Prompt 12: When we lay together on the fresh spring grass.

~12~

~Close To Cracking~

He lies idle in the thick spring grass with one leg propped up and his head pillowed atop his crossed arms. Every once in a while wind will rush on by carrying with it earthy and fresh scents that practically ribbon through the air. It should be relaxing, the smells he's become familiar with during his trips to Britannia–who wouldn't want to take a moment to lie back and watch the clouds drift lazily on by?–but he prefers action more than anything. If he takes a bunch of time off, how will he grow stronger to ultimately surpass his father when he's older? Right now is a special case though–as things usually are with the company he's had as of late.

It's oddly quiet except the whisper of grass. He'd assume he was alone with the absence of rambling commentary on the littlest of things. But as he turns his dark eyes to his right where the spot is claimed by the girl whose snow white wings are tucked neatly under, body completely flat, and silver hair splayed in gentle waves around her. He'd think she were dead from the stillness that surrounds her–a drastic change from her usual bouncy flare. If he had to guess from the vast display of emotions she's shown him, he say that she's sad.

The conclusion makes his eyes narrow in an outward display of annoyance. Inwards however there's a sort of churning going on that reminds him of the lava pits native to his home only he's certain this feeling won't erupt in a searing emotion natural to him. No, this one will stew and pinch under his skin until he does something about it. He exhales with force hating the change in him–although not nearly as much as he should.

This is all Elizabeth's fault.

A tickle at his ear brings his left hand down to swipe the irritating feeling away. The wind brings it back a second later and his fingers grip around it and yank from the ground. The irritant is a vivid yellow flower with bits of grass tumbling free of the stem. His natural instinct is to crush the brightness between his fingers, to snuff out the light that's foreign to him, but he hesitates.
The churning simmers down to a taught knot in his stomach.

He thrusts his clutched fist in her direction as a blunt offering. "Here. This'll make you stop moping, right?" The words are brushed from within his chest as if insignificant and he raises an eyebrow at her to remain indifferent.
Cerulean eyes gain the twinkle of burning stars while her lips round in awe. All at once though he notices the way they burn out, how her fingers twitch then reach up to finger the silver necklace always in place around her throat, and she turns her head slightly away. "I don't… I don't like things like that," her voice sounds worn and quiet in a way that reminds him of someone tired and long since withered from their life.

His breathing thins at an internal rise of panic, but he clenches his jaw and his fist tighter to hide it away as he pushes himself up. She turns her head further away which causes anger to drive him in a familiar way. "Don't lie about something so stupid. I've seen you practically explode with happiness at the sight of fields of these things, insisting on covering me in petals because that's who you are," he curls his lip around the words made razor sharp, meant to cut into her despite the lack of enjoyment he feels at her recoil. Chewing out a growl when she refuses to speak, he forces an arm under her back and hauls her up into a sitting position beside him. He won't speak to the wall she pathetically tries to build between them.

He catches the flash of horror in her round eyes before he spies what she meant to hide. "Meliodas! No! I–" Her lips slam tight around her reedy words and sorrow wells in a thin sheen within her eyes before bubbling over in rivers down her cheeks.

For a moment he's unable to find words as something forms a restricting vice around his lungs. He can't seem to look away from the blotchy red and purple swelling blossoming beside her eye. The spring wind cuts between them like a trip to Purgatory. But he soldiers on, lifting his left hand to brush her hair away from it as his knuckles skim lightly over the tender area. Then with deliberate care, he tucks her hair behind her ear and pins the flower with it where it belongs.

Elizabeth nearly crumbles at the gesture, a rasping sob leaving her as she brings trembling fingers up to stroke the petals of the flower. Not a second later, she slings her arms around his neck and nuzzles her face beside his effectively petrifying him in place. "Thank you, Meliodas! I p-promise I won't do anything to drive you away! I d-don't want to lose you… You're very important to me," she gasps out in a quaking tone before admitting quietly as if the words are meant for her alone, kept tucked away in that place where all her emotions stem from, "I've never had a friend before… I've never had one to love."

A demon's senses are excellent, so he catches her words just fine, even managing to hold onto them and regard them with a hesitant… something. Something tiny and new formed in the scolding heat swelling in his chest. He coils his arm snugger around her back but remains stiff otherwise. Elizabeth smells impossibly sweet to his senses, feels ridiculously warm and pure to the darkness pooling inside him, like some rarity that shouldn't exist. And yet fissures run throughout her, threatening to shatter her to dust. Once he discovers the cause of it…

A maniacal grin splits his face that he hides in her soft hair while his next thought is slowly savored. 'I'll outclass my father in the hell I'll cause…'