(Act 1 sc. i)
He forces himself not to listen. The words tumble from her mouth slowly, calmly, rolling off her tongue and searing into his brain. He hates those words, the words that elude and confuse him (because he's not supposed to understand). He swallows hard, fingers curling into his palm, the pain a welcomed distraction (something that he needs because he doesn't want to know).
She touches his arm (another distraction), but he moves away. Hurt reflects in her eyes; pain is the only thing he can give. She seems to not understand this for she makes another attempt to get close –too close –and he's afraid. Intimacy is a commodity that he shouldn't experience.
He's already lost to the pain, pain that flows through his veins (the moment her cold, dead lips touched his), and he doesn't want to remember anymore. He wants to forget the feeling of warmth and the emptiness it leaves when it's gone.
I'm just tired, of all this. The excuse is lame to his ears. I have nothing else to give you, so don't expect anything of me. His words are blunt, hurtful and she recoils from them (from him) and he finds satisfaction in it.
She needs to understand that he can't, that he won't, go through this again. And he hates himself, hates himself for being like this, but he can't change the way he feels.
He won't fall for the pain again.
(Act 1 sc. ii)
He likes to think that he's a good person. He did this for her own benefit, to protect her from the unbearable hurt that the human heart gives. He isn't bad, just looking out for her well being. Then he realizes that he's actually a selfish one. He's protecting himself, and he doesn't care how this makes her feel.
Things haven't changed. They argue, they laugh, they cry, they enjoy each other's company. Somethings have. The silence, the looks and the touches are lingering but missing something (the familiarity and the comfort now replaced by the coldness of rejection). They're not friends, they're not lovers, they're something in between.
He catches her staring at him, the look of someone lost and lonely –a look he sees everyday in his reflection. He can sense her hope that he will change; that he will break and everything will work out in the end. She's naïve if she thinks it will.
You're staring. He wants her to stop. Quit it.
Her cheeks flush red –sorry –and she's embarrassed for being caught.
Sometimes he wonders what it would be like to just give in, maybe things would be different. (The heart wants what it wants; his hasn't made up its mind yet). But then he remembers he's afraid of falling, and he rather likes it with his feet planted firmly to the ground.
I can wait you know. There's a determined look in her eyes, a fire that burns and he know she means it. She'll wait forever for him, but he's not interested in forever (it's too long, and he was never a patient person).
He says nothing; hands picking at the grass in a quiet plead to drop the subject. She doesn't take the hint, moving in to sit in front of him –say something –hand on his thigh.
Looking up, he looks at her –really looks at her –and finds it harder to breathe. Anything I have to say would be something you don't want to hear.
Lips pressed together, she's the one who is now unable to speak.
(Act 1 sc. iii)
Forever is a promise. Promises like rules are meant to be broken.
Perhaps that's why he doubts she can wait for him, no one can be that dedicated to one person for the rest of their lives. It'd be too boring, too dull, and too heartbreaking (knowing and waiting for something that will never happen). No, no one would be able to endure that much pain.
(He wasn't able to, that's for sure)
Apart of him is disappointed when he finds out. It's the scent that gives her away. Underneath her own, so subtle, so delicate, the scent of another intertwined so intimately with hers. It's agonizingly familiar, causing his blood to boil and his hackles to rise as it teases him, torments him as the whispers of worthless half-breed pass through his mind.
She passes by him, their eyes lock. His arms are crossed over his chest in a protective gesture, from what? He isn't sure. Her eyes are challenging, daring. Daring him to say something, make a move, act like his bastard self (because she's the one who's tired). He won't give her the satisfaction. He won't let her know that in the back of his mind he now feels.
His lips twitch in a wry smile. Her eyebrow rises in confusion; he can practically see the gears in her head churning. Hear her silent question of don't you care? His claws dig into his arms –no, no, no, no –he bites his lip to keep quiet. Somewhere they're speaking, he can hear the voices heading towards them. He breaks the eye contact.
No.
(Interlude)
When she leaves each night he doesn't fight it.
Why should he? There are no ties between them. Not anymore. They are strangers, their bonds of friendship, trust, whatever other bullshit there is, dissolved. They don't talk; there's nothing to say. They don't touch; he's not familiar with the sensation anymore. He doesn't care; then again, it looks as if she doesn't either. He pushed, pushed, pushed until finally she snapped. She won't come back to him. (He rather likes the loneliness.)
That's what he tells himself at least. Lies.
He theorizes that lying makes things easier. Between them. She uses lies, frequently. To justify herself, her actions, her reasons. He takes it upon himself to not ask. Lying is a sin but right now the truth is just as worse.
He wants to hate her, he forces himself to. But then he realizes, she hasn't done anything. He hasn't either; maybe that's why he's stuck in this mess in the first place. But he wants her to hurt. He wants her to suffer, and he hates himself for thinking this way.
When his lips crash against hers, his hand going underneath her skirt to press roughly against her clit, all thoughts leave his head.
Fuck it(Act 1 sc. iv)
Her breathing is harsh against his neck.
She breathes in patterns, a rhythm to it. Breathe, breathe, sob, breathe. He can listen to it all day; he's sadistic in that way. It's the most contact he's had with her for days. Her warm breath cooling his heated skin; her hot tears rolling, spilling, splashing against him. She sobs again, her body shuddering with each painful breath.
Pain. She feels it. The pain of betrayal by someone you love. Something he knows all to well.
He releases his grip on her so tight that blood spills (his claws coated in them). It hangs heavy in the air. Blood mixed with the scent of fear and arousal. Long red scratches cover her thighs, her arms, her breasts. He traces the delicate frame of her jaw with a claw, a silent apology. She recoils as more tears spill from her eyes.
He always makes her cry.
(End of Act 1)