Happy (belated) birthday, Don't Trust The Silver Eyes
. . . . . . . . . .
He didn't mean to love her.
It had been an accident. Life isn't controllable and the more you try to shove it into a box the more, like a cat being put into a carrier, it wrestles itself away from you.
It wasn't his fault life had scratched him until he bled, until the scars were so deep they'd never fade.
Not the ones on the outside either.
Not hers either.
He hadn't tried to push back until it was too late, that he freely admitted. Admitted it as he sat in their room, body tensed against showing anything. "I was a shite," he said, face braced against the slightest quiver, jaw clenched against any tremor.
"You weren't," she said. "Come to bed."
He couldn't stay. Couldn't accept balm. Blame, yes. Balm, never. To heal was to say that maybe he hadn't been that bad, that maybe he didn't deserve to suffer and he needed to (wanted to) atone (suffer).
He couldn't leave. Couldn't walk away from the outstretched hand. Couldn't couldn't couldn't.
"I love you, too," she said, reaching to him. "I wish you'd stop hating yourself. None of it was your fault."
"It was," he said, words choked. Words helpless. "Your arm."
Shorthand. He didn't save her. It wasn't fair to her (to him) to have her save him now.
"My heart," she said. "That you've saved. Come." A short gesture. A sharp tug on his arm and he was turning back to her.
"The peace is harder than I'd expected," he said. Concession. Confession.
"Yeah," she said, and she had burrowed back into his arms and he was holding her, holding on. Balm. Blame. Scars. Bleeding. Love.
. . . . . . . . . .
A/N – I know I am behind on these. I have been short on inspiration. They will eventually all arrive, but late.