Lao and Cross rarely spoke. She was bad with words, he didn't want to share. She was shy, he was unfriendly. She was afraid of hurting him, he was terrified of being hurt. He was being suffocated by a pool of cold black tar, she was drowning in a sea of blood and fire.
Cross and Lao did not speak often, but sometimes, her bloodstained hands washed away his black tears and warmed his frozen skin- sometimes, he was the cool salve on her burns, a refreshing embrace of the earth when she was alone. Lao and Cross did not speak often, but when they took each other's hand, he held her above the waves and she kept him from sinking into the unending darkness. And it was not comfortable, or clean, but it was enough, and intimate in a way only they could understand.
Cross and Lao did not speak often, he did not wish to tell her of his plans and she didn't wish to pry- she was afraid if she picked away at his walls, his castle would come crashing down around her. She didn't want to break him- she didn't realize he was already broken. She held his hand and he held hers-
And Then He Let Go
-and sank onto the abyss where she could never follow. And suddenly, the words she could never think of-would never speak- are there, screaming silently, forever unspoken.
Lao and Cross had rarely spoken, and Cross knew she would regret that for the rest of her life.