[ If Jake focuses, he thinks he can hear her heartbeat. Through her sternum and into his skull and into his ears, on the other side of muscle and bone. The wintergreen in his mouth suddenly tastes like fucking nothing. He can feel the blood pound in his ears, and he can feel the way her wrist goes slack in his grip.
Wordlessly, his goes slack, too. Pulls back, but not entirely, until the curl of his fingers rests against her palm. Resting, but knowing better than to knit their fingers together. It's more brutal than any tripwire or any dead man's switch — the realization that there exists a world where he doesn't know what she wants from him anymore.
Jake shakes his head, and the movement looks like some kind of strange nuzzle. He says something, some noise, too quiet to hear. Maybe Fuck. Maybe Ani. Maybe I know, I'm sorry. It all leaves him. The brutality of his anger and the fear that sits in his gut — everything that sits behind neon and flash and all-night laughter, the parts of him custom-built for audience and leverage. His body unbows, softly retreating from her space. His head lifts, and his palm unfurls from her thigh.
They were happy, once. Weren't they? They were happy once, sharing coffee too late out on midnight hotel balconies. Him with a diamond band in his pocket. Gently, the pad of his thumb presses soft into the corner of her eye. It sweeps across the rise of her cheek, catching a tear along with it. ]
You're my wife. [ He doesn't say it like fact or boast. He says it hoarsely, hopelessly. ] I'm not going to quit on you, Ani.
[ For richer, for poorer. Sickness, health. Easy to say, maybe, for a man who's known for always doing the leaving. That's the kicker: how he does know the fastest way out. Tigers don't change their stripes, the house always wins, and thieves don't stop planning for one more tip of their hand.
Jake presses his mouth to her temple. A kiss, if it can be called anything like it. He ends up on the floor, sitting with his knees raised, his spine propped up painfully against the leg of the chaise, some crumpled shadow in iron rather than glinting gold. His back to her, he runs both palms through his hair. Exhales long, and low, and doesn't say anything at all, until: ]
no subject
Wordlessly, his goes slack, too. Pulls back, but not entirely, until the curl of his fingers rests against her palm. Resting, but knowing better than to knit their fingers together. It's more brutal than any tripwire or any dead man's switch — the realization that there exists a world where he doesn't know what she wants from him anymore.
Jake shakes his head, and the movement looks like some kind of strange nuzzle. He says something, some noise, too quiet to hear. Maybe Fuck. Maybe Ani. Maybe I know, I'm sorry. It all leaves him. The brutality of his anger and the fear that sits in his gut — everything that sits behind neon and flash and all-night laughter, the parts of him custom-built for audience and leverage. His body unbows, softly retreating from her space. His head lifts, and his palm unfurls from her thigh.
They were happy, once. Weren't they? They were happy once, sharing coffee too late out on midnight hotel balconies. Him with a diamond band in his pocket. Gently, the pad of his thumb presses soft into the corner of her eye. It sweeps across the rise of her cheek, catching a tear along with it. ]
You're my wife. [ He doesn't say it like fact or boast. He says it hoarsely, hopelessly. ] I'm not going to quit on you, Ani.
[ For richer, for poorer. Sickness, health. Easy to say, maybe, for a man who's known for always doing the leaving. That's the kicker: how he does know the fastest way out. Tigers don't change their stripes, the house always wins, and thieves don't stop planning for one more tip of their hand.
Jake presses his mouth to her temple. A kiss, if it can be called anything like it. He ends up on the floor, sitting with his knees raised, his spine propped up painfully against the leg of the chaise, some crumpled shadow in iron rather than glinting gold. His back to her, he runs both palms through his hair. Exhales long, and low, and doesn't say anything at all, until: ]
Does it still hurt?
[ He's talking about the burn. ]