” She reached out to touch Daja’s shoulder. Reached to feel if it was still flesh she would meet with her hands, and not some cracked, taut thing. Daja moved away.
“Talk sensibly,” she said. “I should not be angry, but I am, so I should let myself feel it and be done. That is sensible.” Her voice did not rise again, but every emphasis brought out a crack, a weight. They could feel the tension in each other’s skin, and were maps and years away. “You do not believe I am in my right mind, touching you. You make yourself small. You are your—”
“—Daja.” Tradertalk, now, but no refuge there. “You don’t—”
“I don’t, what? Understand?” Daja sat up. “I am not good with this, but let me talk.” They both breathed.
“No,” Daja said. “I do not understand. Not this. I tell you. I show you what I want, and you—”
She was not good. This was babble. Words tumbling over words with too much care and too little phrasing, hot and fast and catching them both. She was glorious, naked. She did not bother holding up the sheet.
“I’ll never understand!”
The tears, Polyam thought later, surprised both of them. Then, they scalded her face, pooling in dented places, and stung salt in her nose and mouth.
Daja, seeing them, reached out to touch Polyam’s face. “You don’t,” Daja said. “I know, love.” Soft, now. A low, warm thread around both of them, that strangled all the same. “And yet, every time you laugh at me for my choice, half serious, and every time—”
“—No, it’s not the way you—”
“—you think I deserve better.” The words were thick with scorn, even as her fingertips were soft and light. “You think not only that, but that I know I deserve better, and am loving you—what? Despite? And these thoughts do not only eat you. They make me…”
Daja swallowed, squaring her shoulders. “You don’t trust me,” she said. “And that is beginning to make me small.”
Polyam stared, sitting herself. “But, lugsha.” Love in the word, for the craftswoman who had made so much of her. “That…” she shook her head, swallowed her fear, her distaste. “That,” she said, “Is all me. I can’t help but feel—”
“—I know.” Daja sighed, withdrawing her hand. “And yet I also feel. Messily, and adult, and absolutely. “ A small laugh. “And I have finally worked out, like my saati, that I cannot make you see your own worth through striving. Not without you.”
Rating: PG-13
Length:644
Prompt: 31 days: 6: Perhaps it's because it's not sad enough
Summary: Losing yourself in yourself can hurt, and not just the way you think.
Kisses. Sweetness.
Breath-to-breathless, their hands clasped and the slickness of polished brass mixing with skin against her skin, so the world was both far away and trapped behind her eyelids. Laughter and lips parting from her own so she could voice the old-new shock.
“Why me?”
Hoarse and strained, smiling as she sat and shook herself, and reached for her. A hand, slow and experienced over Daja’s breast, her side, her hip.
“You, I understand.” She had kissed the brass palm, amazed she could taste more of herself than metal. She had shuddered. “But you keep doing this. With me…Daja?”
The withdrawal had been subtle, and absolute. Too many wrong words at once.
***
“You’re angry.”
Strange, how obvious words slip out at the worst moments. These met tense shoulders and hands clenched in the sheets. A wall made from her back.
“Daja.”
The wall breathed. “I should nor be angry.”
Polyam closed her eyes. “But you are, so I don’t think you should just—”
“Now you talk like this?”
She turned, and Polyam saw a pinched look. A tired look. The faintest of cracks in this voice she had not heard raised since a she had channelled a forest fire. This was much more painful. “Talk like what?” She reached out to touch Daja’s shoulder. Reached to feel if it was still flesh she would meet with her hands, and not some cracked, taut thing. Daja moved away.
“Talk sensibly,” she said. “I should not be angry, but I am, so I should let myself feel it and be done. That is sensible.” Her voice did not rise again, but every emphasis brought out a crack, a weight. They could feel the tension in each other’s skin, and were maps and years away. “You do not believe I am in my right mind, touching you. You make yourself small. You are your—”
“—Daja.” Tradertalk, now, but no refuge there. “You don’t—”
“I don’t, what? Understand?” Daja sat up. “I am not good with this, but let me talk.” They both breathed.
“No,” Daja said. “I do not understand. Not this. I tell you. I show you what I want, and you—”
She was not good. This was babble. Words tumbling over words with too much care and too little phrasing, hot and fast and catching them both. She was glorious, naked. She did not bother holding up the sheet.
“I’ll never understand!”
The tears, Polyam thought later, surprised both of them. Then, they scalded her face, pooling in dented places, and stung salt in her nose and mouth.
Daja, seeing them, reached out to touch Polyam’s face. “You don’t,” Daja said. “I know, love.” Soft, now. A low, warm thread around both of them, that strangled all the same. “And yet, every time you laugh at me for my choice, half serious, and every time—”
“—No, it’s not the way you—”
“—you think I deserve better.” The words were thick with scorn, even as her fingertips were soft and light. “You think not only that, but that I know I deserve better, and am loving you—what? Despite? And these thoughts do not only eat you. They make me…”
Daja swallowed, squaring her shoulders. “You don’t trust me,” she said. “And that is beginning to make me small.”
Polyam stared, sitting herself. “But, lugsha.” Love in the word, for the craftswoman who had made so much of her. “That…” she shook her head, swallowed her fear, her distaste. “That,” she said, “Is all me. I can’t help but feel—”
“—I know.” Daja sighed, withdrawing her hand. “And yet I also feel. Messily, and adult, and absolutely. “ A small laugh. “And I have finally worked out, like my saati, that I cannot make you see your own worth through striving. Not without you.”