Tampering with devotion.

Tempo (2)

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Tempo (2)

My lip curls in. His voice sounds so sincere, as if I really did enough to help him. Why would he feel like that? How can he do that when I constantly feel like I hadn't done enough? "Is this your way of telling me to mind my business?"

He groans, ruefully. "No, despite my better judgment. I'm just not ready to let you in again, yet."

I scrunch my nose. "I have something to say to that, but I won’t, at least not right now.”

"Thanks." he finishes with a genuine curve of his lips. His endless fields unfocus, deluding for a second as he looks through me. The way he always has, the way I'm used to. My breath becomes shallow, perhaps in response to it as the ringing calms, until his eyelids fall half-mast and he focuses on me. The way his gaze feels as natural as an embrace, brushes my skin with tickling tips that sweeten my blood. It makes me think—that I've felt this stare before.

Zions’ eyes go the slightest bit wider, as if realizing what he'd done. I wait for his next move, maybe mention the talk we’re supposed to have. He takes a deep breath, and says, "He's not a sore loser, Zyl. He's not really a fighter, either, but I can pride myself in saying that I've never given him salt, and I never will."

"Neither will I."

Right now, it is compelling, fulfilling, because despite his declaration, neither of us can deny the tension of past and present. No teasing, no playful attitude, no quick wit, but a semi translucent wall with him on the other side. Facing away from me. I've always thought it crazy how the back was one of the most durable parts of the body, yet everyone is afraid to show it. It's a scary decision to show someone the space of your spine, to take a risk to trust. Zions' is facing me, so clear and clean through the glass, but his foot moves, his torso turns enough for me to see the beginning of his shoulder, blotchy stains creeping around.

I'm mesmerized by the sight, and even more so when I don't hear any ringing at all. That's how I know that what we have is natural, uninhibited. Real. We're real. Real in a way that I move freely, unburdened by fate to be connected with him, rather, encouraged by the atmosphere or the simple truth burrowing in my chest. Real, in a way that makes me want him to know that I understand and that I won't push too far this time.

That, deep down, I want a second chance.

I glance at the gloved secret that still has my hand. Actions speak louder than words, that's sort of a code that Asteria lives by. And the one for me and my siblings is; if it's impossible, make it happen anyway. So I hug him. Tight and for a long time. Long enough to feel him naturally relax against me and breathe the heaviest has been all night. I pray my heartbeat keeps steady.

We stay like that for a while, until I start to feel sleepy, when-

The lights go out.

We break apart like enemies, but Zion quickly retakes my hand, pressing a lone finger against his mouth. His reptilian eyes are a bit lighter in the dark, their shade caressing a hunters' mind to survive. I follow their direction when he reaches under my bed and pulls out a casing about the length of my fingertips to my shoulder. I throw my arms up in shock as he opens it, pulls out two blasters and sheathes an excalibur.

"Follow me." he mouths as he slowly stands. I tiptoe after him, going beside the wall as he edges the door open. He gives the all clear. We creep down the stairs while my heart keeps much more steady being tossed into a situation I'm familiar with. That doesn't make me afraid.

Gosh, did you just get thrown into a nightmare, though?

The living room is as quiet as it should be. The kitchen, not a utensil or holder out of place, the cold tiled floor contrasts the heated nerves in my system. We circle back around the patio, peeking through the curtains of the slide door; Zion on the left and I on the right. So, I sweep the nook, being as scarily meticulous as to check to make sure that everything is as it should be.