longitudinal

by kathrianna

random collection

Military L.O.V.E

Petra was there in the kitchen preparing coffee when she heard the lithe footsteps of the man she hated. She hated for making her love him too much. She saw his eyes, those blue-gray eyes, eyes that seemed to scream out a sincere apology, eyes that people thought devoid of any emotion, but she knows better.

He came forward, walking swiftly to her, and with one of his hand came to rest at the nape of her neck unclasping the small necklace containing a ring, their engagement ring that she wore, and the other on her right hand that was clutching the cup and made her place it on the counter, while placing the ring on her left hand while staring at her eyes, as the said hand was brought to his lips by himself and kissed it… And that's where it hit her

No words were needed to be said between them. It was all seen through their actions- the way the one handled the other.

How comfortable they were within each other.

How they were able to understand one another.

A soft smile lingered upon her dainty lips as his calloused fingers grazed along her cheek, and the simple fact that he was doing this feat of pure intimacy, would further prove their bond. Soft fingers would meet at his collar, fixing it ever so slightly before com-ng to straighten his cravat.

And forward she would come, eyes sliding shut, she can feel his fingers, straightening and caressing her silky tresses as if he was saying an apology.

Her arms never wrapping around his form but staying comfortably on his chest because rather it was the opposite, one of his arm across the small of her back and fingers through her hair and the other around her form. As she pressed her face unto his chest, both of them enjoying just the comforting warmth of each other as they basked in solace.

"I doubted you for a while, but I was never mad at you Levi, I can never be…" Petra started looking at his eyes her own prickling with tears. "I've always got your back, Colonel."… She said as her fingers caress his cheek "Because you are the one that I devote myself to." remembering the ring on her hand.

And with that said the Colonel pulled his lieutenant into a gentle hug once more, squeezing her close to him. She in turn buried her face into his neck, one of her hands sliding up to grip the collar of his shirt. He felt her pulling at his shirt, and turned to look into her passionate gaze.

Levi felt himself move before he even realized what he was doing, his lips catching hers in a soft kiss. From where their lips met, heat began to bloom and sear throughout the man's body. Pressing closer to her, he drew her lips apart with his and she leaned further into him. He could taste the sweetness on her lips.

Petra's ringed hand moved to run through his hair, massaging his scalp with her nails. He held her to him with a single hand locked around her waist while the other, his own ringed one lace through her hand. At his touch she sighed into his lips, wanting. Levi's heart hammered in his chest, or maybe it was hers, or maybe theirs both. Their kiss remained innocent, but it was still an expression of their devotion to one another.

When they separated, was when Levi realized that he seriously loves this woman in his arms. Petra tamed the cynical beast within him with a simple smile and a cup of coffee, and opened his eyes to a world filled with the word called "Bonds", she changed his steadfastness and recklessness and made him even stronger than before… He relaxed into his embrace.

"I love you;" she sighed into the nape of his neck.

Chills ran through his body, his eyes widening ever so slightly, his strength fleeing him. "As do I." He wanted to tell her, but responsibility kept the words in his throat. Humanity called for his resolve, until they get to Axion, he cannot covey his true feelings properly.

Instead, the Colonel squeezed his lieutenant closer to him and gently kissed her forehead, knowing that she knows that he loves her too. That he doesn't need to say it… but the fact that he showed it was enough for the two of them.

Brown Eyed Seraph

Names have savage power. Words as fickle or as measly as they are having the ability to change, to create, to define and limit and negate.

A single letter is stronger than all the swords that are polished and cut to perfection in the world, mightier than even the most powerful of kings and tyrants, as great as the Divine themselves. A letter shapes and brings the unsaid into creation. A letter erases the wondrous world, it is merciless. It is violent. It reduces the blue planet to nothing, rendering once-vibrant plains grey as ash and cinders that are blown away by the wind and the sun the epitome of warmth into a lusterless, pallid thing.

And yet a single letter is enough to also tame a sinner whose heart has been tainted with anger, sadness and grief, it changes his beliefs which turns him into someone good, appreciated, and pure. A letter is capable of giving happiness and love. It is forgiving. Benevolent. It gives a child born out of hate and lust, a home which she grows up to be needed and cared for, it gives even the most broken heart to learn how to trust and let go again.

Which reigns triumphant? The power to capitalize and make or the power to write only in lowercase and destroy?

Lowercase is the half-capitalized state of the universe, the not-formed, the unborn, and the still-breathing fetus.

Lowercase is destiny not yet cemented in the halls of Jeremiah.

In the halls of the Creator, he resides there with angels and cherubs.

You will find yourself in alcove that parts beyond the heavens, for the heavens. A scholar's room. He is the divine author of the world. He is inventive.

Writing the multitudes with a pen fashioned from metal and wood, the ink becomes the flesh and blood of the masses down below. Words are his children. The creator is a doting father whose laugh is loud, eyes wrinkling and teeth showing; forever in love with the words that stay true to their ideals, but like any other children, words also rebel, they crush and prey. They struck the creator harshly; they make him sad, his eyes tear up, eyes not looking anyone in the eye and lips trembling. Some words taste like ashes on the tip of his sacred tongue.

Jeremiah has finished his book with two capitalized lives entertained together. A happy ending together. The angels were always chastising him for such dreary ends and he complied. He is done drafting the plotline of his new work. He makes a part of the trilogy that makes his other writings fall like a stack of cards.

There is a girl whose eyes shine with mirth and cleverness, born into capitalization, she who dares to be her own scribe, to write her name in lowercase lettering, ink containing algorithms and motherboards splashing across the white pages. Words in black and white. The unformed. To defy her writer, to prove that she is more than a willing character to be manipulated and pulled apart.

There is a boy, who was destined to become another capitalized legend. He follows it. A myriad of lust, hard work and longing. His ink is not in black and white. It is a shade of blue. Triumphant and Complete.

His boundaries always tested, whether on his ability to land a ball precisely to the other side of the court by his right hand or on his ability to please a woman with his other. He is contented with the hands of Jeremiah the creator; he himself is pleased with the boy.

And then, there is another girl with her smile full of warmth and acceptance. Jeremiah does not know how to pen her. She is gray. She does not create, nor does she destroy. She nurtures. The creator makes endless moments in her part, her endings are not finished and yet she is complete; her body is immortalized in a bottle of wine while her soul is the carving in the hearts of capitalized men.

(They make a story that lies between the Stratum and the Octaves.)

The golden boy of the capitalized world has sealed his fate. He now has two roads that lie before him. Only for him. One path that is painted with untainted angels and bountiful blessings. His heart does not waver. He looks to the other path, smeared with ruthless devils and insatiable lust. His heart does not waver.

Jeremiah's commands are swift and He wonders what the boy does next.

The golden boy falters. Down the different roads at the end of them are different girls. The one who desires to make her own pages and the girl who does not exist in the halls of holy.

The golden boy decides for himself. He is used to staggering and difficult choices. He has chosen between life and death of a lowercased being after all.

Jeremiah nods and bestows him the power to choose. He gives him a pen to make his line. Timothy does not make a line for one path. He does two. He makes the creator heartily laugh.

The righteous path opens for him first and he finds himself as a pudgy kid holding the arm of his big brother, his brother who is destined for the capitalized world as well, then again outside of the tall figure the other adults watching their children who are playing on monkey bars or see-saws they all seem so bleak to him, blurred lines and blurred planes.

All except for a tiny little girl alone in one swing. The rest of the world is black and white, and she was screaming color.

He doesn't know what to say to her but she looks up from the ground and her doll shoes; she smiles at him and his cheeks flush red.

He can hear his brother hiding a chuckle and the little boy wonders if she is just another kid passing by his life. Except he felt himself tug on his brother's sweater.

"Can I go there to that pretty girl?" his big brother nods and takes him to the swing where the girl was sitting on; he ruffled his little brother's hair and asked him to introduce himself to the girl.

Puffing his chest out and trying to look cool or he thinks that's what the word was and spoke loudly almost startling the girl. "I'm Timothy Mendoza." He put out his chubby hand to the girl "And you are?"

"Karina…Karina De Villa."

He started stuttering, the golden boy was shy as a kid and that makes Jeremiah above the clouds laugh "I wanna see you again!"

She smiled even wider "Why not? I'm always alone here."

As a young boy he promised to never leave her, so every 4 o clock he goes to the swing set day by day, and he gets to hear Karina laugh and talk endlessly, so he can see her face all delighted, speaking like they're the only people on the playground and going on and on about the most weirdest things.

(He swears she had seen the same face somewhere else. The girl at the then end of the road also had kind eyes and a beautiful smile.)

Timothy Mendoza as a kid had decided to meet both of the women at the end of the roads.

It was summer and they are in a big village. Mama lets him go out and enjoy the sun, she kisses him on the forehead and he hugs her. A mama's boy all throughout his life. His papa says goodbye and ruffles his hair and Tim laughs.

He has been walking along the streets when he found a villa looming over him; it's as big as their house in Antipolo, and a girl on a porch.

He sat down and he notices she's been playing something on the game boy advance. He scooted closer to her and began to search in his little bag for his own GBA.

"What version of Pokémon are you playing?" He looked at the screen of the handheld console and saw a Venasaur on it. He widely grins, eyes sparkling with mirth, he was excited! He wanted to finally trade someone a Growlithe for a Vulpix and name it Naruto.

The girl in question looked at the boy and blushed coyly. Daddy said not to talk to strangers, but maybe he wasn't dangerous because he isn't a big kid like daddy "The leaf green one." Her reply was short; she looked at her sprite that was currently standing on a tile of tall grass

"Do you have a Vulpix?" Timothy hands were fists on his side; he was always an eager child. "I want to name him Naruto!" and unfortunately rambly "Hmm, maybe you don't know who Naruto is."

She pouted at him "I know who Naruto Uzumaki is!" She exclaimed "You're a stranger so I won't talk to you anymore."

Extending his hand out to the girl and started to talk again "I' m Timothy Jacob C. Mendoza!" maybe introducing himself with let her think his not a stranger anymore, "And you are?" He insisted as he gripped her hand.

"Jamaisah Jurilla." She looked at their hands and realized how warm they were, "But you can call me Jamie."

Getting a connector from his bag, he hooked it up both of their GBAs

"There!" he almost screamed as he opened the Pokémon game

"We're friends now Jamie!" and he smiled at her as bright as befitting for his title as the golden boy of the capitalized world.

(In his dreams, he finds himself down the two roads Timothy swears up and down Jamie looks like the woman on the end of the left side, the same thin lips and expressive eyes. He is standing in the middle line he wrote that connects the both of them; his pulse quickening and his heart threatening to jump out of his chest. So he pleads to the Creator for just one thing, if anything just one thing.

"To be with the both of them." And if anything Jeremiah more than complies)

At the end of summer, he had to say goodbye to both of them and to the humble village, he promised them nothing else but going to see them again. And in a span of years, he grew up as a coveted dream of the girls around him. He was a lot of things; athletic, charismatic, handsome and rich. He has achieved scholarships, medals and trophies.

Jeremiah's name for the young boy had him immortalized whether it is in volleyball, playing the guitar or in his academics. You see him and you see light in all different forms. A mark of the capitalized. He is a raging torrent of flames and sparks ready to devour and consume everything in his path. They see him as a ruthless force. No one can stop him from imprinting his life unto awards and opportunities, yet they also see him as a candle. A guide for empty souls lost on a battlefield of spikes and throws lost in empty worlds.

He was going to be like his brother, Xiang. Another capitalized legend.

A lawyer and a husband who never forgets to talk to Timothy when he was frustrated by his misgivings. Successful. But he was never going to be like his brother, life almost ruined by men and their liquor, dependent on drugs, smoking a cigarette. Then a woman came along, simple and hailing from the rice paddies of Nueva Ecija. She saved his brother and salvaged the older man's pathetic life. She gave him a new beginning so he became her new dream.

At a young age, Timothy was of course loved by both of his parents even if they have to work in this big conglomerate, it doesn't matter anyway, they will always Sunday to look forward to. His older sister Andrea who only uses makeup and styling tools from them, she taught him everything he has to know for taking care of a girl. His faults were being corrected every time from his dear Nanang Rosa.

He wanted to know what a girl's love is.

When he started his tenth grade, his friends who usually who study together on the library, shout each other on and exercise and play together, went to a bar using fake and passes, the first time he was there his friends spoiled him with drinks and that's where he discovered he had a great tolerance for alcohol. There he also met his first girlfriend Elisah. He first had sex with her and he realized something. He loves being dominant, he feels good and aroused seeing someone under him, asking for more.

The golden boy is a lover. He has been with women older than him. He has lost count of the many sighs and moans he had swallowed or the lips he had kissed and bitten. He fucked more than he made love.

Women who had been lucky to be with him never found a note or a call, just messy sheets that reek of sex and sweat. Their faces are a blur in his mind; sometimes he remembers a red lip or a tight skirt, sometimes he forgets their name or calls them another…not that he ever bothered to get them right anyway. On just nights of pure insatiable lust, he does not even bother to get their names.

He gets one of his longtime girlfriends, Kyla pregnant. The thought makes him sick, the little baby was a lowercased being, a supposed artist like his father and mother.

But that never happened.

The next day she wakes up in Timothy's room in the summer house in a quaint village. The space next to her is cold and empty, she is wearing his shirt. There is a note of "I'll be back :) "on the tableside alongside a glass of cold orange juice and pills. Her eyes started watering and she feels like her heart is getting broken. She just took a life away. Bitterness rises in her throat, bile threatening to spill through her teeth. She clenches her mouth and forces the vomit back down. His taste still lingers in her mouth and there's now an invisible reminder of a faint heartbeat in her womb.

She sees him down in their garden, with a makeshift grave, a cross, and lilacs. His left cheek barring an imprint. A slap. And on the other with a bruised complexion. A punch.

She kisses him with fervor, needy and desperate, her hands tugging at his hair and she feels his tears mingling with hers. She decides to end this, to leave him. For his sake and for her sake…for their unborn child's sake.

Timothy meets Karina again, except it's not like a wish from a fairytale. He meets her in a room with a timer and chessboard. He lets her have the white pieces yet she refused, he raised his brow at her first move for his own is moving a sacrificial pawn in front. "The knight?" he asked, legs shifting to form a de kwatro. He put his chin in his hand and waited for a reply from the lovely girl. He realized she was no longer flat as a board and her face has become more smooth and flawless.

"Some innocent people are worth fighting for."

They ended up in a tie, and he ended up being curious about how he is blushing like a mad schoolgirl.

He finds himself wanting her. So he asks permission to court her from everyone in her family. He takes her out to simple carenderias to restaurants, from movies to theaters. He wants to know her better, to know why she doesn't like returning to her home, or what is it like in Barcelona? He even wants to ask her how the wine her name was on came to be. He wanted to entwine her life to hers.

(But there was one thing; she was not yet willing to give. One of the pleasures he desires. Her body.)

He sees Jamie again through a silver screen of monsters and mages. Timothy is a seasoned gamer armed with skills and tactics, he never thought the player on the other side was the precocious girl he had met ages ago, but it assures him.

When they meet again on the porch of her house, his palms are cool and just looking at her. He is not fumbling or stuttering and he looks like he found something he had lost once.

They started again as casual players who are talking about their games, well up until he saw her frustrated, lips trembling and body shaking; the tears streaking down on her cheeks showed no signs in stopping.

"Mommy is leaving us." She murmured into his shirt as he hugged her.

"If it makes you feel better I won't."

She laughs a bit crudely and thanks him. From that day onward, she had confided in him. He knows about her family and how they smother her with lively affection. Her mother was in abroad, rarely contacting them anymore, when Jamie said that to him the air became cold and bitter, never wanted her to feel that way ever again. But she was really close to her father, being there with her first period and first crush, Timothy refers him as business man and inside joke with Jamie that he is part of the mafia due to his connections.

There was JN, a rambunctious yet sweet sibling. He likes to tease the both of them very much saying that they will be together and get married. Timothy doesn't want to admit it however that he smiles whenever he thinks it may happen.

Finally James who was another capitalized legend, he plays the piano and is just as good as him academically, (he should know considering they are classmates and graduated as both valedictorians). Jamie was always been compared to him, on why she chose to discard out her capitalism. A silent middle finger pointed to the powerful Jeremiah. Timothy will never compare to Jamaisah to anyone, even to the woman of his dreams, to her cousin.

In Jamie's eyes, everything with Timothy was all right, she finds herself wishing time would just stop and let her bask in his warmth, his mischievous stares, and strong arms. She has lost count he pulled her closer to him, lips on her forehead. The scribe of her own faith falters. She has denied everything the Creator has given to her. Except for one thing. Except for Timothy Mendoza.

Her heart breaks when she hears his scream as he enters his room, she was on his bed covered in his sheets, he then plopped down on his bed and got the old GBA they used to play as kids, he was using a Ninetales now, the one that evolved from the Vulpix that she traded him for. Jamie then observes him; he is pressing the buttons fast, fingers tapping nonstop at the console. It means that he had another screaming match with his dear mother and he is now regretting every word he has said to Miss Joanna; she can see the tears in the corner of his eyes.

He has been hiding the world his pain and sadness and loneliness, so when he pulls him closer to her, he hugs her back and she can feel the fabric on her shoulder getting soaked with his tears. She whispers a small "I love you" to him, she doesn't know if he has heard but he grips her tighter, his game forgotten and Jamie thinks that is enough.

She finds herself writing his name over and over - on scraps of paper that held her algorithms and equations, in books of the textbooks she has read and on the back of her palms or wrists. The now lowercased flower carved the golden boy's name like sacred markings into trees and the tops of her thighs.

She is not blind when she notices the little stares he gives her cousin or the little gifts that he gives Karina. She tries to hide the jealousy, the green-eyed monster will not get the best her, but when she sees the now big Arcanine in her team she thinks of him, when she tastes the delicate yet strong flavor of Belgian cakes, she thinks of him. She sees the word "what if" and she thinks of him. The green-eyed monster is trying to get out of her.

(The golden boy is with her in an arena and in the eye of the hurricane there is quiet; the calm before the storm happens, he gives his best friend, a charm of gold with an infinity sign, a pendant for everything they had shared together. The metal burns into her skin and ultimately in her heart forever.)

She had lain with him during the nights he was courting her dear and sweet and naive cousin. They never had sex or make love even; Timothy doesn't even kiss her lips. His eyes are dark and watchful, his jaw smooth and sharp. She knows this is wrong; having an affair with the boy, no she meant the man her cousin has given her heart. But when he kisses and nips Jamie's neck leaving a bruise that will make her wear a scarf to school, when his fingers touch her under her skirt and make her moan out his name and makes her beg and plead for release she speaks this litany to ease her mind, to ease her heart.

"She has his heart but I have his body." She is selfish, taking what she wants and calling it hers.

Ask her if she loves him, the golden boy who left silver scars on her back. She has burned for him, drowned for him and she fell for him. Fell from the heavens themselves.

So ask her if she loves him, and when this mortal ichor flows from the raw wounds at her shoulders, do not be surprised. Ask her if she loves him, so when these saltwater tears cascade and her lungs fill with something that is not air let these burns remind you of how much she craves his touch.

(At the end he chooses the girl on the path of the righteous but he never dares to leave her. He doesn't. He stays. So she left.)

She wanted him to love her, to cherish her. She wanted to step out from the damned shadow of her charming cousin, and be herself, be more than a pawn, more than just the other girl. She never wanted it to end like this. Never like this

Fuck them. Fuck them all.

In the end, she's just a little girl writing a bad story, where everything is lowercase and unfulfilled. Empty lust for empty hearts.

Ink splatters onto her hands like blood.

The Creator sighs and mourns for his lost child. She had such great plans but she denied each and every one except for her boy. So He turns the paper gently so that the readers will know He is not angry with the girl and starts a new. But He makes them know that He will not return to her story or let her live in his other books, He erases her from the narrative.

She will only be mentioned, by her dear cousin or a doting fan. But other than that He sees no more words for the now lowercased being. And He is terribly sorry.

He gives all her roles to her unformed cousin. Karina De Villa now has something she can proudly show. She is punctuation. A new form of beauty. She dots stories with emotion, subtle pauses and moments of silence; she makes his book complete. Jeremiah stands up from his seat and gets a new book again.

She will also make another book; along with the golden boy. But for now, Jeremiah closes the lights and leaves his room.

(end.)

Constellations

The human soul is made of little stars.

An infinite number of them stretching across vast galaxies, filling the universe of the human body with pinpricks of light. Each shines brightly maybe some brighter than most or worse dimmer, but a scattering of stars is nothing, not until a constellation is formed.

That is when the true beauty of the soul manifests itself—two sets of stars, perfectly conjoined in a blazing image of strength and beauty and passion, the everlasting nature of two souls made into one. Nothing can touch them but the other, and only when every last star is gone can the constellation die out.

It is the gift of God, they say. Humans have overcome other species, the earth, each other, and even their own nature, but one thing that will always bring them down is loneliness. God arranged this, to allow everyone to live and die with the very person who will understand them the most. It is a blessing.

(No one mentions how the stars can darken, how half of them can turn on the other, smothering its own life, on purpose or not; how the remaining constellation will become an entirely new, untouchable one of its own. Invincible. Alone. No one thinks of these old souls, forever young, watching the rest of the world through eyes weathered by ages of solitude, and no one sees the eternal regret that inevitably haunts those faces.)

.

If the human soul if made of stars, then he must not be human.

If the human soul is made of stars, then he must not be human. Because he is not human. Born from a tree and having no navel.

(He does not know what he is made of but he feeds himself lies that he is.)

He is merely lucky, and a good fighter, and he will never know anything other than the constant cycle of blood and pain and death—and he believes this fully, devouring every animal in his line of sight or after Tasyo and Isabel finds him, the human they tear apart once a week. Until he sees her with a blade and rosary rushing towards the priest that disgusted him.

She is nothing special, a girl with dark hair and fierce eyes, not the prettiest face he has seen—but suddenly his world is a whole lot smaller and she is at the center of it.

Once she stabbed him, he is surprised and curious at her impassive face. And the world, the world is now black and white and she is screaming color. He does not tear his gaze away and focuses on her. He sees nothing but her face. Trying to control the dull pounding in his chest.

"Kill her," he can hear Tasyo whisper in his ear. "A swift bite to the neck in the dark—no one will know, and you will never have to fear death again."

"Do it Elias," Sabel whispers in the other. "Or we will eat her instead."

"Shut the fuck up," he tells both voices,

.

"What's your name?"

"Salome."

(He has never lived by the rules and he sees no point in starting now, because he does not need another half of his soul; he doesn't want it. She must have it all already because he can only be empty.)

.

He does not stay with her, but every time he goes back to their, her hut that whose previous resident was the leper, he has grown accustomed to her existence, to her quiet bubbling anger and snarky quips and comforting presence, and while he tries to stay far away from the whole soulmates thing, he begins to accept and appreciate who she is.

A cup of ginger tea on the little makeshift table, and a wet towel. His eyes soften.

Someone with no more pretenses, someone who is angry. Someone who sees herself. Salome is Salome.

(He still isn't used to her hair though, brown and gold in some lights, black in others; her eyes, sparkling with a kaleidoscope of stars; her voice, words so soft that he can only imagine what his name must sound like. And not that stupid angel that comes out of her lips.)

.

She stands too close and he lets her, and only when he sees in her expression that she is about to kiss him does sense return.

"Salome—"

"You must feel it too," she says calmly, and with those few words, more follow, falling from her lips in a jumbled rush like they have been bottled up for too long. "I felt it the moment you asked my name, of how you decide not to eat me,—you must feel it too."

He can only hear her, and he can only see her —but Elias forces himself to think of what has kept him safe all these years, blood and pain and death, repeating themselves over and over in an endless mockery of life.

Her eyes, when she looks at him, are flecked with stars; he wants to read them on her lips, taste them on her tongue, see if they are the same ones he has always known—but he lifts his gaze to the wall past her instead. "Do you understand?"

She does, but she doesn't, and he silently implores her not to try again—but she is Salome stubborn to a fault, and of course she does not listen to his wordless plea. "Elias," she says slowly, trying out his name.

It sounds right in her voice, more than right; he squeezes his eyes shut. He thinks of that foolish young man who dares to follow her out here in the woods "You should have someone else." She should have him.

.

But he goes back to the moment that thin and gangly Father Salvi had raped her and smashed her head to the ground and as he waits for her to wake up it hits him that truly, for better or for worse, she is the one he is meant to die with. Everyone is born with someone in their future and whether she deserves it or not, he is hers.

And she is his.

He sits long into the night, and when at last her eyes flutter open, they dart to him—and go still. He licks his lips, knowing he should speak but there are too many things clamoring to leave his throat that he does not know where to begin, and she beats him to it.

"Did you save me because you are worried about death?"

It stings but the problem is he will live forever, but the comment is justified. "I meant it," he says carefully, trying to gather his thoughts, "when I said you should have someone else—you deserve better."

Her laugh turns into a rasping cough. "I don't want better. I want you."

He has no response to that; three simple words and suddenly the floodgates of his dull heart have been thrown wide open. He can feel the waters rushing through, dotted with stars, and he can see the picture the two of them are beginning to form. A picture across the night sky. Immortalized in stars.

He lays one hand by hers, and then brushes her fingers before taking her hand in his own. They fit together perfectly; despite the amount of blood she lost, her skin is still warm where he touches her. "I'm an idiot."

"You are," she agrees, but she squeezes his hand, and for the first time in his life he can feel the nonexistent stars in the soul he must have after all, reaching out for hers.

.

Part of him expects things to be different afterwards, but everything feels the same. And at times he smiles, not that manic or smug grin, but a real genuine smile.

(It is enough, it is so enough; it's unbelievable how enough it is.)

.

He started to bring a little dagger he found in the casa he used to live in. He brings it whenever they go killing of everyone at the top. Just in case. For his sake. For her sake, he catches a glimpse of the one she used to kill Damaso . For her sake. For his sake.

.

Tasyo leaves her open with her organs still intact but he doesn't want her to die, not yet, not yet.

She gestures to her arm, and he recognizes those marks, 'no, it can't be' he curses God. If he ever did existed. And when she looks at him with such intensity of the stars above them. He nods and understands what he has to do.

She cannot move so he lies down next to her, curling her fingers around the hilt of the knife. Now that the moment is here, he is oddly calm. After the battle with Tasyo, the forest is everything but peaceful, moonlight filtering through the gaps in the trees, the rich earthy aroma of the soil calming, and he thinks it isn't a bad place to die.

He presses her knife to his chest, letting the point dig in enough to nick his skin. He lets his own knife rest against her exposed heart, and the thought of pushing it in makes his own constrict but he knows what he is meant to do; before they can be one.

She should have enough strength left for this one last task; they always do. "On three," he says.

Something sad shines in her eyes; she gives the barest hint of a nod.

"One."

He hears nothing but her voice, sees nothing but her face.

"Two."

It isn't fair, but nothing ever is—and if the stories are to be believed, it is the price humans pay for not being lonely.

"Three."

If he thinks about it, he won't be able to do it—so he doesn't think. His knife glides through her skin into her flesh, cutting easily through arteries and organs, spilling blood that slides through his fingers, staining his skin.

It is the moment he dies—but he does not feel any pain.

He pulls his blade away and drops it in horror; his skin is untouched. The light is fading fast in Salome's eyes, and her dagger lies a few feet away—she must have flung it as he stabbed her.

"Salome—"

He tries to push his own dagger, sticky with her blood, into her palms, but with sheer force of will she curls her wrist away; as he watches, her fingers go slack and her eyes grow dim. No more specks of gold in her eyes. No more curve to her lips "I'm sorry, my angel," she whispers, but it might be his imagination; she does not seem to have any strength left to speak anymore. "I love you but… you...deserve better than this…"

Her eyes flicker shut, then still.

Something in him is numb and empty and cold; he isn't sure what it is anymore but he knows it must've been very important. He picks up her blade and tries to shove it into his chest with a violent thrust; it clatters against his skin and falls from his fingers.

He picks it up and tries again, then again, but already he can feel the stars of his soul rushing to cover the gaping loss in their constellation, from the loss of his other half, forming something completely different in the process; something unbreakable, invincible and eternal.

He has never been so alive, and he has never felt so dead.

He drops her knife, holds her dead body. And he consumes her as the flames threaten to engulf them.

Artemis and Orion

She feels safe with Orion, despite the light pull of desire she feels when in his presence. It is because he's human that she allows herself to feel this, knowing that he'll be gone before desire can win her over.

One night, she finds herself in Delos, away from the forest and is not surprised to find Apollo here. He talks to her about the kindness of his keeper, and about his death. He tells her about the wondrous walls of Troy that he erected while there. Tells her also about the Trojans' skill in archery and all that he learned from them. The Trojans, their beloved people.

In this place where they existed before they were taken with their domains, she finds that while their worlds may never merge, not every meeting has to be a collision. So she keeps coming here, night after night, and sometimes, he's there and sometimes, she's alone. Sometimes, Orion asks to come with her and she always says no.

Once Apollo offers to show her what he learned from the Trojans and shows her what he can do with his arrows and shoots a target that seems smaller than a speck of dust from their distance. His arrow shoots, hits, and stays.

They usually only shoot to kill, so Artemis likes this game, and says that she can shoot something even further away. Apollo flashed that handsome smile of his and points to a target and she nods and shoots even though she cannot see it. When it hits, there's no protest or sound, but the invisible speck she shot at spreads in waves of red. And she knows at once who it is, but Apollo, she thinks, knew it all along.

She inhales sharply at this realization and can feel Apollo's hands on her shoulders now, supporting her. She shrugs with force and lets herself fall to the ground. Her anger, he knows how to placate, so she does not give him that satisfaction. He calls her name, but she does not respond. Finally, he sits down beside her and touches her face, and she lets him but she does not respond to his touch. She doesn't want to do anything with her lover's killer

His hands rest on her temples and she closes her eyes. He touches them and she sees what was always known to him and she sees, in this one death of Orion, all his other fates.

And in every one of these, she sees him dead by her own hand, sees also the methods of these deaths. She falls in love with him, and he dies; he betrays her and she punishes him, as is fit; he tries to overcome her, and she kills him. All these deaths exist in this one death. And every time, it is her fault.

Apollo leans closer and says, "You can blame me, if you like." And then, "He was doomed the moment you loved him."

And she knows this - always knew this - that humans don't outlive gods, and often, they don't survive gods.

She remains silent and does not deny loving Orion. Let Apollo think that Orion is the one she loves.

She closes her eyes and tears drop from her eyelashes. Apollo pulls his hands away as they touch his fingers. She weeps now for the loss of Orion, but she will only be able to mourn for so long. Orion's life was short, and Artemis has an eternity to live. It's her anger at Apollo that will linger.

Orion's body washes on the shore, still bleeding, her silver-tipped arrow remains stuck in his chest, still, she remains silent, and seeing that she would not speak to him,

Apollo leaves her to wash away Orion's blood. Orion whose heart was hers, but the most painful Orion who has her heart.

Blood is what binds them, first and foremost, but she wonders if it will ever be enough.

So when Orion has been denied of a proper burial, she lays him across the night sky. close to the moon, but always facing away from the sun. She's surprised to find herself relieved at having been absolved of a greater transgression: she would not have not been able to live with killing Orion the way Apollo can live with destroying everything he loves. But still, she would not allow herself to be grateful to him, nor to forgive him.

Eternity is a very long time. A very long time without Orion.

i.

First. He touches you and you light on fire. Your wrist blazes where his fingers meet your skin. The burns don't show, but it's hard to breathe with ash in your lungs. It's so hard to breathe. You're suffocating daily.

It's not nice to compare two people. Eponine knows that. Because sooner or later, you start to favor one person over the other and then suddenly, the former becomes a standard that the latter will never reach up to.

But Eponine Thenardier is not a nice girl and could you really blame her for comparing two men who are actually decent to her? A gamine has to occupy herself somehow in a life of misery and hunger.

Marius Pontmercy hardly touches her. But if it's Cosette, it's like his hands can't stop getting the feel of her soft skin beneath his fingertips. It hurts Eponine more than she cares to admit, but she can't blame him. Her skin and her rags are marred with dirt and they're probably going to remain that way. Him growing up in bourgeois France alienates him to the feel of the soil beneath his bare feet and to the layer of dirt and dust that cocoons around the skin. He may claim to be a revolutionary, but there will always be parts of him that stays true to his roots. For example: his preference for the Lark dressed in satin and lace rather than her, the dirty gamine.

But when he does touch Eponine, his touch is gentle and it is kind. It is not forceful and it is not cruel like her father and his dirt-stained palms, and his callused précised fingers always used in some form of malice. It coaxes her attention like a baby to its mother. She can't brush it aside and she can't ignore it. If she did, she'd feel guilty.

Eponine likes the feel of Marius fingers around her. It makes her feel safe, warm, and maybe even loved in her own messed-up way.

Enjolras' touch (if he had a first name, Eponine wouldn't know. Not that she cares anyways), however, is different. Much like Marius, he has hardly touched her, but there have never been many circumstances that would require him to do so, let alone talk to her. That's also that he's like that with everyone, unless it's his friends, his ever vigilant comrades. There is no reason to be offended.

But in the few times where they have crossed paths, he does not hesitate to make contact. His grip is not soft, but it is not rough either. It is firm, his grasp around her arm like a clamp. Sturdy, steady, and unyielding. She should know. He does not need to cajole for attention. From the way he takes ahold of her arm, he only demands her attention. To look away is unforgivable.

"Excuse me, mademoiselle. I believe you dropped this."

In his other hand, he holds out a handkerchief with the initials MP embroidered in corner with crimson thread. It was once Marius', but now it is hers, a gift bestowed from the former to the latter. He calls it a token of appreciation, but for Eponine, the handkerchief is a reminder of him, a piece of him that belongs to her, not Cosette.

Her eyes fall on the handkerchief, but she makes no move to retrieve it. Her attention is not on the handkerchief, but rather the hand that has encircled around her arm. It burns her skin, the sensation scorching and only spreading until the heat has consumed her entire body. If he is the undying flame, then she is the water, the rain drenches everything and everyone.

Her breath hitches. She takes a sharp breath of air. It is hard for the air to fill her lungs when there is already smoke.

"Madamoiselle?"

She snaps out of her haze, the smoke in her lungs dissipating. He releases her as she snatches the handkerchief out of his hand. Their fingers graze for the briefest of moments and the feeling of fire meeting water and smoke returns in a spilt second.

Without meeting his eyes, she nods gruffly. "Thank you, monsieur." And she slips away, her forearm still warm.

ii.

Second. It hurts to watch him. He shines. He's brighter than the sun; he's too beautiful for your eyes. It's hard to look at him. It's even harder to look away from him. You're going blind.

In a sea of people, she always knows how to locate Marius, even if his back is turned to her.

She is the daughter of a con-man so perhaps she can only be expected to have this talent. She knows how to spot the details, the tiny insignificant aspects that become so significant should they be brought up. Baby steps, says her father, are the keys to any successful con.

If the freckles cannot point Marius out for her, then Eponine recognizes him by the tricolor badge he wears with pride on his brown coat, which also matches the color of his hair. Mahogany. She slept in a mahogany bed once, back when her parents had the inn and her life wasn't defined by dirt, hunger, and misery. She misses the bed, but likes the color mahogany.

Gold, however, outshines mahogany without a question. She would know that- nothing catches the attention of her parents like the glint of francs in the light. She really must be her parents' daughter if Enjolras' curls, glistening in the sunlight remind her of money. In a street full of strangers and thieves, it is even easier to pick out Enjolras, his scarlet waistcoat billowing as he strides on the opposite side of the street. The sky is overcast today, yet he shines anyways.

The curls on his head are shimmering beneath the pale rays that peek out from the blanket of clouds that has wrapped around the sun. Combined with the crimson he adorns with pride, he becomes a painful combination of scarlet and gold. It hurts to watch him, even from afar. To watch means to burn her eyes, but to look away means seal the light away. He is the flame of life, the harbinger of revolution, blood, and death but also the harbinger of change, brotherhood, and life.

A bringer of change, but so, so alive.

"'Ponine? Are you coming?"

Her eyes do not leave Enjolras. He does not see her in her rags from across the street, but her gaze follows him until he turns a corner.

She averts her gaze, feeling strangely disappointed. She is not a sight for sore eyes. It is better that he doesn't notice her.

Coming." She mutters, quickening her footsteps behind Marius.

iii.

Third. Your ears are tuned to his voice. You could pick him out in a sea of thousands. His voice makes pretty singers who sing pretty songs sound dull. His voice makes everything else sound ugly.

Marius' voice is much like his touch- gentle. When he speaks to her, she lets it roll over her like a warm breeze. His voice is unlike any other voices she is familiar with. Whereas the voices she knows best speak slang with rancor, his voice remains soft, his accent formal, his grammar almost flawless.

Eponine knows her voice well enough. He may say he likes the way she teases, but it is clear her voice, raspy yet teasing, does not make his heart sing.

No, it is the lark's voice, dainty and light as a feather that he longs to listen to. Her voice is that of an angel, or so he claims, and her laughter rings in the air like silver bells.

Let it be known that Enjolras' tongue is made of silver. Everyone knows that, Eponine included. He talks like Marius, a cultured drawl, his accent formal and his grammar flawless. But pieces of silver fall from his lips with every word he speaks. Even the big words that would make other people look pompous sounds captivating on his lips. He has people eating out of the palm of his hand without even trying to.

Eponine will not cave to such demands, because the things he says about revolution and democracy really is crap. He may sympathize with her kind of people, but he does not understand. That does not stop her from watching him from afar when he makes a speech though.

He bellows and rants, the whims and desires of the crowd he gathers at his mercy. Somehow, it is more melodic to listen to than to the songs of a minstrel. His voice reaches her the same way Marius' does, but it does not just scrape the surface. It burrows beneath her skin, scorching her insides and leaves her wanting, craving, needing more. His voice is not just pretty- it is enough to silence the birds, enough to silence everything and everyone because nothing else will ever compare.

When his speech comes to an end, the crowd gathered around has turned frenzy, emotions running high as he hops down from the platform, his throne of wood, to distribute pamphlets most likely to later be found drenched in the sewage water. There is excitement buzzing in the air, yet it does not reach her. She can only close her eyes and imagine his voice again. Eponine is not a sentimental woman, but she finds there are only a few pretty things in her life. There are even fewer beautiful things, which she guards with jealousy.

If the crowds will be swept away in the heat of the moment he has created, then she will remain still and remember him, the boy with a beautiful voice.

"Pretty words, bourgeois boy." Eponine mutters, as he passes her outside of Café Musain. She's waiting for Marius to come out and doesn't expect Enjolras to hear her off-handed comment.

He paused in his footstep, head turned towards her. "You were at the rally, mademoiselle?"

"Not for you. I was there for Monsieur Marius."

There's a strange glint in his eye, but he doesn't seem offended. "That hardly changes anything. What did you think?"

She scoffs, crossing her arms. "They aren't going to come Monsieur. It may look like they're with you now, but when the National Guard comes, they'll scatter."

He pursues his lips. She's hit a nerve. "We shall see about that."

iv.

fourth. the color of his eyes is blue enough to drown in. he is turning you into a clichéd love-wrecked being. you're drowning, always sinking. down, down, down.

Marius' eyes remind Eponine of the first leaf of spring. A splash of color in an otherwise gray existence, every time she looks him in the eye, she sees nothing but hope and promises of a better tomorrow. He is the spring that comes after winter. He is the breath of fresh air that cuts through the smog of the streets she has come to call home.

The problem with hope and with being the first breath of fresh air though is that they can only last for so long before they've faded into what existed before. They are fragile things with no real source to sustain them.

Perhaps the only reason Eponine has stuck around Marius is because he makes her an alcoholic, with his doe eyes. It is easy to get drunk on hope and to pray every day that he might her to be his.

She sees the ocean in Enjolras' eyes. Or at least, that's how she imagines the ocean to look like. She wouldn't know any better and that's fine, she doesn't expect to ever see the ocean anyways. If she did, then she supposes she'd like to drown herself there. Sink to the bottom where no one else can find her.

Eponine does not feel like doing that when she looks at Enjolras. No, definitely not. His eyes are blue, yes, the kind she imagined herself drowning in, but just no. He is fire, she tells herself. He is an untamed wildfire, waiting to spread and take, take, and take everything he can. She burns herself when she looks at him.

The ocean does not do that, she decides, until the faithful day at the barricade. She dresses in men's clothing if only to die with Marius in battle.

Enjolras recognizes her too late into battle and that's only because he was too busy with preparations to notice sooner.

"Go," He orders, a terse look set in stone. His eyes ablaze with fury. "You have no reason to be here."

She thinks of the lark's note for Marius, but decides to omit that and wonders if it's possible to be both water and fire. He sets her on fire without meaning to, but when she looks him in the eye, she feels like drowning in whatever's hiding in those depths. She would guess whatever's there consists of passion and determination. And like hope, those two things are easy to get drunk on.

The only difference is, they can't be discarded on a whim. They have a foundation built on knowledge, emotion, and most importantly, sheer will power.

They're almost impossible to give up. He is summer. He is the everlasting heat that scorches all without mercy.

"I have no reason to go either, Monsieur." She answers, unable to break eye contact. It's almost like she wants to choke on the water. "Revolution or not, nothing really changes for me. My life stays the same."

"Not for long," He insists, furrowing his brow. "A new age is upon us, mademoiselle."

She shrugs. "We'll see about that. Either way, I'd rather stay and find out for myself."

v.

fifth. you know him. you love him. through a thousand lifetimes, across millions of stars, you'd find him, you'd never leave him. you love him, till death do you part.

She's been a fool. Why didn't she realize it sooner?

As she sits in Marius' arms with a bullet lodged in her chest, her life (and other lifetimes) flashes before her eyes and she realizes the hints have always been there. She was just too blind to see them. Enjolras was the one. And she couldn't see past Marius to recognize him sooner.

But it's too late now. Her breathing grows shallower as Marius holds her head steady. It takes too much energy to turn her head, let alone let her eyes scan the surroundings.

Enjolras stands a few feet away from her, drenched in the rain in the corner of her eye. And she remembers in a montage of clumsy stringed flashbacks.

There have been lifetimes like this, where they go on with their lives, none the wiser or aware of the other. In other lifetimes, they're so close, yet they keep missing one another.

But in the end, it always ends the same way. Sometimes he's the first to go. Other times, she leaves instead. They haven't gotten it right.

This is not the first lifetime they've shared together and it will be not the last. She won't let it be.

"And rain," she murmurs, closing her eyes. She thinks of a revolutionary boy with a touch of fire, hair of gold, a voice of music, and eyes of summer and the ocean. "Will make flowers grow."

Perhaps she will be luckier in the next lifetime.

vi.

(sixth. he loves you too.)

Enjolras would be lying if he said he never noticed her, the gamine that flanked Marius' side like a shadow. Marius describes her best.

"Her name was Eponine. Her life was cold and dark, yet she was unafraid."

A murmur of agreements breaks out and while he cannot deny the truth in those words, Enjolras cannot help but feel bothered that it was Marius who said them and not him.

It is strange, indeed. They were not close. She was not family. She was not a friend either. And though they shared a few stinted conversations, he did not know her name, until now. He did not bother to remember because Patria is his mistress and he will not leave his revolution behind for a gamine he barely knows. And yet, as she lays dying in Marius' arms, something in Enjolras screams and he knows he's about to lose something important. He's been missing something important for a long time now.

It is too late though. Her head rests against Marius, who twists so he can kiss her on the forehead. She is gone. The rain continues to fall.

He sighs, exhausted and motions to Combeferre to help him carry her body. There is not much he can do now. And as the leader of the revolution, he cannot show a sign of weakness. Mourning (her) comes later. First, they must win the battle.

He soldiers on, the thought of a dead gamine lingering at the back of his mind. The National Guard is relentless, but he knows that. At this point, even if the revolution is doomed to fail, they can only continue until the very end.

When the National Guard shoots him and Grantaire, Eponine comes back to mind. He does not see the explosion of gunfire. He sees her instead, dancing in rain made of silver. She is beautiful.

He falls through the window of his fortress, caked in blood, the symbol of revolution clenched in one hand and realizes he was a little bit in love with her too.

What makes his chest burn is her smile.

The girl has other male friends, in their own division and outside of it – and, has he made sure that the most dangerous ones are also the ones farthest away – but she is never that comfortable in her own skin around them, never so relaxed and content. When with them, she keeps trying to hide her fiery personality away, unwilling to let anyone know she does not master her emotions with all the deftness expected of a responsible and capable assistant, and won't they be surprised at her ferocity when she finally explodes?

But this, this is different.

He has already warned himself it might be; he has been aware of the boy's origins the moment he stepped in the building of Sol-Libra, shocking and scaring his peers with his level of raw wit. It wasn't hard to find out the boy's identity – not when his assistant used to make a point of checking on his studies abroad, it does not help either that he was the son of the esteemed owner of the corporation, Xiang Mendoza.

She has never had that much to say to him about someone else, and he has been filing all the information carefully, telling himself he should be thankful for her show of trust for the opportunity to revise his plans. Telling himself that feeling irritated by her willing exposition is illogical and unworthy of his time.

And he tries to remember that, tries to crush the weakness before it forms, but, when his eyes happen on her arms around the young man's tall and lean form, these thoughts are subdued by something more primal, something more exposed. Angry and vulnerable.

She smiles at him and congratulates him for his first day in the 10th Division, his instantaneous promotion to Division manager – only to be expected; he thinks the young man will soon surpass Assistant and Event coordinator Raina Manalo maybe even Manager Sayo – and takes a step back, takes his hands in hers. Her true smile, which he had never seen directed at someone other than him, flashes in the already dimming afternoon light; and his sharp eyes do not miss the flush on the young man's cheeks, the look of want in his eyes.

The moment is destroyed by the boy's immaturity, as he is unable to cope with the proximity. He turns away from her and asks her not to call him by a nickname Adrian can't quite catch, tells her he is "Sir Mendoza" now and needs everyone else to respect him – and the Manager of the 5th division feels his throat sour with contempt for that boy who is unable to appreciate and savor her affection, or even to deal with it in a mature way. Ordinarily, such a demonstration of ungratefulness would rile her up; she would press her hands tight against herself, bite on her lower lip, and go on with a slightly clipped voice, the true smile fading onto a doll's artificiality – and he, he thinks himself victorious.

Yet her smile does not disappear – in fact, her smile only grows larger and gentler, as if she is endeared by the man's words. Which, he realizes, she is; he surmises it must be one of his characteristic reactions, one of the things that make him, him. At last, her smile infects the scion– and his smile is a bit unlike hers, more secretive and pleased, but intimate, all the same. Like they know each other inside and out, and can look past their superficial banter and treasure each other for what they are – defects and all.

He looks at their smiles, and thinks Tristan Mendoza might know parts of her he himself has never even glimpsed, that thought caused him to narrow his eyes slightly, his hands slowly curling into fists.

"Ya'll right, Sir Santos?"

He turns to the voice as if whipped – and of course, it had to be Gabriel, coming up the hallway with his meek assistant, holding the creepiest of his knowing smirks. Sniffing for his weaknesses.

He disguises the irritation behind a calm expression, but he knows very well what this scene tells about him. "Why do you ask, Gabriel?"

"I dunno, ya looked like ya ate something mighty bitter." And in their unacknowledged little game, he retreats with every step Gabriel advances; and he loses when the other manager sees the two figures standing in front of the 10th Division's office.

Gabriel moves forward eagerly, snatches what little territory he has given with savage pleasure. "Ah, that's the new division manager? I didn't know he was acquainted with Hannah."

He sees Kyle move his lips – probably to tell his manager of the relationship between Tristan Mendoza and Hannah Manuel– but he does not listen; he can only see Gabriel's smile, see the promise of death in his closed eyes. A taunt.

An unspoken idea that, if he has such weaknesses, maybe he can be defeated after all.

The anger burns stronger.

He has been long setting things so Hannah would function as a distraction when he eventually makes his escape from the Sol-Libra's functions; right now, however, he decides he will not stop there – he cannot afford to stop there, cannot suffer her to live. He will not stop until he sees that weakness in him gone – not until he destroys everything that ever made him feel vulnerable and exposed, everything that has ever been out of his reach, everything that made Gabriel smile like he, Adrian Santos, was only human.

After all, she is his and his alone; he will one day be more powerful than a God in their eyes, and if that doesn't make her his, what could?

Silently, he decides he won't even leave a hollow shell behind for the boy, and smiles a true smile.

Carnations

The skies were a beautiful purple splashed against the gardens of the school. And there were distinct conversations overheads, of what food to eat, of where should they sit, or who is the handsome guitarist of the second band. Sitting along the red chairs outside, he was sitting beside a girl who was fixing her skirts, cheeks tinted and hair newly cut.

"I sometimes regret it," he said as he put the letters of permission down, and he saw her look up in question "Taking up education, making it my entire world," his usually soft features were replaced by his forehead crinkling, the crows of his eyes more prominent than ever "I failed to take care of myself."

In habit, she tucked her hair in and looked at his eyes, and smiled softly "I made academics my world too," The smile was infectious and he angled his body towards her and they both know this feeling; the vulnerability of opening your world to another person.

"I always think it was too ambitious of me to know a lot of things," she continued "Like I can tell you the summary of World War 1 without any internet help,"

"Why did it happen?"

"Archduke Franz Ferdinand was shot by Gavrilo Princip,"

"What country was Britain's Protectorate?"

"Belgium"

The smile on his face never left as she rambled on about these events, there was something different about this conversation, different from the ones with his other students, "You are into history?"

She nodded and swiped something from the cellphone she was holding "I got into the Tudors this summer,"

"Really? We're going to discuss that next week," He heard someone call out to him but he was focused too much at the girl beside him

The girl eyes lit up, and then a look of sadness crept up and just like her smile, it was infectious too, he frowned slightly as he waited her words "I think, King Henry VIII had a big brother complex,"

And soon as she said those words, he was suddenly reminded of his own brother. There were no more smiles and laughter. There were just two people numbly looking at the students going in or out of the gate, the strums of guitars across the speakers, looking at their phones that haven't lit up. A connection. A similarity once again.

Her eyes started tearing up, the medals and certificates and the numbers blurred together. The comparisons, the anguish. A pink ribbon amidst blue cradles. He saw how her fingers were shaking.

"My brother used to kiss the picture of his girlfriend every night before he sleeps," He started, and he remembers it all too, competitions, both of them slumped over the kitchen table, racing against one another, bigger salaries. Two burning blazes. He didn't notice his fingers were shaking too.

"It's weird but one night we talked," He shifted slightly, finding the right words "I told him I was tired," he remembered the memory fondly "He sat down, and told me he was tired too,"

Her eyes stopped tearing up. "My eldest brother just got married last month," She slowly found the courage to look at him again "I cried and cried when his wife, was walking down the aisle,"

And it makes the floodgates of their hearts spontaneously break and how suddenly the little talk becomes more than just little. He would talk of the miracles, music, and love; the beauty of the world and she would talk about lust, expectations, regrets; the unpleasantness of the world.

Two parallel lines becoming asymptotes.

When the purple skies turned into a dark blue dotted with stars, she stood up, bowed slightly and bid him goodbye, and proceeded to walk outside the school. The night lamps of the streets fill her vision and the cool air hits her in the face. She was walking, as calmly as she can. But then her chest aches, it was a weird sensation. She was fine before. She was talking with him and how he looked human, and not someone higher than her, vulnerable.

She was fine before. A few minutes ago she was fine. So why? When she took her first few steps away from him, she couldn't breathe. Her lungs were filling with something not air. Some student from her school approached her and asked if she was okay, the paleness of her skin never escaping her. The phantom burns in her chest seized, but as it ended, she coughed and coughed and coughed. It was the violent racking push from throat when she ate too much or ate too less. The nausea was visiting too and she felt dizzy. Still she dared to continue to go home. "This is just another episode," she thought. Another violent cough racked her body. Yep, just another episode.

Hanahaki Syndrome: People who hold unrequited love have flowers suddenly grow inside their heart and lungs. The victim starts coughing / throwing up petals and over time, full blossoms and thorns. It's noted to be painful and eventually suffocates and kills the victim, although the time it takes depends on the intensity of their feelings.

It may be cured if their love is requited, or the flowers are surgically removed. However, the surgery also takes their ability to have any feelings towards their crush.

A petal released from her mouth like a lost piece of confetti as she coughed, almost as if to say congratulations! She recognized the flower and she put in her palm; it was a pink petal of a carnation. Had it not been in the middle of high noon, and the fact that she was in the school's comfort room, she would have screamed.

All she could do was stare in shock at the petal in her hand. After all, how else was she supposed to react to that? What comes to her thoughts first isn't what to do about her infected lungs, but his gentle expression from this morning.

It wasn't supposed to be any different from the norm; sure she talks to him outside the classroom, having a short conversation or talking about the lesson. He walks through the garden pavilion with a cup of coffee or two on some days. The weather was perfect, the bugs stayed away, and it felt like they were the only people on Earth. No one was around to interrupt as they walked side by side without a care in the world, exchanging stories and laughing at his terrible daddy jokes.

Nothing particularly special happened as far as she could remember. So why was it that when he looked over and smiled so warmly at her, that she forgot to breathe and thought, "I want to be with him forever"?

As if she were being punished by some cruel goddess watching her struggle to come up with an answer, three more petals have fallen to the sink. As she tried to clear her throat, she splashed her face and groaned; she gave in, unable to deny it any longer.

She liked him.

No, "like" doesn't even begin describe the weight of her emotions. It's love. Pathetic; considering how hard she tried to protect her heart. Pathetic, considering there was another before that reverent man, a boy with tired eyes and unruly curls, that boy who made her spit out thorns, that poked through her jugular artery ruining her neck, and not soft velvet petals. A pitiful sound escapes her, a weak laughter as her whole body slumped and she held her head in her hands.

It's like she hasn't learned anything from the people who hurt her. Friends and family coming and going, taking and taking, never looking back to see what they did to her. How many holes and bruises they left for her to quietly patch up, all by herself. How many scars she had inflicted to herself. And now he's about to take what's left, her very life and remaining feelings.

Maybe she was bound to fall for him from the moment they met? The moment he stepped into the classroom, like fate or destiny or the alignment of stars.

As hot tears start to pool in her hands, and she began to shake, all she can think about now are his kind words, his gentle voice, the time they've spent together. As if on cue, more petals come along with stomach acid and she bolted into one of the stalls, clutching the toilet bowl. It'd be one thing if the vomiting was the result of her not eating right, but the sickly sweet taste of the petals make her feel even worse.

The burns subsided after a while and she wiped her wet clammy hands to her skirt, fixed her blouse and wiped her glasses clean, she needed to look fine when goes in the classroom and she lifted her chin a little higher as she heard the click of her heels.

There's a tickling in the back of her throat.

She coughs and coughs but it never goes away, and it's really starting to irritate her, She hasn't taken no more than ten steps away and suddenly there is no air in her lungs, she takes a deep breath that rattles in her throat, and she still can't breathe-

She stumbles out of the stairs and falls to her knees, still coughing and trying to get the petals out, and-

Little specks of blood stains her tinted lips, it's the familiar metallic taste and more petals drift to the ground, stained and delicate, and she grabs one, holds it up to her eyes with a trembling hand, and the tears she repressed dropped as soon as the petal fell.

She just thanks the heavens it's Tuesday today.

When she woke up, she remembered that medical masks were common this time of the year, with how often people got sick, so hopefully it wouldn't be odd if she started wearing one. What's odd is how she never noticed how many people wore one as she rode the train to school: the old, the young, and most of all, her fellow peers. Some wearing the uniform from her school, others from another, all looking rather downcast.

How many also have the disease known as "love" growing inside them?

Today is Wednesday, and as she slipped her bag on and got her beep card, she let out a small breath of air she doesn't know she's been holding.

She wasn't even a quarter of the way through her day or up the stairs as she felt that twisting feeling again, as if something was squeezing at her heart to. The small walk to her locker seemed like the longest road she ever took in her life, it makes her dizzy on top of her damned anxiety, and she doesn't even realize that she's so out of it until she bumped into someone. By the time she managed to look up and rummaging an apology at the back of her throat, his firm hands found their way to her shoulders and he helped steady her as she involuntarily held her breath.

"Are you alright?"

Although she just talked to him yesterday, her knees under her striped skirt are knocking against each other and her fingers are trembling as she pulled her school bag's straps even closer to her. Is it because she has become aware about how she felt towards him? Or because of how quick she is to notice the intensity of his stare, full of concern under his glasses as he waits for her answer? Perhaps it's due to how loud she can hear the blood rushing through her ears. Whatever the reason was, she felt another coughing fit coming and instinctively hold her hand over her mouth, the mask trapping and hiding the petals.

"Did you catch a cold?" He tried to get a look at her face but she instinctively avoid him, he said her name gently, his right never leaving her shoulder and his left moved up and down her other, "Are you going to be okay?"

She swallowed the repulsive taste that coated her mouth, she managed a stiff nod and reassured him the best she can, forcing her eyes to smile, but he still seems skeptical, worry evident in his face.

"You didn't get sick from staying too late the other night?" … It'd be a lie if she said no. It's just allergies, the girl adamantly insisted; a common, believable excuse, even if he is a PhD he would believe this pitiful whine. His furrowed brows relaxed somewhat as he leaned back and adjusted his glasses.

"If you say so…" The man shoved his hands into his pockets and they both walk towards the faculty. The young girl never paid attention to how close he was before, and even though he's not in her personal space, she can feel this useless thing drumming away in her chest.

What would it feel like to hold his hand longer? To have his arm around her shoulders, if they dared to take it further? To be closer by his side and bask in the warmth his body had to share? It's not the first time she wondered about it, she can't count the dreams, his eyes has been in, albeit this time not as platonically.

Her body shook without warning and she retched.

Sometimes he thinks her stubbornness will be the death of her, "You shouldn't be at school."

"My mother won't allow it," and at the mention of the woman, the man decided to not to push the subject, lest he has the child suffer a panic attack this early in the morning, where the clinic is yet to be opened and he has other classes to go to.

Upon her insistence, he sighed and patted her head. "Promise me you won't push yourself at least?"

Even with her mask on, he can still see her smile and he heard the all too familiar line of "I can't, but I'll manage,"

With a reluctant nod, he closes the faculty door and looked through the glass pane to see if she can even climb the stairs.

She hurried to the college comfort room, to get rid of the petals that filled the mask; she's unfortunately stuck taking big whiffs of the petals' aromatic fragrance, the damn things starting to itch against her tired mouth.

She got inside the classroom, removed her bag and tried to fall asleep in her chair.

Miss Monty tackles a lesson she is far interested in as she rested her chin against her hand and never one to take notes, she found herself absentmindedly doodling crude little flowers along the edges of her notebook, but despite the talk of history and the Omni present favor she has with the motherly professor, she can only focus on her burning chest.

Now, people may argue that suffocating is far worse, but while physical pain eventually stops and wounds heal, there's no telling how long it would take to recover from being told the inevitable "I don't love you".

It's scary to think about. She has been betrayed, lied to, and thrown away several times before; compared to getting scratches and cuts (and sometimes alcohol and agua oxinada seeping into them), compared to the nip of the razors it didn't come close to that feeling of something tearing through and ripping your soul apart. He broke through the walls she has built around herself, time and time again, ever the patient and understanding man he was, and he's one swing away from breaking her unformed glass heart into thousands of tiny pieces.

He is the one in front of the class now. His jazz hands and her classmates are laughing at one of his stories. Is it not ironic? He teaches religion and suddenly he became yours.

Yes, having her feelings crushed is worse. This whole throwing up petals she can handle.

Her mouth pressed into a thin line, and she quietly cursed. It takes everything she has to keep herself from crying, as bile slowly floods her mouth, and she felt the class' eyes focus on her

They saw her decision to forego the mask, not caring anymore, and most of them gasp as petals come from her mouth.

She has to hold it together; she can't break down in the middle of class. In the middle of his class. Her eyes dart to him, with evident horror in his eyes. He doesn't say anything to her; He doesn't even look at her face. He just took a petal and held it in one palm, as he continued on with the lecture.

The eyes of pity bore on her back, Maria was even soothing her back. When she's alone she can let it all out. Just suffer a little while longer and the day will be over soon.

Please, please, please, just don't cry, she begged herself.

No one in the class was smiling after that.

When his subject ends, the pressure in her head eases up as she made a beeline to the comfort room. She didn't even wait for him to get out of the classroom. After making sure no one was around, she cleaned and washed her mask and mouth out and throw the petals out. While the smell of the comfort room isn't any better, it's refreshing compared to the lingering, perfume-like scent that's stained to her. As she fixed her appearance and put her mask back on, the door opens. And she saw, Adiella enter and smothered her expensive handkerchief to her still bloodied mouth.

"We're eating," Adiella said as she straightened her jacket and sauntered to an open cubicle.

"You know I don't eat,"

"No, we are eating."

Adiella watched as her friend sighed and washed her hands, and suddenly she was holding her hand to her chest.

"It's him? You're throwing up all these petals because of him?"

"No, I'm throwing these up because of Tom." She said in sarcasm.

"Beb," Adiella started as she led the still coughing girl outside, "you need to tell him,"

"Tell him "Sir, I really like you, you have to like me back or I'll die,"?"

The taller girl, slapped her hand to the smaller's shoulder, "Just tell him how you feel, no one really dies of Hanahaki,"

"And risk losing all our conversations and coffee? Risk losing his smiles?"

"Or risk losing your life," Adiella stopped fixed the girl's short hair "Beb, you still have to remember, he's still our teacher, you're still his student. Nothing is going to change that." She laughed slightly at the smaller girl's eye roll "Can we eat now?"

After school has ended, she saw him at the red chairs they have been accustomed to talk to. He makes her sit beside him.

There's no way he can miss how many times she keep putting her hands over her mouth as if she's about to hurl any second.

The older man tried to find the right words again "Are you alright? You, purged petals."

You're fine. You're fine. You have to be. Kathrina Angelica you have to be fucking fine.

His lips purse and she felt the guilt creeping up her spine as he stared down the top of her head.

"Hey, is there anything you need to get off your chest?" His question catches her off guard. His eyes probe hers for answers. Of course, he notices the way she clasped her hands together nervously in her lap and how her gaze drop to her phone, at the students, anywhere but him. In the corner of her vision she can see his quiet desperation.

Her heart throws itself against her rib cage.

She wants to tell him she loves him.

"You have people who care about you," he gently reminded her, speaking softly. "We can't help you if we don't know what's going on."

But he can't possibly feel the same way. He's only going to hurt you. He'll crush your affections with those gentle hands of his. Those firm, steady hands covering her own. "I'm your teacher, aren't I? It's alright to ask for help. You can talk to me if you need to."

And he'll kill her with them too.

At some point, all she could hear was white noise and see static. Earlier's images and thoughts play like they're on a film reel. How would her body look once those flowers freed themselves? Little blossoms reaching towards the sun as her flesh decays. How much is it going to hurt? How long will it be? Can it be worse than hearing Sir tell her how he really feels about her?

It can't be. Just guessing what words he'd use makes her chest twist tightly.

She flinched; that's the first time she's ever heard him raised his voice. It was unlike him and suddenly she started crying. She hates getting yelled at.

"I'm sorry Sir St-,"

A deep sigh bellowed from the man, and he raised his palm to his wrinkling forehead. "No, it was my fault, sorry for prying so much." He stood up from the seat and walked towards the entrance of the auditorium. He pauses in the doorway before looking over his shoulder. "Get well soon and rest up, alright?" He forces a smile that even she could tell is strained. "You are exempted for the seatwork, please don't worry."

"If you're free tomorrow, Sir," She began hesitantly "can we talk? Near the clinic so…" She struggled with the words "So when I…retch again,"

"Tomorrow. I promise."

This time, she wake up early and leave early. Go to the nearest 7-11 and order a stupid French Vanilla cup with two packs of sweetener and sugar. Not by choice of course, but she can't help that her body's built to rudely wake her up at the crack of dawn to keep her from choking to death in her sleep. Bolting to the school's comfort room, she's hunched over the toilet and successfully cleared a total of two petals from her throat, but nothing more.

Swallowing doesn't help either. Luckily that's where hands and stomach acid come in, as unpleasant as it is. It starts to hurt this time, though, and the tormenting shocks are enough to make anyone stop. Her fingers are getting sweaty and panic seizes her body but she has to do this.

And in horror, she pulled three, four, five flowers with full stems out. This time, the petals actually have blood on them. It's a few minutes after realizing that fact that she tastes it too.

Why has her Hanahaki already gotten this far after just two weeks? It's supposed to take at least months to get this bad! Would it regress if she stopped seeing him? No, that's not even possible; not only he'd only persist if she started avoiding him; they are required to meet twice a week. Wait, more importantly, Hanahaki can't turn back at all. So that means it'll only get worse even faster? In her haste to clean up her mess, her anxiety only multiply until her head pounds with frustration.

She can't go on like this.

There was only one solution.

Take all the flowers out.

Sacrifice this. All those memories.

Sacrifice him.

Even though she kept telling herself there's no way it's mutual, that it won't happen, that it could never happen, she still doesn't find the idea of having the love blossoming inside her forcibly removed. This is love.

You really don't want that taken from you.

And there he is near the clinic, coffee in hand, his phone in the other. The bespectacled man meets her eyes when she walked by and waves. She's thankful her mask hides her small smile as she waved back and continued into the building, head down.

The day is drawn out far too long for her liking. Had it always felt like that? Even as she spaced out, her eyes are drawn to the little flowers near the garden pavilion.

She wonders if there are Carnations in the small bushes.

Her grip tightens around her phone. Her feet refuse to move no matter how many times she screams at them in her head. The fear of impending rejection bites at her Achilles' heels, keeping her rooted. But it's not like time, the world, or the Hanahaki will wait for her to get her shit together. She forces herself to march down there.

The garden pavilion is weirdly absent of the usual traffic of students today, although there are still a few lingering around, eating their lunches or on their laptops. It's not hard to find Sir Stephen sitting on the benches, taking shelter from the harsh sunlight. When she takes a step out from the covered walkways, she can practically feel those damn flowers poking at her from the inside. They can't wait to bask in its light with her.

The thought only hinders her for a few seconds before she lifts her head and meets him. Might as well make her choice today while the weather's nice, regardless of the pollen and morning dew in the air.

"Hi, there," he greets nonchalantly, but his eyes give him away. He's holding himself back from starting an interrogation. She can't blame him. She says hello back and hold a hand over her chest, hoping that she doesn't cough while he asks her what is happening to her.

He plays with his fingers as he searches for his words. "Could you… take your mask off?" Her entire body stiffens. He takes his hands out of his pockets and reaches out to her school bag. "Flower petals sure do get everywhere, don't they?" He holds up a dried pink petal, slightly yellowed from time, but all its veins still visible and its red streaks all the more striking under the light. "You… have Hanahaki, don't you?"

No use fooling a man who has seen more than her.

"At first I thought it was some kind of perfume, but… you don't wear them" He lets the breeze take the expired bit of plant away and watches it twirl in the wind before returning his attention to her.

"Take your mask off," He eased lightly, patting the seat next to him. "It'll be easier if you start coughing up more." At first the student thinks he's taking it rather calmly until she see his hands curl up into fists. Is he that frustrated?

She fulfills his request, seeing as how she doesn't need to hide it anymore. He comfortably slips his hands back into his pockets and shifts his weight to one leg. "Who did you fall in love with?"

Why does everything have to be so to the point and blunt? Why does this have to be so fast? He did her a favor of bringing it up, so it's time to stop running in circles. She has to accept her fate; she had always been running away.

Get it over with, already.

After letting a few moments of silence pass to steady her breathing, she opens her mouth and…

… And it's done.

Sir Stephen blinks in surprise, clearly not expecting her confession to be for him. Kath's heart's going crazy and she's just as surprised at herself for doing that. It just felt like the right choice in the heat of the moment. Minutes pass and he's yet to move or utter a word, unsettling her. He looks away and towards the sunlight. Anxiety possesses her entire body.

She didn't brace herself to get rejected. She didn't need to

"I'm sorry. You're my student."

"I know," She needs to leave. She has to leave right now, why isn't she leaving why aren't her legs moving why can't she why why why whywhywhywhy–

"I'm already engaged…"

She never had a chance to begin with. It feels like her chest and throat are on fire as she run.

That's what she's best at. Running.

She can feel more flowers blooming all over her lungs and heart, vines constricting and wrapping around them before shooting up her throat. She heard him shout after her; is he chasing her?

Flowers get stuck in her throat and she wheezes, blood filling up her mouth as she reflexively cough. A couple burst past her teeth and she managed to flee to the end of a hallway where there weren't any students on the first floor. Her exhausted body has hit its limit and she tumbles to the ground, the flowers continuing to shoot out like a machine gun. Her brain yells at her to do something, anything, to prolong her life, and she's desperately yanking them out the best she can.

It hurts. More than the time of thorns and weeds. It hurts. This hurts.

However, each abrupt shock of pain is nothing. Sir Stephen's apology plays on loop and her agonizing screams don't do anything to deafen it. Even as the flowers' roots dig into her chest and spread, it's not what's causing her heart to rip in two. He never thought about her the same way. He never stayed up at night, nor had his dreams constantly invaded by her. She has never haunted him, the way he had haunted her. He never felt as happy as she did to be around him. He never felt the same, when they debate over silly historical events. When they sip coffee in the cold mornings. When he takes her trembling form in his arms.

He never loved you. He never could and he never will.

Her vision's getting dark and blurry, her head's pounding, her ears are ringing and she can't breathe anymore. Her lower jaw keeps getting pushed down as the bouquet grows, to the point where she thinks it's going to break off. With each breath, she can only smell those vile flowers as her arms drop to her sides. There are so many cuts all over her palms and they're soaked with blood and water; her hands only slip on the stems when she tries to take them out.

This is it the final push.

And at last, her heart and lungs are consumed by the flourish of blossoms.

The seeds of love have been reaped.