Jaime lets out a sigh, changing position. This will likely be their last night on the quest to King's Landing, the last night of sleeping on solid ground biting into his arse, if it isn't a messy bed poking into his back, taking turns about who has to keep the campfire burning, eating unidentifiable stew from wooden bowls, pissing against trees, and endless walking.
He already saw familiar paths again as they continued their journey. Tomorrow, he will walk through the gates of… King's Landing.
His home.
His place to be.
The place Jaime wanted to return to so desperately that he didn't even stop short before strangling a lad with his chains.
For the past year, this has been everything that was on his mind…
Or well, it should have been.
Because Jaime's mind was obviously caught in reality the same way, and that reality wasn't King's Landing, wasn't Cersei's bedchamber, lying next to her in bed.
It was the reality of walking in the same shit boots like some damn foot soldier, dressed in no more than rags, being pushed around by a beast of a woman, until they were taken by a bunch of folks that are worse than him, which seems hardly possible for a Kingslayer.
It was the reality of developing a heart, or at least a sort of heart, a replica, maybe.
Of developing a conscience, something that serving a Mad King to the day of his backstab beat out of Jaime a long time ago.
It was the reality of losing his hand, the reality of the pain, the pure, white-hot pain that no wound has ever taught him so clearly, burned into his flesh with the intensity of the Mad King's Wildfire, which he was so enchanted with till the moment he died.
It was the reality of realising that it takes more than a shiny armour to be a knight, and that sheer acts of heroism, however reckless, and without the prospect of saving a fair maiden, a damsel in distress, or rather a bear pit, can prove to be the right choices – and that these right choices are the ones one ought to make because they are right.
It was the reality of the creature lying next to him, almost completely absorbed by the darkness of the night. Only the small dimming light of the new moon gives her a milky outline – and that she still breathes like a walrus in her sleep most of her time.
Jaime rolls back on his back, propping one arm up under his head on the thin mattress of the shabby tavern where they spend the night, hoping that this will finally grant him the sleep he is craving, though his mind is still too busy dancing through the times, back and forth and back again.
Maybe it is just the thrill of anticipation that keeps him from finding rest.
Though Jaime can't say that he feels anticipation otherwise. Jaime fears he knows what awaits him once he walks past the gates.
And it won't be parades given in his honour.
People won't recognise him.
Won't see him.
Yet, that wouldn't be the almost bad if there wasn't a much more deeper reaching fear looming above him, above the Red Keep.
That he became other to his family, the one group of people he loves, cares about, would murder for. That they won't just see past him, but stare at him, at his apparent brokenness.
Because it is not expected of a Lannister.
Isn't expected of a man of the Kingsguard.
It isn't expected of someone like Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer.
And if this turns out to be the truth, the given, then Jaime doesn't know what he'll do with himself thus. Because he only has his family, at least now – because he fears that the Kingsguard will not keep him, that they won't pass a petition to keep him as Lord Commander for his formidable services to the Iron Throne.
For that he shoved one too many people off the chair – and never regretted it.
For as long as he was on the quest to King's Landing, Jaime always had a goal in mind. To come home. That was what he could focus on.
But what will be once he is in King's Landing?
What is he supposed to strive for once he achieved this?
At this point, he is a man with a mission.
But once he is in King's Landing, he'll be just a man.
A man who has to find a new purpose, and that better fast before others write the purpose on him like they wrote Kingslayer on him.
"Will you just sleep? Or at least stop moving?" the wench's voice comes out in a low hiss, pulling Jaime out of the realm of a tar-like room to the milky outlines of her body in the darkness of the night.
"Don't you think I'm trying?" he retorts. "I can't sleep. Therein lies the problem, wench."
"Not my problem," she grunts. "Just stop shuffling around."
Of course that is the one invitation Jaime needs to shuffle even more violently next to her.
While he knows he is acting like a brat, Jaime doesn't really care, because the wench acts like one the same way.
And it's over tomorrow anyways, so why not give it one last try, right?
Once he'll walk past the gates, is in the Red Keep, and people will realise him for who he is, he will be Jaime Lannister again. And Brienne, at best, will be his guest. It won't be the same way it was up to this point, sleeping next to her, bickering with her all day, shoving back and forth, wrestling, sword fighting, nothing like that, at least not for anyone to see.
It won't be the same anymore.
So why not give it one last try at being the same for as long as it lasts?
Already to feel the wench growing red on both cheeks in anger and frustration to the point that he can feel the heat radiating from her body is all that it takes for him to start to enjoy that game.
If he has to suffer, then so can she.
"By the Gods, stop that already," Brienne growls. "I'm trying to sleep."
"So am I," he insists.
"And because you can't, I have to stay up with you? Hold old are you? Eight?" she barks back, keeping her voice low.
"Nine," he huffs.
"You're unbearable," she growls, thrusting her head deeper down on the roll stuffed under her.
"I give the compliment right back," Jaime huffs.
"Just think of home," Brienne tells him a gruff but small voice, with the slightest hint of emotions Jaime can only frown at.
"That's what I'm doing, but that only makes me think even harder," Jaime sighs.
"I hope you will break your head while at it," Brienne huffs.
"Hey, it's our last night together, you could be a little nicer to me," Jaime argues.
"Since you prove to be such a gentleman," she snorts.
"Oh, I can be a gentle man if I want to," he grins.
"I haven't witnessed that so far," she grunts. "Because it's not very gentleman-like to keep others from their sleep."
"And it would be very gentleman-like if you helped me out a bit," Jaime argues.
"Just that I'm no man, and hence don't have to be a gentleman," Brienne growls, screwing her eyes shut again. Though it makes almost no difference. The night is so dark, it's like tar surrounds them, pours down on them. Not to mention that the air is thick with moist warmth, making Brienne dizzy.
"Fine, then gentlewoman-like, forgive me," Jaime chuckles softly. "But as a gentlewoman you could just as well help me out."
"Do you need to be rocked or what?" she grunts.
"You might be the one person who would actually manage," Jaime smirks.
"Just that I won't," Brienne huffs into her bedroll. "It was enough to hold you when you fainted like a bloody woman."
"That you always have to bring that up," Jaime sighs.
"Sleep," she tells him.
"I told you, I can't," Jaime says. "There's too much on my mind."
"Then focus on your apparent happiness that you will get home at last, to be a royal again, a man of the Kingsguard," Brienne tells him, hugging herself a little tighter. "And that people will treat you with the due respect instead of pushing you around."
"Just that they won't," Jaime grunts, a little bitterer than he had intended to.
"Why?" she frowns, though she doesn't move to look at him.
"You may have noticed that I'm not exactly… returning unscathed," Jaime replies. "Apparently, I left a very important piece of me back in Harrenhal to decay."
"Then learn to use your left," Brienne replies bluntly, as she told him so many times already.
"You can't just learn from this day to the next to do things with another limb, woman. I have trained my right for all my life. It would take years to be swift with the sword again. And it will take even longer to be anything close to a good sword fighter," Jaime argues, as he did so many times already, too.
"Well, you could have learned to wield the sword with your left earlier on," Brienne shrugs.
"Because I could have foreseen that Locke would decide to cut off my hand?" Jaime grunts.
"No, in preparation for the possibility that something would leave you to fight with your left. Be it someone cutting your limb off, be it that your right hand would have been broken or otherwise injured, be it that you have to wield two swords at the same time. You could have prepared for those scenarios, but you didn't," Brienne tells him. "So the logical consequence is that you will try your best to train, and learn fast… and stop bothering me about it"
"Training won't bring my hand back," Jaime argues.
"No, but it will likely awaken something new," Brienne says.
"You mean to say that you can fight with your left just like you can fight with your right? I don't buy it," Jaime huffs.
"I don't say that I'm just as good with it, but I know how to wield a sword with either hand without looking like a bloody woman wielding a sword for the first time," Brienne replies.
"And you have trained, wrestling those possibilities of how you'd lose your hand? That's morbid, wench," Jaime makes a face.
"We live in dangerous times. Everything can happen – any time," Brienne tells him. "We both learned that the very hard way."
"Yeah, hands being cut off and bear pits were most definitely not on my list of things that I expected from my journey," Jaime wrinkles his nose.
"As I said, just think about what lies ahead of you," Brienne says, trying to ease back to sleep she knows Jaime will keep her from.
"Oh yes. I guess it will be Casterly Rock far sooner than I hoped it would be," Jaime huffs.
"What do you mean?" she frowns.
"Well, if it becomes known that I'm a useless cripple, which won't be hard to figure out, then a logical consequence is to release me of my duties, and then my Father will obviously want me to take over the family business," Jaime shrugs. "I will be a Lord."
"And that is a bad thing?" she asks.
"You tell me, you are a Lady, I mean… okay, you are hardly a lady, but you are the heir of Lord Selwyn. That means if he were to name you heir, you'd have to take over, too, right? You'd be a Lady. Would you want that? I reckon not," Jaime replies. "You want to fight, walk around in men's mail, and push men into the dust. That is what you want to do. Not sit on a chair and rule some piece of land."
Brienne says nothing this time.
"What now? You want to be a Lady all of a sudden?" Jaime snorts.
"No, I don't want to be a Lady, because I'm no lady, as you pointed out," she replies through pursed lips. Jaime doesn't even have to see her face in the pitch black darkness to know the expression she sports now.
In fact, he can see her face only by the sound of her voice.
"And still you are," Jaime sighs, now almost in a singing tone.
"If you say so," Brienne grunts.
"What? You have a cunt, I know that much for certain. I mean, I was in doubt, in the beginning of our quest, but then I saw it back in that bathtub and…," Jaime grins.
He should have expected the blow in his stomach, but it still leaves him sucking in air.
"I suppose I deserved that one," he growls into his bedroll as the pain begins to become duller and duller.
"Then you suppose right," she tells him.
"Oh, c'mon, I don't want to fight tonight. This is our last night together," Jaime argues.
"Which is why you are busy provoking me again, and keeping me from my sleep. You always want to fight. That is your very nature," Brienne tells him.
"Just like it is yours," Jaime argues. "You are a woman who is at war with everyone and everything."
"Then maybe we are alike in one regard after all," Brienne sighs.
"Seemingly," Jaime shrugs.
"Now sleep," Brienne orders.
"I can't, I told you," Jaime argues vehemently.
"I can also knock you out," she threatens him.
"And here we have the things I will surely not miss," Jaime huffs. Brienne shifts next to him again, curling in on herself a bit more, but even if she tries to make herself smaller, she is still a giantess.
"See? Hold on to that prospect and sleep," she mutters into her bedroll.
"Is it possible that I heard an air of disappointment?" Jaime teases.
"Disappointment over you driving me up the wall, you mean? Not really," she huffs.
"Ah, so that's it. You'll be disappointed because you will have to sleep on your own again, that you won't get to push me around all day long, that you won't have me call you wench anymore," Jaime goes on with a grin darker than the black of the night itself forming on his lips. He waits for a retort, but to his apparent disappointment, it doesn't come.
"By the Gods! I am right!" Jaime cries out in a small voice, his eyes almost exploding.
"You're not," she argues, but her voice is too weak to give her words the claws and teeth it'd take to be convincing.
"I am," Jaime chuckles to himself. "Oh, wench, I won't be gone completely. Just the lice will come off, and some hair, likely. And the beard. And hey, if you feel the need, I bet we can arrange for you to sleep in the gardens if that makes you feel more at home."
"Just shut your mouth and sleep," Brienne quips.
"Why are you so sour all of a sudden?" Jaime goes on.
"Because you keep me from sleeping, apparently," Brienne retorts. "And because you are acting like a complete idiot."
"There is one other thing that I will definitely not miss, and that is sleeping uncomfortably. On grounds, on straw-filled beds that poke in your bum crack, on leaves, in mud," Jaime howls as his body is forced to shift again.
"No, you'll be bedded on silky sheets like any rich boy knows it," Brienne huffs.
"What? You must have slept on silks as well. You are a royal after all," Jaime argues.
"Not since I was a baby," Brienne argues.
"Now what?" Jaime makes a face.
"I always slept on cotton or something else that is harder and rougher in material. Whenever people tried to give me silken sheets, I tore the things off before I went to sleep," Brienne tells him.
"Why would you do that?" Jaime frowns.
Because he could get lost in that sensation against his skin. Silk is expensive for reasons.
It's almost as soft as Cersei's skin.
"I don't like the sensation," she shrugs her broad shoulders, making the milky outlines dance like waves in the darkness around them.
"Who doesn't like the sensation of smooth silk against one's skin?" Jaime grimaces.
"I don't," she replies.
"But why?" he demands.
"I don't have to answer that," Brienne exhales.
"You don't have to, but deep down you want to tell me because otherwise you wouldn't have mentioned that childhood story of little Big Brienne refusing the silks," Jaime taunts her.
"I am rough, that is why," she quips.
"Ever the more a reason to want to get lost in soft silks," Jaime argues.
"It's not. It makes me realise that I am rough. When I touch something soft, I feel even harder. I don't like that. I am fine being rough and hard, but I don't need silks to remind me. Silks are slippery. Silks don't hold you warm out in nature. Silks are cold. So no, I don't like silks, I never slept on silks for as long as I could help it, and I try my best to keep away from silken clothes likewise," Brienne tells him with a sudden vehemence that leaves Jaime frowning only more.
He should have known, or so he reckons, that Brienne of Tarth is the only woman in all of Westeros who even sees in silks an enemy, an attempt of the world to try to prove her that she is rough and edgy and nothing that nature ever really wanted.
"I always knew that you like it rough," Jaime grins darkly. She nudges him without turning around, leaving him giggling almost light-headedly.
But the more Jaime thinks about the matter, the more the realisation dawns on him that he seemingly grew uncomfortable on the comfortable as well. Whenever they stayed in a town and slept on beds, as they do this very night, Jaime found himself restless. He actually found more rest on dry leaves.
By the Gods, he is seemingly becoming someone just like the wench after all.
And in an odd sense… what the wench says actually makes sense again. Jaime felt comfortable on silks because that is what he was, silky, smooth, golden, the perfect Lannister, at least when it came to matters of physique.
But what will be once he returns to King's Landing? To Cersei? He won't be silk against her skin. He is all rough and used up now, not to mention the stump of his arm, his missing piece. But he has corns and blisters, scars and callouses, welts and weals where there used to be none, where there used to be perfect, silken skin.
His skin had to compensate the lack of shield and armour by hardening over the course of this quest, or so it seems.
Will he be uncomfortable for the rest of his life now, too? Bedded on silks?
Will everyone else, or rather Cersei be uncomfortable to his rough touch, when his touches only used to be rough through the intensity of his passion, and not because of the texture of his skin?
Can Jaime only touch rough things from now on?
A sudden panic rises in his chest.
Does that mean that what is just within his reach will be out of his reach forever because Jaime grew rough after all? And can no longer touch anything that is soft, silken, beautiful?
Does that mean it will be all for nothing?
All the holding on, to chains around a strangled man's neck?
All the suffering?
All the pain?
"Jaime?" a voice rings out.
"Jaime," the voice calls out again, but then something rough presses against his side, bringing him back to the blinding, engulfing black of the room, to the milky outlines of a body that is just as rough as his.
"Are you alright?" Brienne asks, suddenly concern where there was annoyance moments before.
"What?" he breathes, realising that he is in fact out of breath.
"Your breath grew frantic," Brienne grimaces. "It still does."
"I suppose I am… a little too excited about tomorrow," Jaime manages to bring out between gulps of air, but the words come out strained as his world keeps spinning circles, painting him darker and darker with every second flying him by.
It might be that he won't ever hold Cersei again.
That his return to King's Landing won't mean a return to her.
That he grew too rough, that he was too used up while she is too soft, left unused.
That the one thing that kept him going, the one sensation Jaime dreamed of in a muddy pen to somehow hold on to the edges of his mind, was rubbed away, scrubbed away, cut out with a rusty knife.
Jaime can feel the mattress shift as Brienne turns around to face him, though he can't see her eyes in the black of the night – and Jaime will only to admit to himself that he'd like to search her eyes for guidance, because they offer it for some damned reason.
But his breath won't ease because the fears somehow creep their way through the darkness, shadows that viciously hide in the air that is painted like tar to pull on him now.
Why now?
He is just that close to home.
And it never dawned on him until this very second.
It didn't dawn on Jaime until those possibilities stole the air out of his lungs and painted the room darker than pitch itself.
"Calm down," she tells him, her voice suddenly very soothing.
"Do not fret, my lady, that will surely pass… any second," Jaime says, his mouth standing wide open to let more air inside, but it doesn't help.
"Just stay calm," she goes on. "Just breathe."
Jaime tries to focus on the world around him, tries to find a spot to fix on, but he finds none, other than the milky outline of the wench's body, which rises and falls with every calm breath she takes. And Jaime envies her for it that she can do it while he is now the one breathing like a walrus while wide awake.
What a man has he become?
Rough and weak at the same time?
That can't be.
Her outline dances in front of his eyes almost tauntingly. Those little waves, those giant curves, rising and falling as though they are just waiting for a ship to row off of it.
Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.
Like a clockwork.
Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.
It is reflex that Jaime extends his hand, the one he has left, to bring down on the milky curve that shines in the tar of the night. What isn't reflex is the reaction, though, namely that the wench doesn't flinch away from his touch, but lets his hand rest on what feels like the curve of her hip, under her ribcage, where he can feel the up and down he sees blurrily in the darkness.
Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.
Then a brief shudder, but then again:
Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.
Jaime finds himself rising and falling with the milky waves, with the rise and fall beneath his calloused fingertips, which rest on something surprisingly soft to the touch of his palm. He can feel his muscles losing their tension, their grip on his fears of rejection loosening, his growing dread of Cersei no longer being his other half, because he lost more than his hand to fill out that space, leaving him. The more his muscles ease, the more the fear is milked out of him and the tranquillity of the pitch black night returns, where the loudest noise is that of Brienne's breath, which he can feel warm and wet against his forehead, and his own, ragged against her face, maybe her throat. He is unsure in the darkness.
This is his last night before going home.
This might well be his last respite before the reality will punch his teeth out that he is a cripple to Cersei, too rough for her touches, too rough for her love.
The last night with only the wench to judge him, though she'd never judge him for his roughness, for his uneven edges, because she is just as rough, refusing silks because she hates the soft, the reminder of what she isn't.
Though Brienne is in this spot Jaime touches, and that even though he is rough, even though his touch is rough. But beneath his rough touch, she feels soft.
"This is the last night," he exhales.
"The last night," Brienne repeats, her voice a tremor that makes Jaime uncertain of the face she must make. This sounds new, and hence must look new on her face. If only he could see her face now.
"Nothing won't be the same again," Jaime says into the darkness.
"You'll be you. And I'll be me. That will be the same," Brienne argues, her voice no more than a whisper.
Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.
"I'm not the man I was before I left King's Landing," Jaime argues.
No, he is rough and broken, sharp edges sticking out of his body like the bones protruding from his emaciated body, marred by fears of rejection, fears Jaime has never known, but this journey has taught him fear, it has scorched it into his skin. The fear of loss, of inability.
The fear of having lost his touch in all its different ways.
The touch with his sharpness, the swiftness of his tongue and words.
The touch with his sword.
The touch with his loved one.
His other half.
The touch with the world which seemed a lot clearer to Jaime for as long as he lived by the paradigm that Lords and Ladies, Kings and Queens make you vow and vow until it's all too much for a single man to keep – and that you thus shouldn't vow at all, or mean it only as much as is bearable.
The touch with the world which left him only with one constant, one thing to hold on, and forget the rest – and now seems to tear even that constant away him from, and with it his air.
Because Jaime sought out to touch the rough world, was forced into it, as though Locke's sword cutting off his hand was the same as cutting through a Gordian Knot, and open up the realm of the rough, the ugly, the world where name and family banner, where shield and armour don't hold the needed protection.
Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.
"But you will be the same man you are now when you walk through the gates of King's Landing," Brienne says. "The man you are at present won't dissolve once you step through a door. The man you are was forged for a much longer time. One step won't undo all the steps you have taken before."
Jaime finds his mind, his body in a tremor as the words sink into him through the tar that is the air of the night, right beneath his skin.
Why is that a comfort?
Jaime wants to be the man he used to be.
So why does he find solace in her hushed words about not dissolving into nothingness? If walking through the gates of King's Landing led to him shedding his ugly skin to step forward as the man he was before he left, he should rejoice, he should be happy.
Just that this prospect clutches at him the same way the fear of Cersei's possible, likely rejection does.
Just that this thought takes the air away from him again, maybe even more.
His hand wanders on the milky outline, a little up, closer to her ribcage to feel more of the clockwork, to ground himself, because he needs to be grounded even more now as the next unexpected fear crept its way beneath his skin.
Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.
"But it will be different," he mutters, his mouth still standing open, his lips lax.
"Just on the outside," Brienne tells him, her voice almost not audible, swallowed by the pitch of the night, of the last respite.
"The last night," he breathes again.
The last night of lying next to the perhaps most grotesque version of a clockwork, of a way of grounding himself and his newly found, newly feared, newly dreaded fears. No more such rough touches, or one's rough touches against surprisingly soft skin.
The last night before Judgment Day.
The last night before the moment of truth.
He moves closer to the milky outline, tracing her invisible outlines with his body, since he can't see them, can only feel them.
And she lies still, except for her clocklike breath.
Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.
Against his chest and away again.
Against and away. Against and away. Against and away.
Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.
He begins to trace the bit of light cascading on her edgy body, her rough edges with his calloused fingertips, needing to know if such a touch inevitably leads to people flinching away, needing to know if his touch became unbearable at last, because it isn't silken, isn't soft, is rough, edgy, makes noises as the furrows of his fingertips meet other material, meet other skin.
But there is no flinch, just a soft tremor vibrating against his chest, followed by the clockwork:
Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.
Against and away. Against and away. Against and away.
"Jaime."
He blinks, stilling his movements, two rough fingers brushing against her side as it rises and falls with the waves of her body.
He can't see her face, can't see her eyes.
Are they full of disgust?
Does the face withdraw while the body decides not to move in another direction other than up and down? Up and down? Up and down?
Against and away? Against and away? Against and away?
"Jaime."
The sound of his name in her voice sends shivers up and down his spine.
Is that… is that need?
Is that want?
Can that be?
Does it not matter after all?
Or doesn't it matter only to her?
But that is when Jaime sees it with his body, since his eyes only hold the black of the night.
Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.
But against and again. Against and against. Against and against his chest, into his chest, pressing against him, not wanting to break contact, maybe even needing it.
And then again: Against and against.
Rough lips on chapped lips.
Up and down. Up and down. Up and down goes she.
Up and down. Up and down. Up and down goes he.
With her.
With him.
It is the last night after all.
The darkness blurs out the roughness, or so it appears.
Because a few spots are not so marked, a little more soft, and some are so incredibly soft that Jaime understands at once while Brienne refuses silk, because he feels the shudders in his body, out of the fear of breaking soft skin with the touch of his rough, calloused fingertips, the weals and welts of his palm, but she edges up again, into him. Each time. Into his touch, like a wave she comes back, searches his outline the same way he tries to trace her with his body.
Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.
Against and away. Against and away. Against and away.
Into. Into. Into.
Into the liminal space, the liminal time before the black will disappear and bring to light all their uneven curves and edges again, all their rough, calloused fingers, all the weals and welts in their palms, even if it is just three of them.
Into the liminal space without judgment, where the world is constant like a clockwork with no more than her even breaths, her heartbeat beating against his chest, bleeds into his chest as he keeps tracing her, kissing her, keeps holding her, rises and falls with her.
The pitch of the night blurs them out, into each other, until they close their eyes and let only their hands see, let their bodies hear what they can't say, let their souls touch what their tactile senses cannot detect with their fingertips by any chance.
They are different from before.
They grew.
But they will be the same as they are now, for as long as they keep this constant between themselves, the only thing that gets between them at this very moment.
Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.
Against and away. Against and away. Against and away.
Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.
Against and against. Against and against. Against and against.
To the point that the tar of the night's air unites them, joins them by bringing together the rough furrows of their callouses, the furrows on their fingertips that make them unique, that are not the same as anyone else's, but that still fit together in that darkness, because she is as rough as he is, and just as soft or even softer like he is in other places.
They are uneven.
A rise and fall.
Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.
But in the darkness of the night, in the black of the tomorrow nearing with fast strides, they are not lost but found, no matter what the next morning may bring, no matter what will happen once he steps through the gates of King's Landing. No matter what will be with Cersei and the rest of the world.
The darkness blurs out all those fears and leaves them engulfed in a layer of a colour without texture other than their own. They ease into each other's blackness, they ease into each other's dreams, which are no more than blank slates, blank black slates, filled with nothing but the sensation of rough and soft, the impossible, since it is both these things at the same time.
They are who they are now, traced by the other even in the pitch of the night.
They fade into black, but don't disappear.
Because they disappear only into each other.
Into each other's blackness.
Into each other's black silk.