FicWad

"Like flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport."

I quietly shut my book and lift my gaze to the approaching figure before me. You're in a sardonic mood tonight, moreso than usual. The slow, deliberate rhythm of your gait, footsteps ringing more heavily against the thin wood floors than they regularly would, belie anger. Your jagged grin, twisting like a fresh wound upon your white face, all but screams it.

That smile still scares me, sometimes.

You halt several feet from me in the doorway, arms slack, head tilted down now so rain-wet hair covers your face except a sliver of that brittle smile. I remain curled on the bed, long-forgotten book lying dead in my hands.

Countless phrases rise like bile in my throat, well-worn words gathered into sweet, useless reiterations of I love you/, /I need you/, /I want you.

Comfort words from a comfort woman.

I seal my lips shut, and soon the flickering, swirling words wither on my tongue. What I do say, as my fingers lightly touch the top button of my shirt, is this:

"I see."

For a moment, you stand utterly still, and for a moment I wonder if you heard me at all. Then you take a small step in the room, shutting the door with a hushed click as you come in. I watch as the trademark Syndicate trenchcoat crumples to the floor, a dark skin shed for now.

Far away, I hear the dull thump of a book striking the ground. Then, the dry creak of a headboard.

So strange, I think, that you used to kiss me feather-light.

Fingernails dig into my flesh, harder and harder. The still-damp ends of your hair brush against my face, trailing raindrops down my cheeks.

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Later on, in the darkness, I idly trace the contours of your bare back, turned towards me.

You're shaking.