Work Text:
“We die by fire or not at all.”
He watches her eyes flicker through the implications. They echo in the space between them, fill the quiet of her chamber in the dead of night. He speaks it like prophecy, and Attolia wonders how many of those have left his lips.
Eugenides wants someone to hurt him, she thinks. He gives you the knife and shows you where to cut. (Up and through the ribcage rings hollow in her head).
Does it hurt him less? To hand out the means of his own destruction?
Is that where his control lies?
He's not just prepared for betrayal, he's waiting for it, greeting it. Does it taste less bitter in his mouth, choking on his own words?
Whatever legends may say of ghosts and gods, one thing remains clear to her.
“You’ll burn yourself out, living the way you do,” she brushes a kiss to his forehead. “Like you’re already on fire.”
He closes his eyes, leaning into her touch.
Don’t hand me your fires and expect me to light them, she thinks. We’re being different now. We’re not the same as we were before.
Eugenides is shatterlight bright. His flashpoints don't leave room for the rest of him. Nothing leaves room for the rest of him.
She cradles the back of his head, running soothing fingers through his hair as his breath goes hot and shuddery against her skin.
He fits so well in the spaces beside her.
If he must preempt disaster by giving away all his weaknesses, then she’ll make sure nothing reaches him.
Attolia has always been stone. Let that be useful for something other than her. Let that be careful and loving. A shield, not a shell.
Let him rest, and let him wake in her arms.