#im just a boy | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ngtvcr33p · 2 months ago

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| “i know a spot” |

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vespcrtines · 1 hour ago

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Coward. Coward, coward, coward.

Call him a coward. Call him what he is– a dog with his tail between his legs, cowering behind the couch at the sound of thunder. A man too soft in the bones to stand when the ground shifts beneath him, too hollow to weather the quake. A boy who still thinks if he stays very still, very quiet, the storm might forget he’s there.

Oh, but God– God, if He’s listening, if He’s ever listened– let her look at him again. Let her eyes lift. Let him see her face, not the cooled wax mask of disappointment she wears now, not the tilt of her mouth gone slack with something she won’t say. He could take her fury. Hell, he wants it. Anything but this silence. Anything but this ache where her laugh used to be.

His hands won’t stop trembling. Christ, he’s so cold. His whole body feels cold. Cold in that old, marrow-deep way, the kind that settles in your lungs and never leaves. He turns his head slow, a statue crumbling to pieces between his fingers, back to the hills, where the earth rolls and rolls, where the reeds bend in prayer. The fields below flicker gold and bone in the dusk, same as they always have. Crops come and go. Seeds rise and rot. People too. Nothing’s ever lasted here, but they always hoped they might.

The wind picks up just enough to punish. Icy little thing. It trails along the tightness of his face, rolls, rolls, until he feels it— drip off his jaw. Fuck.

His hand comes up, rubbing at his face. Just once. A coward’s motion. Subtle. Hoping to wipe away whatever the wind had left on his skin. Hiding. He’s always hiding. Behind duty, behind grief, behind the dream he never let himself dream too loud. Always hiding. Always finding a way to vanish instead of facing the damage— the anger, the hurt, the desperate, bone-deep yearning for another life. A life she deserved.

“…Slap me.”

It doesn’t sound like him. It’s not his voice. Not that polished drawl of a man restrained, but stripped raw, choked by the wind, torn loose from the armor he’d built around his ribs and welded shut. This one’s broken. Cracked. The wind’s been wringing it out of him, thread by thread, until all that’s left is this raw, shaking thing. A plea. A wound.

His cigarette gets crushed underfoot, stomped on once, twice, three times, until there’s nothing left but ash and smolder. Too harsh. Too much. More than anything he’s mustered since the day they said goodbye. Too late. Not enough.

“…Please.”

It's instinctual, the way she leans in to hear him speak. A habit that never grows old, even after all this time.

Has it been that long? The longer she stares, the more it seems as if time has stood still. Maybe there's a weariness in their eyes now, maybe gravity is starting its suffocating pull back down to the ground, but that shade of deep green, the forest itself reflected into his eyes, remains the same. And, those feelings she tries to stomp out the same as she does to the cherry of a cigarette come flooding back.

She should have high tailed it away from that cursed mill before she even hand the inkling to stay. Maybe the pull isn't dragging her to the earth, but to him. It's there, it's always been there, as old as the crumbling temple itself. Something that burns for him, that puts an ache in her hands she tries to hide with each drink she throws back, with each puff of her cigarette. It's in her bones to love him.

Her breathing stops when she catches the movement out of the corner of her eyes -- his hand, reaching towards her. Part of wants to pull her head back, but the other part of her, something all too strong willed, keeps her locked in place just...just to see. To see if he could ever be the one to move first. To see if he can be brave.

That breath leaves her lips as soon as his hand whips back into place; out of relief or disappointment, she can't quite tell. Some pit in her stomach twists. At least she can always assure that Azariah will always be the same, whether that's a blessing or a curse. Her head tilts back, eyes blinking once, twice. If something's welling up in the corners of her eyes, she'll blame it on the wind.

"It's..." Missy clears her throat, shaking her head. Stupid girl. "It's fine, Azariah." And, her eyes cast aways from his, always the first between the pair to move, glancing down to his hands.