Prompt #90: Drowning
Rating: PG
Every day, she stands at that window. Some days a few seconds, sometimes an hour, her breath misting up the glass, watching the rivets of water running down over her reflection. Every day, he would stand with her for little, arms tight around her waist. He can feel her love when she clasps her hands in his, when she trails kisses butterfly-light over his skin. But when she thinks he isn't looking, that smile, that radiance dissolves. She's like a fairy wandering in the empty halls, lingering at the doors long welded shut, and he prays so hard for the rain to stop, even for a moment so he might see that pure unadulterated joy in her eyes again.
He hates himself for living here, ruling this sad drowning planet, where the water has washed out all colour, even to the roots of his hair, but he hates himself more for being unable to bear her leaving. She is stronger than anyone he could name, but she is a child of the light, and water wears away even cliffs if you but give it time.
It hadn't been all bad. Before, the cloud layer had just been a minor inconvenience, and the sun could still be seen several times a month. The first time they watched a sun-sighting together, she'd declared Clarion the winner of The Most Beautiful Rainbow award. They'd even been able to travel off-planet – to her home where everything was golden instead of gray, Jupiter the planet of the tempests, Mars and her deserts, cold cold Mercury, and her beloved sisters had been able to come here. He wanted her to live somewhere beautiful, somewhere with light, but she was adamant and he had caved far too easily, maybe a little selfishly. Now it was too dangerous to violate the clouds. Now there are no more rainbows, just Too Much Bloody Rain. They'd evacuated as many as possible, and now all they could do was wait. They'd laughed together at the irony – at peace with the entire cosmos for the first time in millennia, yet still prisoners in their own city. That was eight years ago; it was harder to laugh now.
Does she blame him, hate him? They never even fought about it. He wonders sometimes if it would help things to force some of that old impulsivity and passion – some of that life – back into her by initiating a shouting match. He's too much of a coward. He makes love to her instead, tasting her lips when they should have been trading insults. He's too afraid that if he presses the wrong button, just a slip of the tongue, and she'd let go of the rope. He couldn't couldn't-
As they lay curved into each other, he tells her he is sorry. She is silent and still in his arms, then rolls around to face him, dangerous smile tugging at her mouth as her fingers find his sensitive spots until he was gasping for her to stop tickling, and his heart breaks to see her trying so hard to laugh like before.