@rebirths asked: a kiss, you say~? // kisses ( 1/5 ), open
She smells like dust and death.
They hadn’t had a moment to breathe yet—Lucian didn’t let them. As soon as Thresh disappeared and he was sure Senna was in his arms (a few times he swore she was literally slipping through his fingers—solid and not both at the same time), he swept them both off to the small boat he had ferried himself here on, bundled her onto it, opened the sails, and pushed off shore.
They are sailing across the black water of the sea now, catching their breath. The ship creaks and moans its protests over the choppy waters. It is a cheap ship, one Lucian honestly did not expect to use twice. He had prepared for this day thoroughly, had approached the Isles with grim determination and a cold fury. He would not fail this time—but he did not expect to leave the island after the fact. After killing Thresh and releasing Senna’s soul, he thought—believed—he would be alone as ever. He thought he would die on this island, solitary and abandoned, but with his mission complete, and Senna, at the very least, at peace.
But now, someway, somehow, he is holding Senna in his arms, afraid to even begin to believe this is real. He wonders if he’s trapped in the lantern, tortured by some cruel illusion. He’s afraid to touch her. Will she melt away as soon as he does?
Lucian presses his face into her neck, breathes her in, ignores the grit of sand against his cheeks. He doesn’t speak—there are no words for this, none that could possibly encompass what he is feeling right now. He is awash with emotion such that it threatens to collapse his shoulders under their weight. Joy, fear, relief, weariness, wariness, despair, regret, guilt, love—all of it breaking through floodgates he kept so carefully locked with the intensity of his pure and unadulterated rage these past few and long (too long) years.
Finally, he pulls away just long enough to press a kiss against her lips. It’s hard and insistent, as if desperately begging her to be real, for this to not be an illusion—but even as he does it, Lucian decides that he doesn’t care if this is fake or not, because she feels solid and warm, and this is more than his dreams ever could muster.
Lucian draws back after a moment, drinks her in, waits for her to vanish. When she doesn’t, he starts crying—a slow, steady stream of hot tears he had not allowed to come since the day Senna was taken from him. This is real. She’s real. She’s here.
He kisses her again more tenderly this time, with more reverence. Near breathless, he says against her lips, “I missed you.”
