#msnry

bold : desired dyanmics . italics : unsure / potentially desired dynamics . striked through : unwanted dynamics .

FRIENDSHIP.     childhood friends  /  work buddies or coworkers /  family friends  /  friends with benefits /  smoking buddies  /  adventure buddies  /  fake friends  / recently friends  /  party buddies  / friendship of need  /  dying friendship  /  circumstantial friendship  /  partners in crime  /  old friendship  /  [ your muse ] is the good influence  /  [ your muse ] is the bad influence  / [ my muse ] is the good influence  /  [ my muse ] is the bad influence  / opposites attract  /  ride or die /  frenemies  /  roommates or flatmates  /  penpals  /  exes to friends  /  enemies to friends  /  other .

ROMANCE.     childhood sweethearts  /  [ your muse is mines ] childhood crush  /  [ my muse is yours ] childhood crush  /  exes  /  exes to lovers  / forbidden lovers /  highschool sweethearts  / secret relationship  /  opposites attract  /  long distance  /  unrequited [ from your muses side ]  /  unrequited [ from my muses side ]  /  unrequited [ from both sides ] /  skinny love  / friends to lovers  /  enemies to lovers /  spurious relationship  /  power couple /  newly entered  / soulmates [ metaphorical ]  /  soulmates  [ literal ]  /  awkward  / turning toxic /  toxic love  /  cheating [ on your muse ]  /  cheating [ with your muse ]  /  other .

FAMILIAL.     siblings [ half ]  /  siblings [ step ]  /  [ my muse ] is an older sibling figure to your younger sibling figure  /  [ my muse ] is a younger sibling figure to your older sibling figure muse  /  [ my muse ] is a parental figure to yours  /  [ my muse ] is a child figure to your muse  /  guardian figure  /  legal guardian  /  adoptive child  /  foster child  /  [ your muse ] is taken under mines wing  /  [ my muse ] is taken under yours wing  /  other .

“ — i spiked my own drink . ”

      “ now : we ALL play . we’re the moth , we’re the flame — we’re aware of the DANGER , but we could not keep away  ” .

              her attention keeps splitting between the road and him — it’s not safe , and some remote corner of her brain is aware of it , or rather : aware of the inherent risk of devoting so many of her instincts to watching over another human who does not need , perhaps even want , this sort of care . and yet it’s inevitable — through the turns of the frozen - clad road , her eyes keep wandering to the passenger’s seat , picking up on a specific shade of discomfort that’s quickly filtered through an analytical mind and translated into hard facts : shock , disgust , sickness . “ want me to pull over ? ” , now openly addressing him , showing her cards : her concern blatant on her figure , as her gaze’s deviations towards him increase in frequency and duration . “ loki . ” a rest - stop comes up , the unexpected deus ex machina : pulling into the parking lot , camille stops the car and leans over , hand hovering just above his back ( some sort of instinct , muscle memory kicking in ) , but frozen still : “ loki , are you alright ? ” 

       there is something candid about the shade of gold trickling down the horizon — something unbearably tender , might bring her to tears , with the notion of just how fragile some things are . like his voice , through the phone — dragged out , tired . not the kind that comes from sleepless nights , though . this fatigue , she knows it : it’s the silent companion of all her travels , right there sitting next to her ( where he used to be , where now only emptiness sits ) . an fool’s errand for a meaning , a quest for truth . she loses herself in the sunrise flooding the landscapes out of her window , and thinks that this — this is true . the invisible thread connecting two suns , ( for it might be the same one but scattered through two lives , two worlds , too far apart to be warmed by the same light ) . his voice is true — as if people like them could only ever speak through a secret language , on phone calls that last for hours , from the heart of darkness to the unbearable childishness of a dawn . it pours into her brain , honey - like — filling the spaces in between her questions and diagnosis , where doubt grasps her at the throat — or used to . it’s different , now . now the certainty is both a relief and an anvil on her back , but some days she feels like she can bear it .

        some days . 

        the sunrise is unbearable to watch . camille lets her head hang low , turning her eyes away from it , even as her hand stays still , safely holding the phone to her ear . she can see this was a mistake — to call him , deny both of them the quiet comfort of distance ( not that a call can fix it , the miles of asphalt between the two of them : not that it’ll join their grinding days and warp the space - time , not that it can cancel the planes , and the days , and the lives they’re supposed to live , apart ) . the passing thought of hanging up , letting him get out towards the day’s case and her , get to her own , it blinks in and out of her brain . it’s not that something’s keeping her from pressing the red button on her screen — it wouldn’t take much more than a second , then her life would go on the way it always does : pale grey , just drifting . hers is rather an investigation of sorts , a self - diagnosis while the golden light floods her too , like the hills before her . they spend hours speaking of papers and timezones , and she begins understanding —— can’t give the thought a coherent translation , not yet . but the gold pools at the floor of her stomach and there it says , rattling if she moves too much — it’s just a matter of translating the sounds . it’s just a matter of figuring it out .

         he says something about the sun , and camille smiles . eyes returning to the yellow line between the fields and the sky , imagining a similar vision before him — a different palette , blues and greens washed out by the rain , but that same line of gold like a bleeding wound , or the seam between separate worlds . her mind in the background conjures new visions of him , rearranging memories like a collage , painting him against the window , his back turned , the outline of muscles and a slouch saying he’s working too much and not sleeping enough . so alike her — yet she could only ever see self - destruction when performed by his hands , when it made her nauseous . 

     “ yeah . ” , her reply a murmur , forehead against the glass pane to make up for the need for contact . “ looks like we’re going to live another day . ” dry chuckle , for it’s not that funny — but there’s a small celebration to be made , for the glory of new days to live .

    the cyclical click of the ceiling fan seems about as tired as her : exhausted , even , ticking down the moments separating her from home . except it’s not home : it’s a motel room with paper - thin walls , and everything always comes pouring into her room , all the noise , all the disruption , the thoughts she can’t control . she misses the quiet — metaphorical blank canvas where her reasonings and theories had room to grow , be articulated . and as regrettable as it is to admit it — quiet was also her life before whatever this is started . this — this is fresh water down the throat , this is good . but sometimes it’s a wall : thirty feet high , steel concrete , and no matter how hard she slams against it over and over , she can’t climb it . there’s a trick perhaps , a magic word she’s supposed to utter through half - parted lips when it’s just the two of them , sharing bad takeaway on a motel floor . yet she never much believed in magic , far less even in words : and tonight she’s just so fucking tired of climbing . 

     her sigh is drenched with exhaustion , the papers in her hand laid to rest on the desk with theatrical abandon . “ what do you want me to do ?” her gaze ripe with uncharacteristic anger , but much like a child’s , hers only comes out when she’s too tired to put up a fight : to keep pretending that this push and pull is fun , welcome even .“ it’s 1 am . i’m not shutting you out ” . but the second she speaks she knows it’s a lie , and she knows he’ll catch up on it , and caught red - handed she lets her gaze move away from him , turn back to the harmless playing field of paperwork and reports .“ i’m just tired , loki .” the unspoken subtext : leave this alone .

    a shift in her posture — she won’t voice her discomfort , though a keen eye might easily pick up the slightly stiffer line of her lips , or the way her nose scrunches for just a split second . truth be told , her discomfort is oblivious to herself more than anyone else — and it’s hard to tell whether it comes from years of having to prove her worth as a woman , as an agent , as a human with broken branches in her family tree ; or whether it is because doubt was not foreseen , not in this case , not from this actor . 

     her glance is quick , doesn’t rest on him for more than necessary : it’s more of a vaguely annoyed check - up on him before she’s staring at her desk again , an array of photographs spread out like flowers in a bouquet . “ if you want me to say i’m positive , i can’t ” , the answer dragged out of her in a tired exhale , and a sigh , while a hand moves to hold her heavy , heavy head ( oh , she’s tired : she’s worn out , but that’s the game they’ve both been playing from the second they got a badge attached to their name ) . “ 100% certainty is just not realistic . but i know this — ” a nod at her desk , a baggage of clues to be woven together . there’s a note of something unpleasant in her words ( an admission , perhaps ? that this skill of hers is like dirt under her nails — tainting whatever purity is left of her ? ) , and the way she pulls back to lean against her chair might be a faint attempt at more distance — it doesn’t work ( never does ) , as her mind stays focused on the photographs .