"I’ve never fallen from quite this high.”
a little Capitol!Everlark, anyone?
She mumbles the words, and he looks over at her. The cold wind blows her hair against her cheeks as they sit on the roof, watching the party below. His first instinct is to reach and push her hair back behind her ear, but he doesn’t. The lights, even from way up here, reflect in the silver of her irises. A kaleidoscope of color, of chaos. Wild and manic and bright. Like her.
“I’ve never fallen from quite this high,” she whispers, and he wonders if it’s possible to hear madness in someone’s voice.
“Well, I wouldn’t recommend it,” he tells her, and he hears it in his voice, too. The madness. The light. The chaos. It’s from the purple smoke that cloaked the room inside, clung to your lungs, the kind that makes everything fun and hazy. The kind that slurs your voice, your thoughts, your reason, until flying off a rooftop seems possible.
Except she isn’t talking about flying. She’s talking about falling.
“Does it hurt, do you think?” And she looks at him with those eyes. He knows she won’t actually do it—the force field prevents it, anyway—but he thinks he knows what she means.
Falling.
He feels like he’s doing it now. Feels the wind burning his skin, the gravity pulling him in, the rush and the fear.
“No,” he says roughly. A lie. “I don’t think it hurts at all.”
