𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 & 𝐒𝐍𝐎𝐖 | eustass kid

BOUQUET

THERE ARE SOME NIGHTS IN which your auburn lover cannot sleep, entranced by Selene and her night sky dictatorship. You feel him shuffle a few times for a minute until he settles, content with his position and softly stroking the skin of your cheek with his hand—the flesh one. God forbid he touch you with anything but his own humane skin. Moonlight slithers across your body, allowed in your bedroom by the gap in his cheap curtains and he would've probably found the energy to be irritated by it. But without it he can't see how you've curled up to get closer to him, half asleep and half awake. In your soberly tired state, he'll allow himself to drop his usual rough personality, become the starboy you want from him. It's easier when your loving eyes aren't cast upon him.

He lays there, hours upon hours, dancing his fingers over your skin until they go numb and ache with refusal and it's clear in moments such as these that his nucleus isn't all that decayed as you feared. His heart is the apple that dropped from the tree first; the outside is bruised and the inside is being devoured by maggots and worms. But the seeds that remain bear life, and they're sprouting with every touch he adorns you with. In moments such as these, he's your Starboy, who would travel the night sky to crush glittering stars so you can chase your celestial dust highs.

He never fails to broaden your horizon, teach you words you don't really know that well, just so you'll never run out of words to describe how infatuated you are with him. You don't know what true love really is, but a stab in the dark guess tells you what you and your auburn boy have is exactly that. He's the very thing that keeps breathing life into your waterlogged lungs.

       This time, you're speechless as he walks into the kitchen. Why is it when you have so much to say, syllables evade you like fish when birds skim the top of the lake for them? Your auburn boy is stood behind to you, his towering form looming over you, and all you want to ask for is just a little bit of clarification. To tell you that you didn't really witness what you did tonight. Your sick brain can't take the truth, even though you know you need it.

       It was more than you could handle. Most things were more than you could handle — you're only a simple girl, a mere mortal with limited knowledge and strength. You liked long car rides that involved pointing out weirdly shaped houses on the side of the road, the uncomfortable touch of grass as you sit outside on the first good day of the week and when people carelessly laugh, nose scrunched and eyes shut. You're afraid to look a bird in the eyes, afraid that they'll peck your eyeballs from your skull like cranberries. That sort of normal — and being the girlfriend of a man who keeps his dangerous secrets? It's not the strange sense of normalcy you can bask in, even though you're sure you can probably deal with it. You'd deal with the apocalypse if it meant you could keep inhaling the scent of motor oil from his flawed skin.

"You smell like shit."

He snorts, rolling his dark eyes along your frame. They are not dark in shade, but rather in the regard that they hold against people, that ice cold stare of uncaring that melts slightly when your eyes met his. They're... nice, orange or red maybe? A shade between the two, a dangerous tinge. "Nice, you choosin' to be a bitch today?"

"You smell like oil," you defend the sudden sharpness of your wet pink muscle, preferring to let the fragments of knowledge marinate within your brain until the high heat of frustration turned your nonsensical organ to mush.

"I always smell like oil, think I'd be concerned if I didn't. I'm a mechanic, babe," he grunts, barely managing to turn his body around in the small kitchen before slinging a cotton reusable bag on the bare counter—something you'd got out of convenience, but that stupid pride of his meant his cheeks were consistently inflamed and donned the same shade as his unruly hair whenever he had to use it.

"Got you a little somethin', in the bag," he barely nods his head over to it and you barely turn, afraid if he looks back he's going to see something in your eyes and know. Know that you know something you shouldn't, and if he doesn't see it in those glinting gems of [eye colour] it's because he already knows. You doubt the sincerity of Killer's trivial words.

It makes your stomach ache and twist, like your grief you swallowed had solidified and became something akin to a humanoid figure, not human itself but more monster. A Lovecraftian thing of imagination that tears into your struggling lungs and crushes your ribs to a fine dust. What if he had seen that Trafalgar guy? And that Trafalgar guy had confessed to all—why he was there, who else he had brought. . . your auburn lover could be disorderly in the most unimaginable ways. You've heard of his temper tantrums in abandoned scrap yards through the mouth of his best friend. It's not that you fear for your life if he got angry that you were at a bar with another man, even if there was no double intentions, but you fear what could potentially become the catalyst in your relationship.

It's like you don't remember ever being on your own in life, you're almost completely sure he's held your hand though the hardships of life, through it all. Your grip on his hand is so tight you often wonder if you could snap your own wrist if you don't ease up.

"Well? You not gonna go look?"

"Huh?" You blink suddenly, fingertips brushing on the plastic handle of the serving spoon placed over the pan of dinner you were cooking. Blinking a couple times to rid yourself of any potential tears that linger you turn and brush your hands on your clothes before picking up the cotton bag. It's light, but his eyes on your figure weigh your shoulders down. The strength it takes you to open the bag makes you want to curl into a small ball and cry with frustration.

"Go on, open it." He urges, trying to not show his impatience.

What awaits you is a small purple bouquet. You're no flower fan so all you can do is wince at the powerful aroma that clogs and clings to your nostrils. Intricate purple petals curl around, each flower owning six or seven petals—you can't be too sure, it seems so hard to do even basic things like counting tonight.

"They're . . . very pretty, thank you," you mumble, dropping the cotton bag on the counter and twisting the bouquet of flowers in your hands, the pads of your fingers pressing into the stems a little too roughly. Why did he buy you something?

He can't hide the embarrassment on his cheeks, "it's nothing. I know purple is your favourite colour and all, and I had a little extra cash, so. . ."

Purple isn't your favourite colour, but it's the colour you look for first when buying something for your tiny apartment. You can't help but let your heart sink at the fact that he doesn't know something about you, even if it's such a insignificant thing, even if you know that your quick-in-development relationship meant you both didn't know the smaller things about one another.

You play off your sadness like it's a instrument, giving a teasing laugh whilst you wiggle the flowers around gently.

"You know what they say when men suddenly surprise you with flowers, don't you? What're you hiding from me, Kid?"

Your veins block up as your blood freezes in thick blocks of ice when he says nothing so easily. For a moment, you almost doubt your own eyesight, you almost doubt everything.

How could he claim to love you, and lie so easily, straight through his teeth?

(A/N : it's been 8 months and a day since i last updated this..... i am so unbelievably busy all the time and if i'm not busy then i'm probably playing genshin impact and tbh for a good while i even forgot i had fics going!! super sorry about that!!!
also this isn't edited bc im rushing to get this out)