Estar a la Muerte (to be at Death's door)
Rating: T?
Warnings: Implied character death, sexual situations.
Word Count: 402
(i think he's dead.)
The sunlight makes the trees glow underneath. The sky meets the ends of the earth, lush with clouds, purple and red, gold and black. The leaves sway in the wind; a light brush of air shifts, and cotton rustles, flapping against her legs.
Cinnamon, cinnamon, his oxygen is infected with cinnamon. His fingers are clutching an empty space of satin. When he breathes, he can feel the springs creak underneath his stomach, digging into his skin. His face is turned towards her body, bathed in faint rays of sunlight. His eyes are closed; she can see his golden-dusted eyelashes pressed against his alabaster skin.
She remembers feeling the silk ripples of his back, her fingertips tentatively touching the knots, her eyes wide in wonder. He had clutched her, whispering, I'm sorry, I'm so so so sorry, and when he pressed his lips against hers, it was chaste and it was dry; he was shuddering and whimpering, kissing her eyelids closed, burying his face into the crook of her neck.
She stares out at the window, a million stars winking (mocking?) at her. She remembers holding him in a repulsed fascination – the type when watching a train wreck. He was gentle with her and she had expected something different but he had held her tenderly, slowly pulling down the straps of her cotton nightdress, his eyes staring into hers, shining.
There is a sudden silence. His muffled breathing stops, and the springs of the bed marks his chest with their indentations. His hand does not clutch satin. The sheets are still tangled around his legs and the knuckles of his other hand have fallen to lightly graze the floor. He doesn't (can't) open his eyes and stare at the way the sunlight traces her silhouette. His hair is matted to his forehead, strands ready to be brushed away.
She walks over to his prone form; he doesn't look any different than from when he was sleeping. She pushes a few strands back, tracing the curve of his eyebrow, the plain of his forehead. She turns her head away to gaze at the moth-eaten curtains: dark, long, hooded shadows waiting in the corners.
She feels his fingers circle around her wrist, a vice-like grip as he brings her down for a kiss, as he brings her down to steal her cinnamon breath away.
"Sweetie, sweetie, I think he's dead, too."