( alina's eyelashes blink in rapid flutters, cleaning the film of moisture over her eyes like — a fond memory of watching paul wipe dust from coating old pages, little speckles flying off into the air. he's clear to read, once she can bring herself to look with new eyes. the outstretched bracket of his elbow, the tightened parentheses of his fists. it's not paul's invitation so much as it's alina's impulse that has her fingers skim the bone of his forearm, a child struggling to sound out the word in front of them, hoping the feel of him under her hands will make him more comprehensible. make her believe what his pulse writes, under her fingertips: paul is here. paul is alive.
with shaking fingertips, she cups his face between her palms, forcing herself to swallow the acidic sting of her rising bile when she touches cold, cold, cold skin. a ripple of nausea has her flinching back, animal skittish, before she rights herself. stubbornly molds her hand to the line of his jaw, searching his eyes for proof of existence. starry and bright with life, and not — the glassy-eyed stare of something already gone, gripping her with dead hands. like she might replace it with her last final look at his husk of a body, where the image is seared into the backs of her eyelids. )
You're cold.
( a small detail, but so significant that alina's voice splinters, miserable from the realization. it isn't fair — to be cold in death, and cold in life. suddenly, it doesn't matter that she has no excess energy to tap into. faint sparks putter at her fingertips, a flash of heat lit by alina's good intentions — before her summoning gives out, a candle smothered beneath the thickness of merzost clogging up her veins, no matter how she claws for it. punishment, then, for what she's toiled with. icarus flying too close to the sun, and paying the price with ruined wings.
unhelpfully, panic hitches her next inhale, guides the desperate need behind her touch — fingertips sliding over his browbone, his chin, his mouth. her own autopsy of paul atreides, to at least rid herself of one pressing fear, proof that her fall from grace has not been for nothing: )
Is this — real? Did I dream you again? ( pained, ) You've been haunting me since you left.
Edited (writing dead instead of death im a dumb bitch) 2024-11-02 14:20 (UTC)
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with shaking fingertips, she cups his face between her palms, forcing herself to swallow the acidic sting of her rising bile when she touches cold, cold, cold skin. a ripple of nausea has her flinching back, animal skittish, before she rights herself. stubbornly molds her hand to the line of his jaw, searching his eyes for proof of existence. starry and bright with life, and not — the glassy-eyed stare of something already gone, gripping her with dead hands. like she might replace it with her last final look at his husk of a body, where the image is seared into the backs of her eyelids. )
You're cold.
( a small detail, but so significant that alina's voice splinters, miserable from the realization. it isn't fair — to be cold in death, and cold in life. suddenly, it doesn't matter that she has no excess energy to tap into. faint sparks putter at her fingertips, a flash of heat lit by alina's good intentions — before her summoning gives out, a candle smothered beneath the thickness of merzost clogging up her veins, no matter how she claws for it. punishment, then, for what she's toiled with. icarus flying too close to the sun, and paying the price with ruined wings.
unhelpfully, panic hitches her next inhale, guides the desperate need behind her touch — fingertips sliding over his browbone, his chin, his mouth. her own autopsy of paul atreides, to at least rid herself of one pressing fear, proof that her fall from grace has not been for nothing: )
Is this — real? Did I dream you again? ( pained, ) You've been haunting me since you left.