Cupid's Bow
Chapter 12
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The thing with touch is, or so I've heard, is that it can become quite addictive.
On Earth we didn't do it because a) (and obviously) it was frowned upon, and b) because there just wasn't any need to. The top-dogs of The Institution prided themselves on flaunting a society that was at once group minded, yet singularly efficient. People didn't rely on each other, they only relied on themselves to keep their part of the system running – which in-turn fed into the greater one.
So in this whole, admittedly circular process, people were never further away than when they were working with each other.
Those who fell off the wagon and disappeared into the lower-most parts of the city, like Hush, seemed to be seeking – amongst other things – precisely this. And though there were a plethora of worlds to visit, those who sought touch always, without fail, went to Cupid's Bow.
If planets could have "unholy" specialities, then that would be Cupid's Bows'.
People must have gained something from it – the physicality, I mean. But all I saw was sin, so I could never understand how it could do, or feel, any good.
And I had never wanted it.
OoOoOo
OoOoOoOo
OoOoOo
It seems to last for a very long time.
His mouth on my skin is hot but not blistering, firm but not bruising. All I can do is blink up at the bright-light sky with blurred eyes as he mops up their ink with his lips. They stream and stream and stream, turning my skin red and mottled as terror, and panic, rise to the surface and slowly leak out – turning water thirsty and wanting with salt.
He doesn't hurt. His hands don't touch.
He just takes away the salt.
My hands grow limp and heavy until eventually, they just fall – unencumbered – between us. Slowly, my breaths even out, my trembles cease and finally, my eyes grow clear again.
When the flow stops, he pulls away.
His eyes dance across my face from above, his brows coming together. "Bel-la…" His head turns to the side a bit, like he can't fathom, or understand. I want to say, me too, but my tongue is thick – my mind addled.
He catches my gaze, and he just looks.
And I do, too.
I can't name it – my mind breathes, intuitively – but the tinge of hysteria that coated it earlier has been quieted. All that remains now is a question, not a certainty. Just… why.
"Edward n-no… hurt," he whispers – the most hushed I'd heard him speak so far. He blinks at me quickly, his gaze glassy. My body jolts slightly when I feel the tip of his finger brush against my temple. "Edward m…make better."
My breath rushes out of me, like my chest is being compressed – but his is too gentle on mine to cause the drop. Eyes falling, squeezing shut, as I try to pick my way through the battlefield of sudden feelings rattling my ribcage. I don't I don't I don't understand this. I don't understand him. I don't understand why.
I definitely don't understand touch.
But… I have a job to do. A reason for being here. And even if I don't understand here… then I can at least pretend to understand something. The Thing.
Without opening my eyes, I croak, "Can we go and get the Thing now?"
OoOoOo
OoOoOoOo
OoOoOo
He throws periodic glances my way as we walk.
For my part though, I keep my head down. This is despite the… the guilt that chews at my stomach, making each step I take more painful than the last. I have words inside of me, words that taste suspiciously of sorry.
To counteract the bad-feeling, I think, what would be the point? Would he even understand?
…But that only serves in making more guilt flood on top, because it's wrong of me to mock his comprehension. So he doesn't communicate exactly like me, but that doesn't make him any lesser than me.
I stare down at my feet, dull and aching, trying the mentally grasp the relief I'll feel at finding the Thing. But it feels so… hollow.
I don't realise I've stopped walking until Edward says –
"Carry?"
I snap back into awareness, dragging my eyes from my feet, before speeding them up as they go up his glistening body, not really being able to look. His golden-green gaze startles me for a moment; the colour slicing its way through the grey and submerging my eyes for a minute, making them swim.
My stomach twists. "No, thank you," I whisper, twining my fingers tightly into the bottom of my shirt.
His brows push together in reply. He takes a slow step forward, watching me all the while. "W…w…" he begins, mouth opening and closing as he tries to… find the words? Closing his eyes, he gives his head a quick, rough shake. And when he reopens them, I do recognise his glance – this time.
Frustration.
"Bel-la," he tries again, taking another step forward. I watch him with wide eyes as he lifts a hand, feathering his fingertips below my eye, across my temple. Cocking his head to the side, he looks at me pleadingly. "W…w…" He lets out a low groan, the hand not touching me rising to pull on his hair.
My breath catches. He doesn't know the words, just like I don't... maybe I can…
"Why?" I guess, quietly.
His gaze snaps to mine, and it brightens.
Word of the day, I think.
"Yes," he breathes, then dragging his fingertip slowly across my temple, repeats, insistent, "Why?"
The words tumble to my lips before I can think to stop them. "You scared me," I just blurt out, then quickly realise what I've said, but just a tad too late.
His face twists. The hand in his hair tightens – the one on my face slips away. "S…scared?"
My stomach dips, churning painfully. I think back to the stories that had filled my mind – maybe more than just gossip, but still just stories nonetheless – and still perpetuated by people; fears of too much exacerbated by the not-knowing of why, or what.
My gaze drops to my feet, shameful. "It… it was me," I correct, quietly. "I was… I was scared of myself more than…" I take a breath, shake my head because he hadn't actually done anything wrong, yet here I was… "Sorry," I whisper. "I'm sorry that I…" I trail off, my hand abruptly flying to my dippy tummy as it lurches unexpectedly. A pained gasp leaves my lips as I double over, my stomach cramping.
"Bel-la!"
I jolt as his hands catch me, but before anything else can –
My face pales, and the ache in my stomach vaults up my throat – dumping its contents onto the soft in gagging, hurting retches.
Unlike before, the moan I let out is wretched.
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A/N: I like writing our protagonists in pain as much as you like reading it, so, really really not a lot. Sorry. :(