“I’m glad to hear it. Maybe you will be a little more careful next time, and save yourself—and me—some worry.” You smile then, looking to him out of the corner of your eye with a certain degree of mischievousness, refusing to admit the possibility (probability) that he had not meant himself, denying the chance to look in to all the things that it could mean. Knowing him, it is just another quip, another taste of his odd sense of humor, another demonstration of his inability to take some things seriously. And yet, out of all the things that you hide, all the things that you deny, you cannot ignore your wish that it wasn’t just another joke. And yet, what more is there for you to do, besides deny? You nearly sigh in relief as his voice breaks the growing silence; an ear tilted in his direction the only sign of your attention, too lost in the moment to break yourself from the thoughtlessness of the motion of the waves.

Nearly, but he speaks of victory, a word, a flimsy concept, that brings a shallow taste to your mouth, ignites your veins with a familiar anger. It is not a victory, to kill, to take anothers life, no matter how corrupt; it is pride, senseless pride borne from selfishness, something that you do not—will not—ever understand. Still, you allow him his indulgence with little fight, the pride that exudes from him opening chasms like wounds on your heart, plucking names from memory, faces that you would sooner forget, for all the pain that they bring you, yet you do not let go. Aviya, her father huddled over her as he broke so quietly, so completely, apart, the man with the fractured wing and shattered leg, the wounds that cover his back—you breathe deep against the morning, keeping your question of whether he would still call it a victory should he see the damage these things had left in their wake, if he would still call it victory should he see himself the way that you do now: hurt and vulnerable and so very stupid. Your eyes roll, teeth clamping on the soft flesh of the inside of your cheek, worrying at it like your annoyance at his ignorance wears on you, though you still refuse to acknowledge the way that it boils under your skin, the way your tongue grows heavy with all the black words that you would say, should he be anyone else.

But he is not, and he is entirely too close to your heart; and so you play the fool, force your contempt to burn in utter silence. It is then that he reaches out to you, and it is under that heavy, heavy touch, a touch that means too much (to you), too little (to him), that your bitterness is suddenly nothing, a soft hmm emitting as your skin shivers, neck arches to press just a little closer to his lips, into his touch, something you missed too entirely much in the moments it has been absent.

‘Could there ever be a sweeter triumph?’

For a moment still you remain silent, the sudden surge of something in your heart making your limbs tremble beneath you, forcing your breaths to come all too fast. To not have to hide from you, is the only thing that echoes through your mind, but your lips, pressed so firmly together, do not move, your eyes remaining glued to the brightening horizon. You know that to expose to him the things you have tried so hard not to feel, would be to lose him. And still, a fledgling courage grows within the shadow of your doubt, your head turning ever so slightly towards him, eyes shut (too afraid of what they won't see) as you utter a single word: “Yes.” Only now do you push yourself against him, skin tingling as his heat flares against you, lips reaching for the bony expanse of his cheek, your touch as tender as it is inexperienced as you draw a breath hesitantly. “To have you, know you, even just once, and only for a moment—“

Only now do your eyes open, peering up to his for the thousandth time, but with need kindled within them, a desperateness that you cannot put to words. To expose him would be to lose him, you know, but in this moment, the boldness that has taken hold, you are tired of feeling like the both of you only move backwards, and something within you needs to know, needs him so, so much closer—

“And for you to (love) want me in return.”