Luna // too tight
Jan. 31st, 2017 03:12 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
furgoodHe's been looking at you.
He's been watching you as you pad through the glittering halls, a small smile on your lips and your eyes ahead on your destination.
You don't even notice him at first. He is far above you and you curtsy to him when he speaks and are the soft polite version of yourself that nobles deserve. He's no royal but he's rich and titled and you always leave the talks with the mixed feeling of an eagerness to get away and a profound sense that he's a good person, a person you can trust and admire.
But he doesn't always talk to you. So you don't always notice him. It's when that feeling of trust and admiration seeps further in that you realize he's there. He's watching from behind a pillar. He's down the hall from Kurloz's room. He's casually at a corner, talking to someone else but his eyes on you.
You don't know what to think about it so you don't. You take a delight in stealthily walking to Kurloz's rooms but you beg him to come to yours sometimes. He doesn't ask why. He just comes, a great adventure for him to sit with you in your room, squished onto your bed as you talk and kick your legs in excitement and forget that man is watching your every step.
You're young and while you're a little in love with the prince, you don't know a lot about how love works. You don't know a lot about how the world works. You hear things--everyone hears things--but you're naive and you trust and he's been making sure you trust him a lot. Even when your mind screams from behind that wall of feelings that you should perhaps run or tell Kurloz or something.
It certainly screams the morning of that sunrise. You're late. You're never late. The sun has risen and so he comes looking for you, your prince, because you're his sunshine and his sunshine never misses the sun.
You learn more than ever that day that a person carries a dozen weapons on them without having to carry a knife. Their own hands are weapons enough when turned against them. You've seen executions before on the screens, seen people take the knife and end their own life. You've known that hands are tools that can be used against you. But the things on a person are just as deadly. A pointed hair stick in the heart, a necklace pulled tight--a pin on the lapel of a noble's jacket that slashes his own throat. You creep back from the pool of blood shaking and scrambling for your buttons but you can't fasten them with trembling fingers.
He wraps around you and his cold deep anger makes him hold a little too tight, a little too much. You want to scream and cry but his gift slips into your mind, hushes you, soothes you and your hands stop trembling. Your socks are bloodstained. You feel bruises start on your arms, your chest. He soothes you so you don't care, he presses down the memory of it all so deep you don't find it again.
He takes you back to his room and you sit on a pile of cushions on the balcony. He gently fixes you up, throws away the socks, soothes the bruises, all with this cold look in his eyes. Not for you, you think, you know, because he makes sure you know, but for the people who would hurt you, who would use you.
Then he wraps you in a thick blanket and you sit together on that pile of cushions, you in his tight grip and his face in your hair. He has you look to the horizon and you gasp as he makes the most glorious illusion.
The sun rises all over again, just for you.
He's been watching you as you pad through the glittering halls, a small smile on your lips and your eyes ahead on your destination.
You don't even notice him at first. He is far above you and you curtsy to him when he speaks and are the soft polite version of yourself that nobles deserve. He's no royal but he's rich and titled and you always leave the talks with the mixed feeling of an eagerness to get away and a profound sense that he's a good person, a person you can trust and admire.
But he doesn't always talk to you. So you don't always notice him. It's when that feeling of trust and admiration seeps further in that you realize he's there. He's watching from behind a pillar. He's down the hall from Kurloz's room. He's casually at a corner, talking to someone else but his eyes on you.
You don't know what to think about it so you don't. You take a delight in stealthily walking to Kurloz's rooms but you beg him to come to yours sometimes. He doesn't ask why. He just comes, a great adventure for him to sit with you in your room, squished onto your bed as you talk and kick your legs in excitement and forget that man is watching your every step.
You're young and while you're a little in love with the prince, you don't know a lot about how love works. You don't know a lot about how the world works. You hear things--everyone hears things--but you're naive and you trust and he's been making sure you trust him a lot. Even when your mind screams from behind that wall of feelings that you should perhaps run or tell Kurloz or something.
It certainly screams the morning of that sunrise. You're late. You're never late. The sun has risen and so he comes looking for you, your prince, because you're his sunshine and his sunshine never misses the sun.
You learn more than ever that day that a person carries a dozen weapons on them without having to carry a knife. Their own hands are weapons enough when turned against them. You've seen executions before on the screens, seen people take the knife and end their own life. You've known that hands are tools that can be used against you. But the things on a person are just as deadly. A pointed hair stick in the heart, a necklace pulled tight--a pin on the lapel of a noble's jacket that slashes his own throat. You creep back from the pool of blood shaking and scrambling for your buttons but you can't fasten them with trembling fingers.
He wraps around you and his cold deep anger makes him hold a little too tight, a little too much. You want to scream and cry but his gift slips into your mind, hushes you, soothes you and your hands stop trembling. Your socks are bloodstained. You feel bruises start on your arms, your chest. He soothes you so you don't care, he presses down the memory of it all so deep you don't find it again.
He takes you back to his room and you sit on a pile of cushions on the balcony. He gently fixes you up, throws away the socks, soothes the bruises, all with this cold look in his eyes. Not for you, you think, you know, because he makes sure you know, but for the people who would hurt you, who would use you.
Then he wraps you in a thick blanket and you sit together on that pile of cushions, you in his tight grip and his face in your hair. He has you look to the horizon and you gasp as he makes the most glorious illusion.
The sun rises all over again, just for you.
