Sherry Fraser
He waits forever for his old lover.
And always wondering,
Will I see stars falling all around your head,
When you return?
One could see a flickering light, if standing at the edge of town, squinting into the faded horizon. The fire continued on with a seething crackle, its flames hastily lapping at the surrounding air. A warm glow cast over two shaded frames, giving each an ethereal façade.
They lay on an open blanket, their exposed bodies laced together. A calming hush had decsended, passing between them a mutual understanding none but the two could comprehend. Sounds of a celebration from the neighboring town deluded through the breeze. They could've kept going, made it to the town just after nightfall, but no, here was as fine as any bed or cot.
The male of the duo let out a heavy sigh, still catching his breath, still trying to calm his racing heart. Brett lifted herself up off him, rumaging through her belongings for a cigarette. She brought the stick to her lips and, with a trembling hand, struck a match. Vash watched the ember ignite, then suffice to a dull glow, eyes trailing over her curves, surveying the contour of her person.
She didn't notice; short, ochre locks damp with sweat, her collarbone to the dip of her chest glistening in the fire's glow.
He watched the smoke curl, becoming wisped, beckoning fingers.
He wondered what thoughts plagued her, unwavering eyes boring into the flames. This hadn't been the first night they'd spent together, nor was it the first time they'd sat in silence. The past year had allowed him to accept the strange, emotional void that would consume her without warning. He supposed not many could tolerate her odd behavior, but alas, he could not bring himself to let her go. Admittedly, he loved her. And, admittedly, he hated what she'd become. He kept the latter to himself, however.
Pulling himself up and grabbing for his shirt, he placed the thin button-down over her shoulders. He knew she was just as conscience as he, if not more, about her own scars. He sighed. Well past a year and he still hadn't a clue how they'd come to be.
"Thank you," she mumbled, snuffing the cigarette into the sand.
He wanted to believe that she would become herself again. The old Brett, without any remorse or grief. The charismatic Brett that loved life, and that he'd loved. The Brett that Wolfwood had loved. But evenso, would their life return to normal? Would he see her as she was? Or would he still see this contusion?
Drawing near, he planted a light kiss atop her head, arms encircling her small frame. "You know I love you," he whispered, the warm breath tickling her ear.
She allowed her weary head to rest upon his collarbone. "Yeah," she breathed, "I know."
As soon as the words passed her lips, she knew it'd cut him. It was always her abrupt, unenthused comments that made her out to be a masochist. And she hated it. Why couldn't she cultivate the right words? Why had it become a chore to make another smile? The long deserted actions of her past seemed an implausible feat at this point.