Inescapable.
The nights were longer and colder and heavier, now.
In the air would be the omnipresent truth of what went on at their hands while they wreaked havoc in Ishbal, and slowly, silently, it would choke their breaths, numb their mind, never allowing them to go to the blissful sleep their bodies so craved. But at the very least, they had one another, and the unspeakable bonds and loyalties for reasons above and beyond that of which they could put into words.
Yes, it blunted their fall at the end of the day when, subconsciously, their minds tallied the corpses they'd created, and bring into their minds and hearts the faces of the ones who'd pleaded at their hand for mercy. She would cringe, and he would cry, silently, because he knows.
She reaches across, hand stopping millimetres from his face, and he wonders whether it is that she is afraid to touch him, but knows it not so, as she brushes his hair out from his face, amber eyes wide and afraid and lonely, but always silently loving. Still, she offers him no words of comfort, and he supposes it's better that way, not sure if he could stand if she told him she loved him. Though he knows.
And it'd be easy, so, so easy, to lose themselves into one another. But she is too young, he convinces himself, and he has goals to fulfill, she tells herself. And they both tell themselves that it is not love they feel for the other.
Besides, they know better.
Still, in the particularly long and silent nights when they sit on the bed, back to back, her head resting on the back of his shoulder, and his tilting back to watch her, and frozen in the moment is the inescapable truth of what they could've - would have - been, had Ishbal not come around, he turns around, and wraps his arms around her. And sometimes, in the silvery sheen of the night, he'll tilt her head back, and she'll wrap her arms around his neck, and he'll hold her, quietly bringing his lips down to hers, his lips are chapped, and hers are cold and rough, but they'll barely notice.
He'll hold her, and she'll hold him, and in the caressing, forgiving light of the moon, they'll both admit to themselves that they do, in fact, love the other. He'll rest his chin on her head, golden strands looking silver in the light, and she'll brush his black locks appearing navy with a sheen in the purifying light of the moon they have so come to love.
Still the forgiving light doesn't last forever, and as the greedy and harsh rays of the sun creep over the edge of the horizon, she'll wrap her arms tighter around his chest, and he'll draw her closer to him, pleading the sun to leave. Inescapably, the last of the moon disappears, and as the accusing glare of the sun creeps closer to them, and finally, settles on their skin, he lets her go, and she pulls away, creeping back into the world of their fitful sleep that is and never was truly sleep.
The inescapable truth that they are murderers crawls back into their thoughts, and that they could never truly be one another's while the thoughts of the ones they've taken taints their mind, save for in the forgiving light of the moon.
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Yeh.. That didn't really go anywhere. Oh well.
Reviews are still loved and appreciated.
--bluerainangel.