Into the burning light of Satan's rays ⸸

He pads to the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame. The kitchen smells like onions and garlic frying in olive oil, and the early evening sunlight slants across the tile, catching the dust motes dancing above the stove. Isolde's back is to him, her dark hair damp and falling loosely down her back. She moves between the chopping board and the pan, her hips swaying just a little in time to the tinny sounds coming from the small radio on the counter.

She's singing along. Not properly, not with any effort. Just humming the melody, then catching a phrase she knows. Her voice is scratchy from disuse, the notes flat and out of place, and it's the most beautiful thing he's ever heard. The sight of her is so ordinary it feels sacred and it cracks something open in his chest. A tight, anxious knot he's been carrying for so long he'd forgotten what breathing felt like without it.

The silence, her silence, in their room had been a physical thing. A thick, heavy blanket smothering everything. She'd been present, but folded in on herself, a closed fist. He'd bring her tea and she'd stare at the wall. He'd talk about his day and her eyes would be somewhere else, focused on some internal landscape of grey. He'd hold her at night and feel the tension in her shoulders, the rigid line of her spine, and wonder where she really was. He learned to move quietly. To make just enough noise to let her know he hadn't let go, and then exist alongside the absence of her.

And now, here she is. Singing badly to a terrible song. Frying onions and garlic in a pan. It sizzles and she jumps back with a tiny, startled laugh—a real one—and the sound punches right through his ribs.

She turns to grab a wooden spoon from the ceramic jar on the counter and catches him in the corner of her eye. The singing stops. Her eyes go wide for a second, then soft, and a faint pink flush creeps over her cheeks.

"Oh, love. How long have you been lurking?"

"Just a second," he lies, his own voice rough with emotion. He pushes off from the door frame and walks towards her, stopping a few feet away, not wanting to crowd her. Not wanting to break whatever fragile spell this is. He looks at her face. The shadows under her eyes are still there, but there's a glimmer in them he hasn't seen since spring. It's not a blazing fire, not yet. It's the first stubborn coal glowing in a pile of ash, but it's burning.

"You're singing," he says. Obviously, he thinks.

She looks down at the spoon, then back at him, a shy, crooked smile touching her lips. "It was on the radio. I used to hate this song."

"I know." He remembers. She'd groan and change the station every time.

"It's growing on me," she shrugs, turning back to the stove, and giving the contents of the pan a stir. "I'm making pasta. Nothing fancy. I was hungry."

He hears what she doesn't say. I wanted to make something. I had the energy to make something. The simple, monumental facts of it swell in his chest until it aches.

He closes the last of the distance, coming to stand behind her. He doesn't touch her, just rests his hands on the counter on either side of her, caging her gently between his arms. He rests his chin gently on her shoulder, his lips close to her ear. He can smell the citrus scent of her shampoo, new and fresh. Proof of a quiet victory he knows she will not count as one.

"Isolde," he murmurs.

"Hmm?"

He lowers his head and presses a gentle kiss to her shoulder, then nuzzles his face in closer to hers. He feels her still, then lean back slightly into the contact. A tiny, willing weight against him.

"There you are," he breathes into her hair.

She lets out a shaky sigh. The spoon clatters softly against the edge of the pan as she sets it down. Her hands come up, not to push him away, but to rest over his where they grip the counter. Her fingers are warm.

"I've missed you," she whispers, so low he almost doesn't catch it over the sizzle of the pan and the radio DJ's chatter.

"Amore," he says, the old endearment feeling new on his tongue. He turns his hands under hers, lacing their fingers together. "You've got your light back."

She makes a small, choked sound that he can't quite place and turns in the circle of his arms, her face tilted to his. Her eyes are bright, and a little wary, like an animal stepping out into sunlight after a long winter in a dark den. He brushes a thumb over the apple of her cheek, where the skin is warm from the stove. He sees the tired lines that haven't quite faded. But her gaze is clear. Present. Here.

"It's just pasta."

"It's more than pasta, Isolde," he corrects, and he means it.

He leans in and kisses her. It's not careful, not hesitant like the kisses he's given her in the dark these past months. This one is a slow rediscovery. The taste of her mouth and the way her hands come up to curl in the front of his shirt, holding on. He pours all the waiting and the worry, all the helpless love into it, and she returns just as she takes.

When he pulls away, her cheeks are wet. She looks down. "Feels strange," she admits, voice a husk of a thing. "To be here. In the kitchen. Making dinner. Like a person."

"You are a person. My person." He says it plain, because it is plain. The most fundamental truth he knows.

They look at each other then. A wordless understanding, an acceptance, until another tear escapes her. She swipes at it with the back of her wrist, laughing a little at herself. "The garlic is going to burn."

"Let it burn," he says, but he releases her, stepping back just enough to let her breathe, to let her move. "We have survived worse than some bitter garlic, no?"

She huffs a laugh, turning to the stove and grabbing the spoon to give the pan a frantic stir. Another song begins on the radio, something slow and saxophone-heavy. She hums again, just a few bars, her body swaying automatically as she works.

Copia leans back against the counter, crosses his arms, and watches her, letting the simple, profound relief of it all fill the room.

The dark ocean of the last few months hasn't receded forever. He knows that much. He knows it's still out there, and that the tide could come back in at any point. But for this evening, in this warm, messy kitchen smelling of slightly scorched garlic, she is on the shore.

And she is singing.

ok so i didn't write this with this song (or any tbh) in mind but when i was thinking of a title it came to me, and in hindsight actually feels quite fitting :')

gia margaret - groceries