[he says it, finally, outloud, and when she lets him go he squashes the reflex to grab her and hang on. wrap his hands around her wrists (or her throat) and keep her with him.
he steps away, turns around and reaches up to tug at his hair at his temple. you don't hurt the people you love. he doesn't know what they are. what this is.]
[ he flutters. it's a little bit like watching a butterfly die. she'd seen them a handful of times when she was young. when the boys on her street would spend the summer catching them and keep them in jars. take them out one by one to tear a wing off, and watch them try to get back into the air.
hayley isn't afraid of tate. and it isn't naivety, but control. he can't die, not really. but she doesn't need a gun, a knife, a rope- to convince him.
she pulls away and shows him her back- moves to the bed to pull the blankets aside and sink onto the mattress. her voice is quiet, but doesn't flicker. ]
[he turns around to face her because he's half convinced if he looks away for too long she'll stop seeing him. maybe he'll reach out and go right through her. she'll change her mind about him. tell him go away.
he stares for a long moment, because he's been in here plenty of times, but this isn't something that happens. Hayley sleeps, yeah, and he's watched her sleep, but they don't do that sort of thing together.
his hand drops to his side and he looks at her, then to the bed, sheets pulled back and bared. he hesitates for only a moment, knows he could say plenty of things. i didn't know we were at this level or shouldn't we go on a date first or is your boyfriend going to care. things he knows could upset, could twist things.
tate isn't sure the last time he slept. everything is a haze.
[ he's easy to guide, and though hayley isn't sure how much of that is because of a flaw in his design, or a perfection in her own, it doesn't matter. she knows when to bend, and where. for how long. she knows when to flash the right look and when to open her hands, because they always (always) come to her.
tate sinks down, and though hayley doesn't lay, not really, she rests her back against the headboard, and her chin lifts- the faintest knock as her head finds the wall. the ghost she brings down into her lap, half cradles his head as he settles into the bedding.
she'll need to change the sheets tomorrow, after he leaves, if she ever wants to sleep in them again. her hand finds his face- stretches to cover his eyes, blot out the light. ]
How can you tell the difference? How do you know when you're dreaming, and when you aren't?
[Tate's familiar with the darkness, but for the most part, he puts himself there. she lays her palm over his eyes and her hand is a weight over the bridge of his nose, her fingers at his temple like an iron shackle. he takes a breath, and when he exhales it's like his chest is sinking.]
[ he goes still. not quite soft, but that'll come after. when his breathing goes slack and he surrenders. he hollows himself out, or hayley carve him. it doesn't really matter, either way. hayley watches his face- mostly obscured by her palm, and the corner of her mouth twitches.
her opposite hand lifts, and one fingernail pushes into his shoulder. drags down his collar and leaves a raised, red welt in it's wake. ]
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no subject
[he says it, finally, outloud, and when she lets him go he squashes the reflex to grab her and hang on. wrap his hands around her wrists (or her throat) and keep her with him.
he steps away, turns around and reaches up to tug at his hair at his temple. you don't hurt the people you love. he doesn't know what they are. what this is.]
I don't want to go back, anyway.
no subject
hayley isn't afraid of tate.
and it isn't naivety, but control. he can't die, not really. but she doesn't need a gun, a knife, a rope- to convince him.
she pulls away and shows him her back- moves to the bed to pull the blankets aside and sink onto the mattress. her voice is quiet, but doesn't flicker. ]
Tate. C'mon.
no subject
he stares for a long moment, because he's been in here plenty of times, but this isn't something that happens. Hayley sleeps, yeah, and he's watched her sleep, but they don't do that sort of thing together.
his hand drops to his side and he looks at her, then to the bed, sheets pulled back and bared. he hesitates for only a moment, knows he could say plenty of things. i didn't know we were at this level or shouldn't we go on a date first or is your boyfriend going to care. things he knows could upset, could twist things.
tate isn't sure the last time he slept. everything is a haze.
he falters, then crosses to the bed.]
no subject
tate sinks down, and though hayley doesn't lay, not really, she rests her back against the headboard, and her chin lifts- the faintest knock as her head finds the wall. the ghost she brings down into her lap, half cradles his head as he settles into the bedding.
she'll need to change the sheets tomorrow, after he leaves, if she ever wants to sleep in them again. her hand finds his face- stretches to cover his eyes, blot out the light. ]
How can you tell the difference?
How do you know when you're dreaming, and when you aren't?
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When it hurts.
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her opposite hand lifts, and one fingernail pushes into his shoulder. drags down his collar and leaves a raised, red welt in it's wake. ]
Then I guess you aren't dreaming.