A/N- expect there to be typos bc I literally wrote this while wheezing and dying of COVID :) Love my life but I love you guys more, so enjoy -A <3
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"Angry and half in love with you, and tremendously sorry, I turned away"- F. Scott Fitzgerald
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Before I could turn around, a dull pain registered in my back as I was slammed to a shelf. Paris flipped me around, trapping me between himself and the bookshelf as he stared down at me. Pure rage was depicted in his eyes, carefully restrained by his temperament. The ticking jaw of his jaw was a teller that it was just barely restrained. The fact that I couldn't sense his magic at all, impressed me, providing me with a wicked confidence.
"Oh. What a surprise to see you here, Mr. Arobynn" I giggled at him evilly. He quickly silenced my laughter by forcing me back, and ducking down to be at eye level with me. He gripped my arm tightly, holding me in place.
"What the Hell was that?" He demanded, his tone low and enraged. To another, I could understand how the boom of this voice could be terrifying, but to me, it just made me smile wider. I simply beamed up at him, batting my eyelashes innocently.
"I can't say that I know what you mean, Paris" I told him, tapping my lips as if I were seriously contemplating it. His nostrils flared at the action. Faster than I could process, Paris slammed my hands down to my side, holding them down. It wasn't painful, but the force behind the pressure did not go unnoticed. My smile slid off my face, the corners of my mouth dropping slowly. I stared up at Paris with wide eyes, shocked beyond articulation.
The only thing that kept me from comparing his current rage, to that, that caused the choker of scars around my neck, was the fact that his eyes weren't black. They were dilated, but not as they were that day—absorbed into pure black by his anger. His current rage was carefully contained by him, leaving me bewildered, and partially in awe. My body tingled, electricity fizzling through my blood stream. I wanted to press down on my skin and smother the feeling.
Sparks shot up my arms from where Paris was holding me. I startled at the heat, thinking he was using his magic, but I quickly realized it was my own body responsible for the feeling. My shadows didn't rile as they did when his magic was present, meaning it was solely my body reacting to his touch. The thought startled me.
My body has never reacted this way. It was always cold. Always. It has never heated up at someones touch. But now it did, as if he was getting my frigid heart to finally work, beating frantically and pumping blood throughout my body. It was so inherently normal—human—that it unsettled me. I made a mental note to look into this. To figure out the anatomical reason behind why the body burned, when it was touched. I couldn't understand it.
Paris and I were close. Uncomfortably close, with his chest pressed against mine, his heat seeping into my skin. We were deep in the labyrinth of book shelves, and I strained to hear some sign of life beyond us, but heard nothing. It was as though the world had ceased to exist past Paris and I, locked in this moment. I couldn't breathe from the intensity of his gaze.
"I'll ask you again" he repeated himself lowly, "What. Was. That?" Paris demanded. I blinked at him, my eyes wide.
"You don't get to do that. You don't get to mess with me like that in public" He growled at me, inches away from my face. I could feel his hot breath against my skin, the hair on the back of my neck rising up. My shadows riled, but quickly sunk back, having realized that they did not sense his magic. He was angry enough to scold me, but not angry enough to summon his magic.
The thought fascinated me; Paris in complete control, yet fueled by his emotions. Rarely would you find a person that was so completely aware of their rage, but who managed to stay conscious. It was comparable to being possessed, and managing to remain on the surface, while still harnessing the presence of the demon.
"Well we're not in public anymore, are we?" I asked him, my voice deadly quiet. His eyes brows furrowed at me, and I got to observe the spilt second change in his expression as he finally understood what I was saying. I didn't allow him to react further, before slamming my lips onto his, clawing at his clothing and his body.
I didn't know what I was doing, my only goal being to get as close to him as possible. I wanted to smother his warmth and suck the life out of him. Paris eagerly reciprocated, wasting no time in hoisting me up onto a shelf, books toppling behind me. I quickly wound my shadows around us, making sure all our sounds fell deaf to the ears in the library. I didn't trust myself to be quiet.
His lips were hot against mine, foreign and so utterly different from my cold ones. I bit his bottom lip, winding my fingers tightly into his golden curls, and tugging them back to give me more access to his mouth. He groaned at the feeling, and I swallowed the sound down with my own appreciative moan. His tongue slipped in between our lips, and sucked it into my own mouth, over and over again with each kiss. Paris groaned into my mouth at the feeling, leaning towards me.
Tingles sparked between my legs as I wound them around his waist, pressing my body tightly to his, desperate for friction. My cold hands scrambled for the hem of his shirt, slipping underneath shirt, and running my nails over the ridges of his torso.
I then sunk my nails into his skin violently, shoving him back, clawing at him like an animal. It was as though he was expecting this act of aggression, with the low chuckle he released. He raised his hands in the air in an amused manner, as though begging for mercy.
"Paris" I hissed at him desperately, when he stopped initiating contact with me, demanding that he continue.
"You are so aggressive. You could say please, you know?" Paris hinted innocently, though I could hear the condescension in his voice. I snapped my eyes open to glare at him.
"I don't beg" I hissed at him.
"Not even for me?" He pouted, and I opened my mouth to snap back a reply, but he didnt give me a chance. He aggressively slammed his lips down onto mine, and a surprised moan tore itself from my throat. He swallowed down the noise, using the kiss to muffle my cries.
I was violently thrust back against the bookshelf, Paris planting me on the shelf. I was only thankful they were bolted into the ground, terrified to realize how much they would have been rocking had they not been.
Paris released my mouth, pressing kisses to my jaw. I dropped my head to Paris' throat, biting down on the space between his neck and his shoulders. I was breathing heavy into his neck, biting even harder. When I finally let go, and looked at his skin, a vivid red bite marked his flesh. I was pleased to have claimed him as my own, for everyone to see.
My satisfaction was only momentary, because when I went to meet his eyes, I was greeted with a completely black gaze. Something hit my chest, beating all the air from my lungs and sobering me completely. His eyes had gone black, the familiar green completely absorbed by the black holes within his irises. His pupils had dilated completely, resembling a pair that I had sacrificed too much to see close for a final time. With a horrifying realization, I realized that this wasn't Paris staring down at me.
Panic choked me, making me scramble back and away from those black, lifeless eyes. My back slammed into the bookshelf as I grasped the shelves for stability. My hands clung onto them behind me as I attempted to find something to grab onto, something to hold. I found nothing I could use, nothing that could protect me.
Paris' eyebrows furrowed, as he examined my panicked expression. The green instantly came back out, as if the demon who possessed him had completely disappeared. Paris was back in control. There was no demon. I was aware of that. I was aware that his eyes went dark because of excitement, because of black out rage, but it did nothing to calm my panic. It did nothing to calm my fear—my constricting lungs as my chest rose and fell in panicked gasps.
"What's wrong?" Paris asked quickly, grabbing my face to make him look at me. I had been staring off in horror, mouth gaping as I tried to breathe.
"Hey, what's wrong?" Paris asked again, and I quickly scrambled off of him. He didn't hold me in place, allowing me to frantically back away.
"Nothing" I told him, my voice wavering. He didn't know? How could he not know? My hands were clammy and cold as they shook, and I swiveled around, turning my back to him. Something descended on me, inhibiting my view from my left eye. I was like a mouse, with a hawk swooping down to snatch me in its talons. A whip of panic struck through my system. I went blind.
The black cleared from my eyes, restoring my vision and allowing me to access the situation as my chest fell and rose in heavy pants. Paris was staring at me with a bewildered look, cradling his hand. It was Paris. I wasn't a mouse and he wasn't a hawk. He wasn't trying to hurt me. He had reached forward. He was trying to grab my shoulder, not my neck, but I struck him in him down anyways, blinded by my hysteria.
In my panic, I had reflexively struck his wrist, targeting his pressure points, and temporarily making his hand loose mobility. I had originally learned the technique because it gave me enough time to run, while they fell paralyzed. Paris' hand fell limp. I backed away further.
"I- I'm sorry" I quickly scrambled, my back hitting a shelf. A hard corner dug into my spinal cord, but I still didn't stop my attempts to flee. I kept pushing back, despite there being nowhere to go. I barely registered the pain as the wood bit into my tender skin.
I looked down at my own hand. My pointer and middle finger were curled up, my thumb tucked inwards, still curled up from the attack. I grabbed my wrist, holding my hand to my chest, before looking back up at Paris, my eyes wide in panic.
"I didn't mean to do that—I—you— you grabbed me— I panicked—" I stumbled over my words, my head hot as I desperately tried to conjure a comprehensible sentence. Paris looked confused. A chill washed over me, making my lips numb as they refused to cooperate, as they refused to form proper words. A slush of syllables slurred from my mouth as I scrambled for an excuse.
"Why did you hit me?" He asked in a dumbfounded voice. He didn't sound angry. Simply confused. Frazzled. He didn't seem hurt by it, physically. Obviously he wouldn't be hurt. The move was meant to paralyze, not hurt. He was a warrior in training, he had suffered worse blows. He had endure worse injuries by a thousand. But why did I feel so horrible then?
"I didn't mean to" I repeated, "I didn't mean to" My voice broke as I retreated like a cornered animal, "I promise didn't"
I would never hit like that. Not when it was unprovoked. Not when he didn't do anything to hurt me. Not when it wasn't in self defense.
"I— I have to go" I said, backing away. Paris reached out towards me, but his efforts proved futile as his fingers came back with wisps of shadowy smoke, besides my arm. I watched as they slipped between his fingers like sand, and he looked up at me with a betrayed expression on his face. He looked more upset that I was running, then the fact that I immobilized his wrist. I shook my head apologetically, backing away into shadows, till I was completely submerged in the darkness of the shadow realm. And then I began running.
The chasm shifted. It was no longer inky mass with a substance of deep, dark water. Instead the space opened up above me, the pressure in my ears popping with the rotation of the world. I went crosseyed as everything shifted, and I suddenly found myself on solid ground, a sky of black opening up above and all around me. I didn't stop running, and running, and running, as though trying to reach the edge of the chasm, though I knew there was no real edge. There was no real end, no real limit. It was all darkness. Everything was darkness, me included. The world had gone dark.
I don't know how long I sat there, but I refused to allow myself peace of mind. I refused to blank out, to simply sit in a transe and forget everything that burdened my mind. I usually blanked out when I was in the shadow realm. I usually forgot everything that happened in this perpetual darkness, but tonight, I refused to let myself calm down. I needed to think. To evaluate. To reflect on what the hell was wrong with me.
What the hell was wrong with me? What the hell wasn't wrong with me? Everything was fine. Everything was more than fine, and one look at Paris' dilated eyes sent me into a panic. The sight of them terrified me to the point that I ruined everything. I was so irrationally panicked that I managed to convince myself that it wasn't him staring down at me. I was delusional. That spilt second delusion, was enough to send me into a blackout and lash out. I managed to restrain my panic about my neck and about him touching me and about my feelings and all those other things, but in the end, it was his black eyes that scared me. I was weak. We were doing so well, and I ruined it.
I had absorbed myself in an uncharacteristic sadness, my entire essence completely swallowed up by this self-hatred. I was tired. I was tired of trying to make this work with Paris. I didn't ask for this. I knew from the very beginning that it would not work. I knew this from the start, and wishing that I wasn't like this—wishing that I could function properly, that I could be normal—didn't change anything. Me wanting to be something I have never been and will never manage to be, changed nothing.
I was so tired. I was so tired of trying. Trying to restrain myself, trying to be normal, trying to stay calm when he touched or looked at me the wrong way. When he gave me a look that my mind panicked at the sight of, or a touch that made me loose the ability to breathe. I wanted to be normal. I didn't want to have to fight my every instinct at every moment. I didn't want to panic and have a meltdown at every sudden movement, like some abused animal, to the point where Paris had to constantly be on eggshells around me. It wasn't fair to him.
I didn't need him having to deal with me when I couldn't even deal with myself. I was tired. I never wanted this. I did everything I could to avoid this from the very beginning, because I knew I would reach this point. I knew there would come a moment where it would be painstakingly clear how messed up I really was. How this wasn't just some act to feed into some quirky individuality complex. How I had issues, real, constant mental issues that didn't just go away when I was lonely, or horny, or simply just sick of them. Because I was sick of them all the time. All the fucking time.
Why would I want to be like this? Do people think I like not being able to be touched by those that I love? Do people think I'm not tired of constantly being afraid and panicked and shaking, unable to simply have one moments worth of fucking peace? I was tired. I was sick of myself. I was sick of being me. Why is it that everybody else got to live peacefully, while every day had to be a battle for me? What did I do to deserve this never ending fucking struggle? What did I do? Why was I so different from everybody else to deserve this?
I was rot. I was rotted wood, in a tree that he kept peeling layer after layer from, hoping to find the core—hoping to find some semblance of unobstructed purity—not realizing that I was the rot. I wasn't the tree—the healthy, innocent tree that was helplessly being feasted on and tarnished. I was the rot and he was the tree. I was the rot.
Paris was getting tired of dealing with it too. I could see it. He's getting tired of having to deal with my panic attacks. He's getting tired that they aren't going away. That I'm not getting better. That I keep blowing up, despite my best efforts not to. He was getting tired of me. I was desperate to prove that I was changing. That I would make things better. That things would get easier. That I was getting better. But I wasn't, and I wasn't going to tell lies just so he would stay. I wasn't going to pretend to be something I'm not, just to convince him that I was worth staying for.
I was too much too deal with. I know that. I knew that there was so much about me that was unlikeable, so much about me that was tarnished and mangled and simply wrong. I knew I complicated things. I knew I wasn't easy to be around. I knew what I was like, and because of it, I wasn't going to give him an ultimatum. I wouldn't demand that he either accepts all of me, or none at all, because I know I would not choose myself either. I would not choose me, with all my issues and my problems and my hurt. I would not choose me either, so I could never blame him for leaving.
I would hate him, of course. I would despise him for making me want him, and end up deciding that he doesn't want me in the end. I would hate him for forcing his way through. I would hate him for making me get used to him. For making me get comfortable with his presence. For making me care. I would hate him for all of that, but I wouldn't hate him for leaving. I could not blame him for that. And with the realization that I could not blame him, came with a painful rage. A rage at myself for causing this.
My shadows materialized in my empty chamber, interrupting my solitude. They whisped over my shoulder and around my head, as if leaning down into my ear.
"The son of light is demanding entrance into your living quarters" my shadows whispered to me. I didn't bother lifting my head from my knees, my arms wrapped around my legs tightly and contorting me into a ball.
"Tell him I'm not home" I told them, staring off into space. The harsh edge of my chin dug into my knee, hurting the tender flesh. I had lost too much weight again, whether it be from stress or magic extortion, or mother knows what else. I don't know. I didn't care.
"He's demanding in" they repeated themselves, and nearly a second later, I heard Paris' voice boom throughout the chasm. It echoed throughout the vast space, and my entire body stiffened at the sound of his voice. I didn't understand how he managed to figure it out, startling me with a realization that I did not give this boys intellect enough credit.
I had incorporated some of my shadows into that ring, with the original intention to help him adjust to my magic. Yes, I included them to also be able to track him and have a reach on him no matter where he was. I gave a piece of me to carry with him, so I could reach him always. I didn't realize he would figure out that he also had that same access to me, through the ring. It was like a phone call, and when you shouted down one end, the other end could shout back. Currently, it was Paris who was shouting down the line, his voice echoing throughout the inky space.
"Eulalia" Paris shouted out, his voice barreling towards me from all direction. I slammed my hands into my ears, cringing at the sound and curling in towards myself. He was shouting into the ring, somehow having figured out that I could hear him if he did. It wasn't that hard to piece together; he had some of my shadows, and they were still connected to me, but it was still shocking.
"Eulalia, let me in" Paris shouted. His voice came out garbled and muffled, as if I was hearing him underwater. It still hurt, hearing his voice. Both emotionally, and physically as it boomed against my sensitive ear drums. I snapped my fingers, doing a transfiguration spell and changing my dirty uniform to workout attire. A scrounging charm came quickly after, the smell of winter smoke and cypress eloping me as the magic washed me of all my filth. I wish it could do more than just cleanse the skin level filth. I wish it could go deeper.
I didn't lift my chin from my knees as a snapped again, this time sending my body materializing through time and shadowy smoke, before ending up in the training hall. I had gotten better at shadow travel, with my constant practice of Rowena's new Skill. I hadn't mastered the Skill yet, but my shadow magic had improved exponentially.
As my body materialized within the air, a sword in hand from the weapons rack, Paris fell out from the air, obviously not having expected to be moved. He stumbled, tripping on his feet as his body tried to adjust to the room. At least he didn't hurl or become sick, thanks to my ring. Once he stopped stumbling and swaying, and caught eyes with me, I wasted no time throwing the sword in my hand at him.
I threw it with just enough force that it would cut him if he didn't catch it, but it couldn't be entirely blamed on me as a purposeful action. Paris skillfully caught the blade, his body shifting into perfect position through muscle memory, as one would expect from a trained Legion Warrior. He glanced at me, then around the room in shock, understanding dawning on his features as he realized where he was.
"You want to fight?" I called out to him, shrugging and spreading my arms at him, "Let's fight then"
"I never said I wanted to fight. I said I wanted to train. And now I want to talk" He called back, but didn't throw the sword to the floor in an act of defiance. It remained firmly in his grip as he stared at me, muscles tensed.
"Train. Talk. It's all confrontation. Sounds like a fight to me" I told him, leveling him a glare. I had extra energy in the form of aggression, and I would rather sword fight him than verbally hurt him in an attempt to drive him away. Sword fighting took less energy.
"You don't have a sword" He pointed out. I knew I didn't have one, which is why I shifted us in right after the sixth years training lessons, where there would be a guarantee that the children's blades would be out.
"Yes, well as we've discussed already, there are plenty of practice swords laying out for me" I said bitterly, mentioning their earlier ridicule of my physical limitations. I quickly summoned a sword to my side, and it flung off the weapons rack with a metallic swish. The blade barreled towards me with a deadly speed, before landing in my hand with a heavy thud.
"I don't want to fight you" Paris crossed his arms, the muscles under his sleeves flexing, showing off his years of experience with blades. I adjusted my own knife, twirling my wrist to get situated to it. I was used to much shorter knives, ones that were lighter and half as heavy.
"Well I don't want to talk to you. You know I don't give out information for free. If you want it, you're going have to fight me for it. Win it and we'll talk" I snapped at him, popping my neck and spreading my legs shoulder width, so my body would be balanced. Paris looked at me for a long moment before sighing, stretching out his wrists and rotating his blade in a full circle. I looked down, a small smile growing on my face as I shook my head. He was agreeing to participate. Amazing.
Without a single sound of warning, like a cliche battlecry, I threw myself towards Paris. Even without shadow travel, I was fast. My feet pound against the sand of the floor, before I jumped into the air, raising my sword in a full swing. I hit Paris' sword with a clash of blades, throwing my entire weight into him. He stumbled backwards at my force, before rebutting.
He pushed my blade back, and I swiveled around fast enough to prevent his blade from falling down on my shoulder. We both knew we couldn't do any real damage; the blades were charmed not to break skin, like a false knife or a prop sword. That didn't mean they couldn't leave bruises, and that definitely didn't mean that they wouldn't hurt either. There was no charm in place against feeling the pain of a stab wound that the sword couldn't deliver.
"What was that?" Paris demanded, grunting before swiveling around and sending a strike to my feet. I jumped up just in time, the heels of my feet just barely skimming over the swish of the blade. I sent a kick towards Paris abdomen while I was airborne, slamming my sword down onto his open wrist. He hissed back in pain.
"You haven't won yet" I chided, retreating as Paris shook out his wrists. He looked up from his wrist, his blonde hair falling to his eyes. Disbelief was depicted on his face.
"You play dirty" He noted in shock.
"My entire existence is dirty" I pointed out, "I don't played by the rules, nor do they apply to me" I quirked an eyebrow at him, as if daring him to challenge my claim. He threw himself into a new attack, his movements all rhythmic as he repeated moves like a well oiled-machine. His motions looked almost reversed, restrained and clean. He was holding himself back.
"Stop going easy on me" I demanded to him, hitting him with the hilt of my sword in his ribs. He grit his teeth, emitting a sharp "oomph", but did nothing to retaliate. Why was he not using his full strength? I inhaled sharply in frustration.
"You're angry at me" I proclaimed, clarifying to him what this was, "I'm giving you the chance to beat me, Paris. I'm giving you the chance to lay down your grievances against me. Don't you want to take out your anger? Aren't you mad? Frustrated? " I struck him again with the flat side of my blade, this time in his thighs. The sword was weighing down my movements, as though I was dragging my limbs through water.
"What would I possibly be mad about? The fact that you're comfortable with sleeping with everybody else but me? That I'm the one person you can't lower yourself to be with? The one person you can't handle touching you? Even Kaur doesn't incite the same reaction as I apparently do in you" He stated calmly, clashing his sword against mine. In an attempt to strike a block, I left my right side open. Paris harshly tapped it with his blade, notifying me of my weak spot. This was a game to him.
"Nobody incites the same reaction in me as you do, Paris" I hissed at him. I grit my teeth, and swung my sword at him in an angry arch. Our blades clashed together in a reverberation of shudders.
"That's plenty apparent" Paris said venomously, "Seeing that you cheated on me with Montgomery Kaur with no reservations—"
"I never cheated on you" I quickly cut him off, baring my teeth in an angry snarl, "Did I ever agree to any kind of relationship with you, Paris Arobynn?"
Paris' eyebrows furrowed, as we pushed against each others blades, inches away from each others faces and breathing heavily.
"But-" He tried to interject, but I refuse to let him speak.
"Did I personally ever agree to anything?" I shoved him back, a considerable feat for a person my size, compared to his body mass, "Did I agree to date you? Did I agree to not see other people? Did I ever agree to anything beyond our carefully rehearsed, very fake dates? Did I ever agree to anything, or did you just assume I did?"
Paris retreated against my repeated attack, before sighing in compliance, "No. You didn't. You never agreed to anything, and you don't owe me anything"
"Thank you for remembering that" I seethed at him condescendingly, "And I never slept with him, so don't you dare go around making accusations about my loyalty. You don't know anything"
Paris blinked at me, and visibly froze. I took the opportunity to slam his sword from his hand. It clattered to the floor, skidding across the sand. Paris did not even notice. He remained staring at me in a dumbfounded state. The fact that he instantly believed my word, despite the evidence against me, made my throat close up with an uncomfortable feeling. He should not be that willing to believe me. I wasn't worth his unwavering loyalty.
"But you were— you buttoned up your skirt— and Kaur said— " He stuttered, obviously trying to make sense of the scrambled thoughts in his mind.
"Montgomery lied. He was lying to rile you up. To see how much you trusted me. To determine how close we were and see how much you believed in me to remain loyal" I looked away, swallowing heavily and dropping my sword to my side. I looked up and saw Paris watching me with a horrified expression on his face.
"Just drop it" I said quickly and harshly, cutting him off before he could start. I picked up Paris' sword and threw it back to him, "He was being a pain and was trying to hurt everyone in the process, me included. It's fine. I was with Isis anyways"
Paris eyes widened to the size of saucers. I didn't wait for his reply, summoning his sword back to him and wasting no time in throwing myself into a new attack. Our swords clanged as we went through a cycle of movements, a rhythmic tango of clashing blades.
"You like girls?" Paris asked in shock. I didn't reply to him, preserving my breath as he obviously was not holding back anymore. I guess his mind was preoccupied with other things. His dexterity in sword fighting was daunting, showing how different our skill sets really were. He would be ready to go into the field right after graduation.
I swung my blade wide at him, and he fell back in a 90 degree angle. Not fast enough though, as the blade nicked his skin. The friction of the blade against his skin reopened an old wound from a few nights ago, when he got hurt. A steady stream of vermillion trickled down down his cheek bone. The sight of the blood, along with his bruised lips, made the hair on my arms stand up, electricity fizzling through my blood stream.
"As much as I can like people, that is" I droned off, struggling to find words as I stared at him with wide eyes. Paris touched his cheekbone, and his fingertip came back painted in red. He stared at the blood in disbelief, before looking back up at me. My eyes failed to track his movements as he suddenly threw himself at me in a blur. Our swords collided, and my arms strained with the effort of holding off his weight. They were heavy and aching, screaming in extortion against the action.
"Is that why they're allowed to touch you?" He asked, inches from my face, refusing to break eye contact, "Why you initiate touch with Ibet and Cera and—"
I laughed at him openly, scoffing a his nativity, "Gods, don't tell me you're going to go around being jealous of every girl I talk to now, the same way you got jealous when I touched Montgomery Kaur"
Paris moved in an action that my eyes couldn't trace, and I quickly found my feet brushed out from under me. My back hit the floor in a whoosh of air, all the oxygen from my lungs rushing out. Paris was atop me, pressing the blade against my skin as he stared down at me. I observed the pigment of his lips, specifically at a red line on his bottom lip that made it look like a cut. I was suddenly overcome by the desire to kiss it.
"I wasn't jealous that you touched Montgomery Kaur. I told you. You can touch whoever you want, disregarding whether or not I like it. It's your choice" Paris began lowly, his chest pushing against mine. I looked back up at him and caught his gaze.
He laid atop me, observing my eyes intently. He leaned down, to the point where our noses were nearly brushing against each other. His jaw noticeably ticked as he told me with deadly seriousness, "I was jealous that Montgomery Kaur got to touch you. He didn't deserve that privilege. And you deserve better. You deserve to be worshipped, Eulalia, not touched by the likes of him"
I stared up at him, opening my mouth before closing it again, attempting to muster a reply. Finally, after several moments, I awkwardly cleared my throat, trying to brush off the comment and pretend it didn't affect me the way it did. I narrowed my eyes before stating in a comical tone, "And I bet you expect yourself to be doing the worshipping too"
"Exactly" Paris stated in full seriousness, and my mouth went dry. I stared up at him, my mouth slightly ajar. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to kiss him in a manner that I have never wanted to kiss anybody in my life before, and leaned upwards slightly. Paris' eyes flickered down to my lips, and sensing the action he drew back. Paris quickly got off me, leaving me stinging with rejection. I sat up wrapping my arms around me, refusing to look In his direction.
Paris' back was turned to me as he stood, "Why won't let me worship you, Eulalia? Why don't you want me to?" he asked me in a quiet, tired voice. My eyes widened, my mouth partially ajar in a shocked exhale. He was laying himself bare to me, completely vulnerable, allowing me to see exactly what he wanted. He wanted me, and he let me know it with such a transparity that it practically hurt. An ache resounded deep within my chest, so hard that I had to press a hand against my sternum. It was that transpairty that pushed me towards him. I was safe behind his back. He couldn't see me. He couldn't anticipate my next move. And yet, despite this, I made my way towards him, planting myself right in front of him. Right in his direct sight, laying myself bare for him to see. I let him see all of me.
I stared up at him with wide eyes intermittently breaking eyecontact and glancing down at the floor. I inhaled a shuddering breath. Something about the way I was standing in front of him seemed overwhelmingly vulnerable.
Biting my lip, I told him quietly, "Because I'm scared". My voice broke at the impending topic. I didn't notice that my hands were fully shaking, the tremors going all the way up my forearms, till I felt Paris' warm grip against them, holding them still. No, he wasn't trying to still the trembling, simply holding my hand reassuringly. He was trying to reassure that he was here to hold me. Hold me till the shakes stopped.
"Of me?" Paris asked, confusion lacing his tone.
"Don't flatter yourself. I'm not scared of you" I snapped harshly on default, before cringing at the realization of what I had just said to him. Gods, why couldn't I just keep my mouth shut?
I cleared my throat, continuing in a quieter, more apologetic tone tone, "...It's just the uncertainty...it off puts me"
"What uncertainty? It's pretty obvious what I want to do with you. Or better yet, to you" he said jokingly, giving me a reassuring smile. He was trying to make me feel less embarrassed. That I was certain of. When I didn't reciprocate his playful mood, his smile faltered.
Paris pulled me closer, holding me by arms and leaning back to examine my expression. He stared down at me, his eyebrows furrowed. He was considerably more serious than seconds prior. It was as though he flipped a switch on his attitude. The sincerity of the change shocked me.
"What uncertainty?" He asked again slowly, this time considering the statement seriously. I could see the gears turning in his head as he tried to piece together what it could mean, but ultimately, he came up blank. He looked up at me, waiting patiently for me to clarify.
"You get that dark look in your eyes..." I began slowly, attempting to find the right phrasing, "You get the rage eyes, when your pupils hyper-dilate. Mortals call it Narcissist Rage Eyes, because their eyes turn black before they hurt their significant others. They enjoy abusing their victim so much that it excites them, making their pupils fully dilate. So when I see it...that dark look on you..." I shuddered, before quietly admitting, "I can't stop myself from wondering if you're going to hurt me. I wonder if you're going to burn me again or kiss me" I noted quietly.
"Why would I-" he backed away from me, his mouth contorted in horror and betrayal, "Why would I— What the Hell, Eulalia?! Why would I—"
He stormed away from me, looking anywhere but me. After a moment of thinking, he swiveled back around with determination on his face, "Have you ever considered the possibility that just maybe, maybe my eyes dilate when I see you because I'm attracted to you? Or if not that, have you considered the fact that eyes dilate due to intense sexual arousal? Did none of those possibilities come to mind, before you decided it was because I wanted to hurt you. That I got sociopathic rage eyes because I wanted to abuse you? Because I enjoy it? What the fuck Eulalia?! Why on earth would I—why—"
He paused suddenly, looking at me with betrayal, "Out of all the horrible things you've said to me, this has got to be the worst. This is the worst. Why would you think that? I would never purposefully hurt you. I still have nightmares about hurting you, and you just compared me to someone who gets off on it"
My stomach sunk at his tone. He was genuinely hurt by my thoughts. I scrambled to explain to him, "I didn't know. It's what I— it's what my mind associated dilated eyes with. I just assumed it was the rage eyes, not desire. I genuinely couldn't tell the difference. They look the same to me" I said quietly, trying to apologize and calm him down.
I genuinely couldn't. I knew narcissistic rage eyes well. The look was seared into my mind, so I associated all dilated eyes with it. Was I to blame, if that was all I knew? Nobody had ever looked at me with eyes dilated from attraction before. Nobody but Paris. Or maybe they did, but I was never close enough to notice. Or maybe I never particularly cared about how people looked at me, until I met Paris.
His head snapped up at my tone, his green eyes softening. He came up to me, quickly wrapping me into a hug. I pressed my forehead against his chest, wanting to cry at the feel of his comforting arms around me. I attempted to breathe. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. I was painfully aware of the comforting smell of vanilla swaddling around me as I did my breathing exercises.
"I'm sorry I got mad" Paris apologized softly, "It's just upsetting. It hurts to think that you thought that about me. And it hurts to know you let it go on for so long without telling me how you actually felt about it. That you were willing to let yourself get hurt just so you wouldn't upset me"
"I can hold my own" I defended myself, mumbling into his shirt material.
"I know you can. But that doesn't make it okay. You should have told me the first time around. I would have explained that its not because I want to hurt you, but because I adore you. You captivate me. Steal my breath and make my heart race so fast, that my eyes turn all black from the excitement. I would have told you all that"
He planted a kiss on the top of my head, and my bottom lip quivered as I furiously blinked.
"The first time was when you cornered me in the hall after burning me" I asked quietly, "When you told me 'you're shaking darling'. When I was physically trembling from of the black in your eyes. Would you have still told me then? When we hated each other still?"
Paris was silent for a long moment, not saying anything as he tightened his hold on me. It was reassuring— the pressure of his arms wrapped around my body, keeping me together. His hold on me was keeping me from falling apart entirely.
"Yes. I would have" Paris stated, "You would have trampled all over my manhood and crushed my spirit, but I would have. And besides. You may have hated me, but I never hated you. Not for one moment. I was infatuated with you since the day I met you. Since I barged into your room and killed that stupid demon"
I didn't know what to say to that. I didn't know what to say to Paris Arobynn. I always had something to say, but with him, all words seemed to escape me. I simply stood there, my eyes closed as I inhaled the scent of vanilla.
Sensing my discomfort after the long stretch of silence, Paris changed the topic "Why did you assume my dark eyes were rage eyes?"
I didn't reply, nuzzling into his vanilla scented shirt in hopes that it would allow me to disappear. Paris kissed my forehead again.
"Is this one of your topics. The ones we can't talk about?" He asked gently, as if dealing with a frightened animal.
"No. It's not. We can talk about it. I just prefer not to" I sighed at him. I pulled away, hugging my stomach as I suddenly found myself cold without Paris' arms around me. I sat down on one of the curbs in the arena. It was a circular room, with stone sidewalks surrounding the sand pit in the middle, that took up the majority of the room. Weapons glittered on the walls, as sunlight streamed in from the glass roof. The building was domed, and meant to imitate an outside, natural environment. Paris sat down next to me, our knees touching. I felt fuzzy where our bodies touched, like static covering my skin.
"Nobody's eyes dilated for me, besides Cypress' " I began, digging my foot into the dirt of the arena, "And those were always rage eyes, always angry with me, unless they weren't. Nobody else bothered with me enough to give me any kind of eyes, so his angry, dialated ones were always the standard. I think after a time, my body began making correlations between that look and pain and anger and rage. So every time I saw dilated eyes, whether they were good or bad, I assumed they would hurt. I couldn't differentiate between the looks after that, as you can tell. That's why I know body language so well; studying it helps me know how they'll act. It helps get rid of that uncertainty. With you...well...more often than not, its a wager"
"Why is it a wager with me?" Paris asked, before pointing out "You always say I'm easy to read"
I clenched my fists painfully, biting my lip. My hair curtained my face, as I stared at the dirt in humiliation. I quietly confessed, "Sometimes my mind doesn't like to listen to logic with you" I made an infinity sign in the sand with my foot, before adding on in a small voice, "You make me nervous...I can never tell what's real or not with you"
Paris was silent, before speaking his thoughts aloud as the realization dawned on him, "That's why you care so much about facts and knowledge. You don't trust your own mind, do you? You don't trust your judgement"
"No. I don't" I confessed, chewing on my lip painfully, peeling off a piece of skin from my chapped lower lip, "That's why I value evidence so much— because knowledge wont lie to me. Emotions will, but facts wont...It was one of the first times I felt safe actually, was when I found a scientific reason to explain the black, rage eyes"
I inhaled a shuddering breath before continuing, "Cypress wasn't being possessed, or wasn't shapeshifting to reveal his true, demonic nature, as I had initially assumed in my childish nativity. His eyes were simply dilating from emotional dysregulation. His anger was so intense and uncontrollable that his body set off the adrenal "fight or fight" reaction. Thats why his eyes dilated. Not because he had a demonic possession or attachment, but because of a chemical reaction. I was safe for the first time, when I realized that. I had found shelter from my erratic panic through knowledge. It was like seeing the unfiltered, reliable truth for the first time. Nobody was lying to me"
"I thought you liked demons" Paris noted, staring off in a distracted manner. He had a deeply contemplative expression on his face, his eyebrows furrowed and a frown tugging down the corners of his lips. I wanted to smoothen out the furrows in his expression with my fingers.
"I do now" I began quietly. I did not like discussing this. It made my face feel hot in humiliation. I repressed the urge to say something cruel and force him away. I swallowed deeply, before continuing, "But before, I used to be horrified at the concept that he had an attachment. I was terrified that a demon was using his body as a vessel"
I laughed bitterly, "I used to pity him, actually. I used to be upset that a demon was targeting my innocent Cypress. I was worried, because when his eyes would get dark, I could swear I was talking to the devil. I swore that he was possessed, and what was staring down at me behind those empty, black eyes was inhumane. I just couldn't believe a person could look so evil, so genuinely horrifying. I was terrified of it. I was utterly terrified of demons— so much so that I tried to ddscencitise myself to them later on. The way I was scared of them, so utterly petrified, was something even child me recognized as a weakness. So I began summoning"
Paris didn't say anything, and I felt antsy under his full gaze, as he stared at the side of my face. The sun shifted behind some clouds up above, the class dome painting the room in a cool tint. I wished there was a curtain up between Paris and I, so he wouldn't be able to look directly at me.
I gave him a sideways smile, attempting to alleviate the atmosphere of its suffocation tension, "Something good came out of it, at least. I realized my affinity for demonology, and I got my baby Beastly. He was an accident, of course, but he's still a gift from Nyx. And I don't think I could claim my dexterity in demon summoning as a talent, if I hadn't started so early"
"You summoned Beastly when you were eight. He's a fully corporal demon. When did you start summoning to grow your ability that much by the time you were eight?" Paris asked me, staring off into space. I could tell he was digesting my words, with his distracted disposition. I didn't want him to digest anything. I didn't want him to piece anything together. Everything was fine as it was, with him knowing the bare minimum about me and me pretending to know everything about him. I warred with my self, a battle of wills between my multiple consciousnesses and desires. There were so many ways to go about this.
"I started summoning when I was six" I confessed, attempting twist the tone of the conversation towards something humorous, "Grisbane was particularly delighted to discover first year me releasing fire-breathing salamanders into her classroom at night. She was fed up with me quite literally since the very first day"
"Is that why you don't like emotions?" Paris asked quietly, and I snapped my head up in his direction. I recoiled from him slightly through the action. I could never understand his thought process, nor predict where my conversations would go with Paris.
"Excuse me?" I asked him, my eyes narrowed.
"You don't like emotion, whether it's you thats you being emotional or somebody projecting onto you with their emotions. Is that why you don't like it? Because it's unreliable? Because it warps your perception of reality?" He asked, and I was stunned by the insightfulness of his statement. That startle was what shocked me straight past anger, as I tried to understand his question.
"I don't like emotions" I began thickly, "Because they are reminders that I am human, and I do not like that at all"
"Why?" He asked me, confused by my statement. I looked over at him, leveling an icy glare. My expression was emotionless.
"Because being reminded that I am human, is a reminder of my weakness. Emotions are a weakness, one that can fatally cripple even the most powerful of beings. They take away my perception of truth. They cloud my judgement with fear. With panic. I can't live with emotions. I don't know how too. I would rather not have them at all, then face the chance of them hurting and undermining me. I refuse to be betrayed by my own body, by my own mind. And besides, humans are weak as it is, not considering the influence of emotions. I'd like to distance myself as possible from the runty race"
"Is that why you don't like me? Because I'm not afraid of showing my emotions to you?" Paris asked, jolting me with the urge to get up and promptly leave the room at his question. I shuddered, hot in the face at his transparent tone. Who talked like that? Who Is not embarrassed to discuss such things? It was utterly humiliating.
"It's just overwhelming Paris" I grit out at him through tight lips, staring straight ahead and refusing to look at him.
"What is?" He asked. My spine was rigid as I sat terse on the window sill. My hands were clenched into balls in my lap.
"You. Your physical love language. It's too much sometimes for me, Paris. You're just so...open"
"But you initiate touch with Cera and Ibet and even Clairmont" Paris defended himself almost defensively, bringing up this topic again. It seems like this fact had been bothering him for a long time, for him to refuse to drop it.
"Because I trust them. I'm comfortable because I know that they don't like me" I stated, finally glancing at him. My tone was laced with confusion at his reaction, my eyebrows furrowed. It was his open vulnerability, portrayed through his jealousy of my relationship with the twins and Ibet, that allowed me to finally look at him.
"Like you?" He asked suspiciously, catching my eyes. His own eyebrows were furrowed, casting a shadow between them.
"They aren't romantically interested in me. I know they won't try anything" I clarified.
"But you don't trust me" Paris stated slowly. It wasn't accusatory or angry, as I would have expected. It was simply reflective, as if the concept was finally dawning on him.
"No. It's not that I don't trust you. I trust you as much as I can bring myself to. It's just overwhelming. You're overwhelming with your openness and your physical love language. I don't know how to deal with it" I confessed honestly. I kept eye-contact with him to show my genuinity, as I continued speaking, "Ibet's love language is nurturing. She cares for you when she wants to show affection. When my neck was scorched, she tried to get me to drink tea. I later learned it was medicinal, with healing magic infused into the herbs. She didn't try to force me to drink it or let me know that she was aware my neck was burned, knowing my reaction would be negative. She simply tried to get me to drink. She tried to care for me.
The twins— their love language is respect. They can take anything and everything they want, and them refraining from doing that to you—that's their love language. They knew my neck was burned because they forced their way into my mind. And when they saw how it affected me, they've stayed out since. Cera was dying to figure out what was going on between you and me, but she didn't dare try to forcibly pry the knowledge from me. Her showing me that patience and consideration is her love language. Showing that she cares about me enough to put my needs before hers, something that is extremely difficult for her character, is her love language. It's all subtle
"But you're not subtle" I scoffed at the irony of the statement, "Gods you're so open that some of the things you say horrify me sometimes. And I don't know how to deal with that. I don't know how to deal with your unapologetic honesty, and your open affection. For someone who was raised having to fight for every detail, scrap for every crumb, you simply handing it to me is confusing. You don't play mind games. You don't make me work for that knowledge. You just give it to me, and I don't know what to do with it when you do.
When you've learned to lick scraps from sharp edged knives your whole life, you get sick upon the sight of a feast. And you, Paris—you who's been spoon fed all this affection since the day you've been born—it's difficult for you to utilize what I give you. You don't pick it up. You cut your tongue trying to lick it off the knife I provided, and then you focus on the pain of the cut besdies the sweetness of the taste"
I took a shuddering breath, having not breathed during that entire rant. I looked back up at Paris, startled to discover I was rambling. I never rambled. I never gave out information for free, information that could be utilized. And here I was blabbing on to him like there was no tomorrow.
"Do you understand what I'm saying?" I asked him, blinking rapidly. He looked like he was digesting everything I told him. Trying to process it. I think this was the longest I've ever talked. I think this was the longest anyone's ever listened to me talk.
"I do" Paris said, his face melting into understanding.
I stared at Paris Arobynn, as I physically felt a weight lift from my chest, realizing that for the first time in my life, somebody cared enough to listen to me. I gave him a small smile, because suddenly, things didn't seem so bad.