#scardusted

          Pearl studied the enormous man carefully from where she stood, dark eyes narrowed as they dragged suspiciously up and down his bulk.  She’s never seen ANYONE quite like him  --  and to be entirely honest, it INTIMIDATES her, which she’s hardly eager to showcase.  (As she’s learned, showing WEAKNESS in this world is almost always a mistake.

          ❝  Every man on this dock is giving you a VERY wide berth, if ye haven’t noticed.  ❞

    she’s a wisp of a girl huddled beneath one of the pub’s patio lights as though it might offer some semblance of heat with a cigarette poised between two shivering fingers and her palm pressed to the belly of a beer that only seems to grow colder with exposure to the elements. it’s a glance spared pogie’s way and then, without warning, her drink is thrust forwards for him to take as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.  “ will you hold this? fucking freezing. ”

            “tie.” it’s quiet, barely more than a whisper. the sun peeking through the curtains is early-morning soft and the chill of the night still seems intent on forcing its way under the blankets with them. she touches the arch of his eyebrow with the pad of her thumb and traces the shape of it to the rise of his cheekbone. he looks young like this, unguarded. “tie, wake up.”

     “ i’ll trade you six kisses for your jacket. that’s a bargain. ”

     they shouldn’t. they shouldn’t, they shouldn’t, they fucking should not and daisy knows it  –––  can feel it in the way that her fingers tremble at her sides  ( she presses them between her thighs for good measure, praying that the pressure of silken skin might ease the shaking ). loss sits heavily in her chest, a tight weight that she can’t seem to shake, but there is something FAMILIAR about the smell of him at her side; something about the now intoxicating combination of beer and his cologne and her shampoo that conjures up memories of a ringing laugh that she can’t seem to shake.

     in all honesty, daisy had hoped that if they had drowned their sorrows at home he might not feel quite as PRESENT as he does when they’re tucked away in a corner of the pub.

     it’s not romantic.

     it’s certainly not kind.

     it’s a beat, two, three of hesitation and then her lips are crashing down against his, something of a whimper lost to a kiss that feels embroiled in a brand of grief that neither of them seem to have gotten a handle on yet  –––  feels ANGRY. it’s a line that they shouldn’t have crossed but that feels, in hindsight, like something of an inevitability; like something that they had been unknowingly careening towards for weeks now, like something she needs. 

     blindly, she reaches past him to set her drink down on the table, a leg slipping across his lap, fingers curling against his side as though they might nestle themselves between his ribs and find relief there  –––––––  they won’t, but that’s okay, she thinks.

     for just a moment  ( a flicker of a second, really ), daisy thinks that she found relief in the swell of his forgiving mouth.