#another zisra rp verse ficlet lads!

[cedarmoons]

The boy is a beautiful view. You keep opening the windows. Keep devouring the night.

*

She is in the bath when he returns to the apothecary. “Morning, Ziah!” she hears him call, and the joy in his voice makes her breath catch, makes her sink further into the clouded, oil-slick water of the bath, the tops of her knees poking through. “Did you see my note? I bought you some pumpkin bread—”

He stops, the floorboards groaning under his weight outside the washroom, and she swallows, her heart hammering in her fingertips and her throat. She hears the creak of the bedroom door, as he looks inside and sees a made bed, a room free of any evidence she had spent the night.

“Oh,” she hears, and Asra sighs.

She forces herself to breathe, to close her eyes and think balance. “Asra, sweet,” she calls, “I am in the washroom.”

“Oh!” he says, and the relief in his voice breaks her heart. She hears his footsteps as he draws closer to the door, and tenses in the bath, her gaze moving to the towels she had rested on the sink across the room. The water is clouded, but she is not certain it is enough, she does not want him to see her like this, naked and vulnerable, but she also wants—

“I’ll be outside when you’re done,” he says. “I got you some pumpkin bread. You want some breakfast?”

She closes her eyes against the lace of tears on her lashes, fingers curling against her heart, and she wonders what she has done to deserve him. “I would like that,” she says, thickly.

Asra hesitates. “You okay?”

She clears her throat. “I am well,” she says.

“Okay. Just shout if you need me.”

He moves away, and she sinks into the tub until the water laps at her earlobes, until the long strands of her hair float atop the water, scented of rosemary and peppermint, and she wonders why she had wanted, however briefly, to see him see her.

She wonders why her quietest wish and her quietest fear are both that he will touch her.

*

When she emerges from the washroom, dry and clad in a fluffy robe, Asra is already at the stove, stirring cooked rice and mixing in soy sauce. Two slices of pumpkin bread are already set out on plates, as are two cups of tea and an enamel teapot. Sunlight streams through the open window, the breeze ruffling his golden-lit hair.

He looks over his shoulder at her, offering a gentle smile. “Morning,” he says. “Did you sleep okay? The house didn’t keep you up?”

She looks down at her hands, unable to fight her small smile. “I slept well, thank you. The house was on its best behavior.” She brushes her fingers along the wallpaper after she speaks, and the ceiling above her groans.

“Good. I’m glad.” He turns back to his cooking, smiling to himself, and turns his attention to a second pan, the contents of which are sizzling. She slowly sits at her place—and she thinks it strange and thrilling, that she has visited him enough to have her own place at his table—and watches him cook.

“Did you think I had left without saying goodbye?” she asks, and Asra stills. He turns his body so his back is completely to her, but that only shows her the stiffness in his shoulders as he stirs the second pot, the sense of his aura tightly restrained.

Ah. She has awakened old ghosts, and now they will haunt him all day.

“Just old fears,” he finally says, and his insincere smile worsens her knotted heart, the tightness in her chest. She nods, adjusting the neckline of the robe, tugging it tighter though it exposes nothing, and she thinks to something else they could talk about.

“Did you sleep well downstairs?” she asks. She hesitates only a moment before continuing, “I know you’ve said that you are comfortable with this... arrangement, but...”

Asra looks at her as he takes their plates back to the stove, filling first her plate with fried rice, chicken cutlets, prawns, and eggs, then his. When she trails off, and does not speak further, he sits across the table from her. “I slept great,” he says, offering her a smile that does little to ease the anxiety knotting within her chest. “When I say I’m fine with this—with what we’re doing now—I mean it. I’m just glad you’re spending the night in this house, because that means I can see you that much sooner in the morning.”

His smile widens, dimple flashing, and she feels her face heat. She looks down at her nasi goreng, then back at him, teeth worrying against her lower lip in thought.

“I only wonder,” she says, “whether you deserve—more. Better.”

They have had this conversation before, and she does not know why she is bringing it up again. She pushes her rice around, worrying at her own inability to keep her doubts and fears to herself, and her chest is tight when she finally looks up at him.

Asra is watching her with a mouth full of breakfast, chewing in thought. After he’s swallowed, he sighs. “I wish you wouldn’t talk like that,” he finally replies, softly. “About me deserving better.”

He is no longer smiling; she can see the ghosts in his eyes. Guilt twists her stomach. She thinks, I am sorry, sweet. I did not mean to make them haunt you today.

Ziah lowers her gaze. “Is it not true, though?” she asks, driving her fork into her chicken. She dips it into the excess soy sauce, but does not eat, too unsettled by her churning stomach and the growing ache in her knuckles. “You deserve someone who does not flinch from your touch, who wishes to share your bed at night, who—who—”

She bites her lip, flexing her left hand, hiding her flinch at the sharp pain it sends down her nerves to her wrist. “I am sorry,” she finally says. “I should not be so melancholy this early in the morning.”

Asra smiles, but it reminds her of his early smiles, the ones that had been neutral masks than any expression of happiness. “Can I touch you?” he asks, and she licks her lips, heart thudding hard in her chest.

“Please,” she whispers.

He moves his chair closer, the legs scraping against wooden floors, and she fights her instinctive fear, struggles to keep her body relaxed and loose. Asra exhales slowly, then lifts his hand.

The brush of his fingertips against her cheek is delicate, soft; as gentle as holding a hand out to a beaten dog, coaxing it forward so it can be petted.

I will not hurt you, his touch says, and she believes him.

His palm cups her cheek, fingers fitting under the lobe of her ear, and his thumb rests against her temple. Ziah lets her eyes flutter shut and tucks her left hand between her knees so he will not see it shaking. This is still so new, only a few months old, and fragile; she feels she is holding a china bowl, and it is at risk of slipping from her hands and shattering upon the floor at any moment.

One wrong word from her, one wrong action, and he will leave her; she will be alone again. 

(She had been alone before him; to be alone after him is now one of her greatest fears.)

“I love you,” he finally says, and she shivers when his thumb strokes her skin. “I’ll say it as many times as you need me to. I don’t want anything from you that you’re not willing to give me. I don’t want you making yourself uncomfortable because you think I deserve something, or that you should be doing something for my sake. I want to be with you in any way you’re willing to be with me. I want you comfortable, Ziah, but most of all I want you happy. Okay?”

Her exhale shakes, and she turns her head to kiss his palm, eyes squeezed shut. I do not deserve you, she thinks, wildly. I deserve nothing you offer me. I have done nothing to earn your love, your affections; all I have done is exist. 

But perhaps that is his point. Perhaps she need do nothing, to be worthy of being loved. 

She feels tears prick the back of her eyelids, and she nuzzles into Asra’s palm, exhaling hard. Her cheek burns with his warmth, and she knows she will carry his invisible handprint on her face throughout the day, his gentleness known to none but her.

She opens her eyes, pulling away from his touch, his heat threatening to undo her at the very seams. Asra’s hand gently flexes, and he puts it between his knees without a word as he watches her, waiting for her reply. 

Ziah takes a small breath, and nods. “Very well,” she says.

Asra smiles.