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mildlunacyEr. Well. How to I explain... er... excuse this. I wrote it in the last 20-30 minutes or so. Could be anything. Is probably Spike & Buffy, but then, I'm obsessive like that and everything looks green when I've got green on my mind. That sort of thing. It's probably embarrassingly over-the-top and angsty and "whoa, woe" sort of, but. It's not even fanfic... hahah, the wonders of never naming anyone directly. Isn't it great?
Anyway, don't wanna babble. Here goes.
- After the Fire -
She had never let herself think about it at the time. If she would have, she'd have drawn a blank, her mind swirling with too many emotions and images to name and classify. She just -felt-, and she didn't know what it was or what it meant or how to name it properly. What's more, she didn't want to know. Instinctively, she knew that once she let herself name it, there'd be no going back.
He'd ask her and she'd just stare at him, feeling more and more like sinking through the ground. She was wronging him, and yet there was nothing she could do, because he made her into someone who didn't recognize herself, who could only -feel- and -see- and -live-. She -was- wrong, but when they were together, somehow it didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered, really, except the way he made her forget and remember things at the same time. A precarious mixture of a sedative and something that stimulated her into a frenzy of chaotic, alien desires. Nothing mattered except the way he could possess her for a short while.
"Aren't I enough for you?" he'd said, pressing himself inside her, and she wanted to laugh, or to scream. "What about now?" he'd hissed, driving in deeper. "And now? And now?" And she did scream, then, and claw at his skin, spreading the tiny trickles of blood across his back with her fingertips, drinking in the hisses of need, the way he'd stop looking at her and just thrash inside her mindlessly. It was safe, when he became just another body seeking hers. If that's what he needed, she could give it to him. Pain was always easy, always close-by.
He was too much for her, that's what he was. Every look had the power to slay her where she stood, burn her to the ground. He wanted everything from her, and if she gave him what he wanted, she knew she'd have nothing left.
She'd always left, but she could feel his hands on her, the fiery trails they left on her skin. She could still hear the dirty whispers in her ear the first thing after she woke, and she could still taste him there, at the back of her throat. It seemed like the bitter taste of him never left. Nothing she ate or drank would get rid of it. She tried to smile at her friends and act normal but she wanted to cough and run to the bathroom to wash out her mouth because he was -inside- her, and she still wanted more.
"Tell me you've missed me," he'd say, holding her at arm's length, holding his own body hostage because he thought that's what he had.
"Do you want me to lie?" she'd said. Well, she was curious.
"I want you to stop lying, you miserable--" She'd kiss him then, or maybe it wasn't a kiss. It was more like an attack on his mouth, all teeth and need and boiling blood. It was a language he should've understood, she thought. He should've known that meant yes.
She remembered, later, after he was gone. Remembered all the rest of it. All the things that -mattered-, and all the things that she'd refused to admit she noticed.
There was the way he whispered her name into her skin; the way it made her shudder in something that almost felt like fear, or maybe awe. In a way, she was afraid to let him hold her because of that sudden, overwhelming feeling of safety. It was so immense, so all-encompassing, that she felt as if this blanket of impossible contentment would suffocate her. She could still feel his eyes on her when she ran away, even when she'd put miles between them. It felt like he was always there, watching her.
Waiting.
Like that word. That damnable awful word. She hated that word. She hated it so much. Love. Oh, how she hated it.
She remembered hating the way he'd look right at her, like he wasn't afraid at all. She wondered if that made her truly the weaker of them. He could look her in the eye and say it, his voice pure sin and some sort of revelation of heaven at the same time. She didn't want his heaven.
"I love you," he would say, in so many different ways and moods and positions that she should've gotten used to it. She should've been prepared-- but she never was. He didn't know what love was, and neither did she. There was no name. There couldn't be.
"No you don't," she'd reply, and he'd just shake his head. They were stuck in this game, it seemed. Constantly trapped in being each other's reflection. Except that didn't make sense, because they weren't opposites at all. She knew exactly what he meant. She saw herself in him, and it wasn't only the easy, obvious pieces. It was all the pieces. They were all there, and it was almost funny that he didn't know, much as he pretended he knew everything about her. He didn't even know the most important thing.
There was a name to it after all, she realized. There was a name to the way she felt when he looked at her, really -looked-. There was a method to the madness that swamped her when his mouth curled upwards in that maddening smirk, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. He dare he! How -could- he...? How could he -pretend-? He wasn't pretending, though, and that made it worse somehow.
A look. That's all it was. Words always failed between them, ragged and misleading and too much and -not enough-, but when he looked at her like that, she was always afraid that he -knew-. He had to know what it did to her. The way she became faint, the way her heart flew up to her throat, lodging itself there as long as his eyes bore into hers. She was his with a look, and with a word he lost her.
"Love," he said, as if that was her name. He thought it was. That's one of the things she hated about being near him. When she was, she could almost remember a time when that might've been true.
Not anymore, she wanted to say. Not ever again. And he didn't care. "Never," she said, and he just nodded.
"I can wait," he would tell her, smiling that awful, impossible smile.
He'd always looked at her with the eyes of a man who coveted and possessed at the same time. Always the constant fire shooting down her belly, always the simmering burn of challenge: say you don't want me, those eyes dared her.
Say you can resist me. Try and fight me. Fight this. Come on. I can take anything you throw at me.
And she knew he could. Sometimes she wanted-- no, needed-- to hate him for it. For his awful perseverance; that mockery of strength. That empty promise, because there was no life for them. She was always dying and he was always dead. Nothing could change that. She didn't -want- to change that.
"Why do you always have to do this," she'd say, and he would shrug. He'd only ever had one answer, and he didn't even bother giving it to her sometimes. "I love you," that's what he would say. "Because I love you" and "because you're mine" and "because I'm yours". It was all the same: a litany of love and possession. He was possessed twice over, a million times over, and eventually he wouldn't be the only one. It was only a matter of time; some part of her always knew that even when he didn't.
It was worse when he said nothing, of course. When he just -looked- and pressed a hand to her chest, feeling her heart struggle against his palm. When he pressed his mouth to the vein in her neck, not moving, feeling her blood pulse frantically beneath his lips. He'd be trembling, acting like he was at her mercy even when it was the other way around. She knew neither one of them had any mercy to give, and sometimes she remembered to be afraid.
Although she was more afraid of the other look-- the one that didn't want or take, the one that only -saw-, that looked with all the fierce attention of his whole being focused on studying her like a dying man with his last sunrise. He looked at her like he was offering himself up to her, a sacrifice and a prayer for sweet mercy. She had no mercy in her, she thought. He was wrong, she knew that. But when he looked with those eyes, there was nothing but the truth they would force from her in all the world. There was nowhere to hide.
Of course she knew, when it was too late to truly speak of it. Their last look, that's all it had taken, in the end. And for once, he didn't know, she knew he didn't. He hadn't been looking -at- her but through her, and for once -she- saw -him-, and that was it. That was enough.
"I love you," she said finally, and it seemed to pass through him like he was already gone. She'd been right after all. A name would destroy it.
What had she expected?
Nothing. She hadn't expected anything, and that's what she got.
Now, nearly every time she'd closed her eyes afterwards, she would see that unseeing glory in his eyes, and the sob would begin to rise in her throat again, threatening to burst inside her. She forced it down, hard and desperate and relentless just like she'd always been. But she wasn't strong enough, not anymore. The knowledge that in the end, she hadn't been enough for him-- that he couldn't see enough of her-- followed her and refused to let go. Yet the other knowledge was right on its heels.
The knowledge that she hadn't been able to grasp before, when it was so raw and new and -real- that it was simply too large and frightening to accept. The one she'd fought longest and been defeated most thoroughly by: the idea that she could deny this. That she could deny him.
Later, she thought she must've been his with that first burning look. From first to last-- it was his eyes that held her, even while his hands had only skimmed across the surface, barely touching. He knew that he frustrated her, he angered her, knew he set her on fire, but what he couldn't know was that he frightened her. The places inside her that he opened were the most frightening things she'd ever seen, and she'd spent a lifetime facing demons. He had made her into someone new, she'd thought, and she didn't recognize this person, this desire, this -need-. It was his creation, this thing inside her. This feeling. It was -him-. This couldn't be her. She had no name for this self, it was impossible, but she knew he brought her into being with a look.
She knew she couldn't burn like this, even though she did. Everything about them was impossible, a paradox and a miracle and an abomination, and it was futile to try to contain it in a word. No, she didn't love him. She burned with him.
In her dreams, she always did-- she would burn for him, with him, instead of him, but it would never be enough. It would always be him. Always him that would burn, and always her that would turn into ash, slipping through his fingers and billowing out into the night.
After the fire, she still burned.
Anyway, don't wanna babble. Here goes.
- After the Fire -
She had never let herself think about it at the time. If she would have, she'd have drawn a blank, her mind swirling with too many emotions and images to name and classify. She just -felt-, and she didn't know what it was or what it meant or how to name it properly. What's more, she didn't want to know. Instinctively, she knew that once she let herself name it, there'd be no going back.
He'd ask her and she'd just stare at him, feeling more and more like sinking through the ground. She was wronging him, and yet there was nothing she could do, because he made her into someone who didn't recognize herself, who could only -feel- and -see- and -live-. She -was- wrong, but when they were together, somehow it didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered, really, except the way he made her forget and remember things at the same time. A precarious mixture of a sedative and something that stimulated her into a frenzy of chaotic, alien desires. Nothing mattered except the way he could possess her for a short while.
"Aren't I enough for you?" he'd said, pressing himself inside her, and she wanted to laugh, or to scream. "What about now?" he'd hissed, driving in deeper. "And now? And now?" And she did scream, then, and claw at his skin, spreading the tiny trickles of blood across his back with her fingertips, drinking in the hisses of need, the way he'd stop looking at her and just thrash inside her mindlessly. It was safe, when he became just another body seeking hers. If that's what he needed, she could give it to him. Pain was always easy, always close-by.
He was too much for her, that's what he was. Every look had the power to slay her where she stood, burn her to the ground. He wanted everything from her, and if she gave him what he wanted, she knew she'd have nothing left.
She'd always left, but she could feel his hands on her, the fiery trails they left on her skin. She could still hear the dirty whispers in her ear the first thing after she woke, and she could still taste him there, at the back of her throat. It seemed like the bitter taste of him never left. Nothing she ate or drank would get rid of it. She tried to smile at her friends and act normal but she wanted to cough and run to the bathroom to wash out her mouth because he was -inside- her, and she still wanted more.
"Tell me you've missed me," he'd say, holding her at arm's length, holding his own body hostage because he thought that's what he had.
"Do you want me to lie?" she'd said. Well, she was curious.
"I want you to stop lying, you miserable--" She'd kiss him then, or maybe it wasn't a kiss. It was more like an attack on his mouth, all teeth and need and boiling blood. It was a language he should've understood, she thought. He should've known that meant yes.
She remembered, later, after he was gone. Remembered all the rest of it. All the things that -mattered-, and all the things that she'd refused to admit she noticed.
There was the way he whispered her name into her skin; the way it made her shudder in something that almost felt like fear, or maybe awe. In a way, she was afraid to let him hold her because of that sudden, overwhelming feeling of safety. It was so immense, so all-encompassing, that she felt as if this blanket of impossible contentment would suffocate her. She could still feel his eyes on her when she ran away, even when she'd put miles between them. It felt like he was always there, watching her.
Waiting.
Like that word. That damnable awful word. She hated that word. She hated it so much. Love. Oh, how she hated it.
She remembered hating the way he'd look right at her, like he wasn't afraid at all. She wondered if that made her truly the weaker of them. He could look her in the eye and say it, his voice pure sin and some sort of revelation of heaven at the same time. She didn't want his heaven.
"I love you," he would say, in so many different ways and moods and positions that she should've gotten used to it. She should've been prepared-- but she never was. He didn't know what love was, and neither did she. There was no name. There couldn't be.
"No you don't," she'd reply, and he'd just shake his head. They were stuck in this game, it seemed. Constantly trapped in being each other's reflection. Except that didn't make sense, because they weren't opposites at all. She knew exactly what he meant. She saw herself in him, and it wasn't only the easy, obvious pieces. It was all the pieces. They were all there, and it was almost funny that he didn't know, much as he pretended he knew everything about her. He didn't even know the most important thing.
There was a name to it after all, she realized. There was a name to the way she felt when he looked at her, really -looked-. There was a method to the madness that swamped her when his mouth curled upwards in that maddening smirk, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. He dare he! How -could- he...? How could he -pretend-? He wasn't pretending, though, and that made it worse somehow.
A look. That's all it was. Words always failed between them, ragged and misleading and too much and -not enough-, but when he looked at her like that, she was always afraid that he -knew-. He had to know what it did to her. The way she became faint, the way her heart flew up to her throat, lodging itself there as long as his eyes bore into hers. She was his with a look, and with a word he lost her.
"Love," he said, as if that was her name. He thought it was. That's one of the things she hated about being near him. When she was, she could almost remember a time when that might've been true.
Not anymore, she wanted to say. Not ever again. And he didn't care. "Never," she said, and he just nodded.
"I can wait," he would tell her, smiling that awful, impossible smile.
He'd always looked at her with the eyes of a man who coveted and possessed at the same time. Always the constant fire shooting down her belly, always the simmering burn of challenge: say you don't want me, those eyes dared her.
Say you can resist me. Try and fight me. Fight this. Come on. I can take anything you throw at me.
And she knew he could. Sometimes she wanted-- no, needed-- to hate him for it. For his awful perseverance; that mockery of strength. That empty promise, because there was no life for them. She was always dying and he was always dead. Nothing could change that. She didn't -want- to change that.
"Why do you always have to do this," she'd say, and he would shrug. He'd only ever had one answer, and he didn't even bother giving it to her sometimes. "I love you," that's what he would say. "Because I love you" and "because you're mine" and "because I'm yours". It was all the same: a litany of love and possession. He was possessed twice over, a million times over, and eventually he wouldn't be the only one. It was only a matter of time; some part of her always knew that even when he didn't.
It was worse when he said nothing, of course. When he just -looked- and pressed a hand to her chest, feeling her heart struggle against his palm. When he pressed his mouth to the vein in her neck, not moving, feeling her blood pulse frantically beneath his lips. He'd be trembling, acting like he was at her mercy even when it was the other way around. She knew neither one of them had any mercy to give, and sometimes she remembered to be afraid.
Although she was more afraid of the other look-- the one that didn't want or take, the one that only -saw-, that looked with all the fierce attention of his whole being focused on studying her like a dying man with his last sunrise. He looked at her like he was offering himself up to her, a sacrifice and a prayer for sweet mercy. She had no mercy in her, she thought. He was wrong, she knew that. But when he looked with those eyes, there was nothing but the truth they would force from her in all the world. There was nowhere to hide.
Of course she knew, when it was too late to truly speak of it. Their last look, that's all it had taken, in the end. And for once, he didn't know, she knew he didn't. He hadn't been looking -at- her but through her, and for once -she- saw -him-, and that was it. That was enough.
"I love you," she said finally, and it seemed to pass through him like he was already gone. She'd been right after all. A name would destroy it.
What had she expected?
Nothing. She hadn't expected anything, and that's what she got.
Now, nearly every time she'd closed her eyes afterwards, she would see that unseeing glory in his eyes, and the sob would begin to rise in her throat again, threatening to burst inside her. She forced it down, hard and desperate and relentless just like she'd always been. But she wasn't strong enough, not anymore. The knowledge that in the end, she hadn't been enough for him-- that he couldn't see enough of her-- followed her and refused to let go. Yet the other knowledge was right on its heels.
The knowledge that she hadn't been able to grasp before, when it was so raw and new and -real- that it was simply too large and frightening to accept. The one she'd fought longest and been defeated most thoroughly by: the idea that she could deny this. That she could deny him.
Later, she thought she must've been his with that first burning look. From first to last-- it was his eyes that held her, even while his hands had only skimmed across the surface, barely touching. He knew that he frustrated her, he angered her, knew he set her on fire, but what he couldn't know was that he frightened her. The places inside her that he opened were the most frightening things she'd ever seen, and she'd spent a lifetime facing demons. He had made her into someone new, she'd thought, and she didn't recognize this person, this desire, this -need-. It was his creation, this thing inside her. This feeling. It was -him-. This couldn't be her. She had no name for this self, it was impossible, but she knew he brought her into being with a look.
She knew she couldn't burn like this, even though she did. Everything about them was impossible, a paradox and a miracle and an abomination, and it was futile to try to contain it in a word. No, she didn't love him. She burned with him.
In her dreams, she always did-- she would burn for him, with him, instead of him, but it would never be enough. It would always be him. Always him that would burn, and always her that would turn into ash, slipping through his fingers and billowing out into the night.
After the fire, she still burned.