He presses her back against the wall in the shadows, desperate grip tangling in her ridiculous hair. And it's not love, but she tastes solid and warm, like the earth beneath his feet. And she grasps his neck and drags him closer, pulling herself up toward him. And it's not affectionate, but he's the sky and he sends her spinning out of precious control.
"I'm not your knight in shining armor," he whispers against her skin, darkness clinging to him, sliding along the panes of his face.
"And I'm not your angel." Strangely enough, amidst the stone and the cover of night, she's as dim and obscure as he is. There's a comfort in that, something shared, and he leans forward and captures her lips once more, dragging dirty fingers across the lines, blurring and smudging haphazardly.
X
She is light, caught up in a world of whimsical color, right and wrong, good and evil. Her ideals drive him so crazy some days he would rather rip his own hair out then listen to the newest notion in her head. But when she laughs at times he feels that those stupid principles have preserved something innocent and beautiful.
He is chained to a world of tradition and heritage, bound by duty and honor and loyalty. His are the shades of grey, the twisting and deceptive mists and darkness. There is a graveness about him that frightens her sometimes, but within that is a sense of security that so many other boys cannot offer. He is her darkness.
X
The sky is grey as she stands on a lonely hillside, clutching a crimson rose in her hand. It's one of those days. Where the blood pulsing beneath her veins betrays them, complicates things. Her grip tightens, a thorn pricks, but she feels it so little.
A single petal falls to the ground, dark and foreboding against the grass. Her heart breaks, but she doesn't cry. Not for him.
He loves me not…
It starts to rain.
X
The brandy burns down his throat, and he slams the shot glass back onto the table. It burns like her voice in his head, like a million angry retorts, like the bite of cinnamon on her breath. And the alcohol blurs through the barriers, just like she does.
He was a liar.
She knows that, and he knows that she knows. Always double checking him, questioning him, doubting him. When he whispers silken words into her ear she turns away, knowing he's just playing with her. But when he yells and storms and jeers she takes it in as truth.
Maybe that's what she wants to believe.
X
Her stomach wrenches as his hand slides around her waist to the small of her back, pressing her close. But her arms are already looping over his shoulders. And he's so blissfully unreal to her—just skin and touch and feeling. No emotions, no snarling complications.
There's a fire blazing through their veins, a restlessness that these mundane walls and daily monotony can't sate. They murmur silent dreams of escape against each other's lips, forgetting the slow and steady ache of life and war within the flood of sensation. It's easier. It's fake.
The danger is poison to them, addicting. The threats of war that hang overhead like a scythe waiting to sweep down are endless, with no outlet. They hang, suspended, dragging out too long. Each day is filled with tension, not sharp but deliberate and taunting. But in this meeting there is something real, a hazard that roars in their ears, pounds in their hearts, quickens their breaths.
And they seize desperately the taste of something tangible.
X
They were lines. Everything about their worlds were definitions and boundaries and rules and lines. Cutting them off and trapping them like steel cables. A million cords laced around them, suffocating, confining.
Blood, class, appearance, wealth, and belief.
Beneath their conviction and passion lay a maddening desperation they didn't quite understand. They both consisted so entirely of these things, these restrictions and constraints, that it was such a enthralling relief to feel something beyond them. To feel that they were merely human, merely touch and flame and skin.
For days when they hate themselves as much as they hate each other.
X
She stares bitterly into the fireplace, alone in the late hour and the stillness. The heat seeps through her as she huddles on the carpet, chin perched on one knee, grasping her elbows. She can't sleep again and it's his fault. Too many thoughts are swirling through her head, and she wants to believe that things aren't as complicated as she's making them.
It's probably be best if she ended it. The whole matter is stupid and reckless and pointless anyways. She hates him, hates the darkness and the secrecy and the whispers, hates the tingle down her spine and the way her skin prickles in anticipation.
He's no prince charming and she certainly isn't a damsel in distress.
It's a drug, a heady rush, but it leaves her so numb and empty inside. Because though she forgets herself in those moments, she is still herself after them, and she feels dirty and broken and foolish. While the other girls giggle over chocolate and letters she turns away with thoughts of sharp release, like the stab of a needle into flesh and the blessedly numbing tempest of sensation.
She hates that his darkness is her freedom. And she stares into the fire, and the doubt gnaws at her. She shivers despite the heat, tears prickling in her eyes. She imagines a hand creeping up her side, a warm breath against her neck, a touch to ease the confusion and pain.
I am half sick of shadows…