@unholyrite​​​ SAID: "if i see you again, i’ll take your eyes.” - from taylor <3 ☆ MEME: dark & thrilling prompts ☆ send FANMAIL!

          “Excuse me?”          He’s laughing, vaguely unsettled but not taking the threat too seriously.          “Why? Have I done something to offend you?”

Probably. He doesn’t know what he might’ve done to upset this woman, but surely it was something; he is a rather polarizing figure, after all. She also looks vaguely familiar — maybe he slept with her at a party and forgot to call, or perhaps he tried to kill her in a drug-induced fit.

Sure, they aren’t even really officially, outwardly dating yet - lots of loose ends and emotional maturing to do before they can start acting like adults and... booking reservations and making out on ferris wheels together, whatever it is that people in serious relationships do - and, as Arlo stands there laughing at her, he points out another foil to her plan: 

❝ isn’t it a little cliche to get engaged on christmas? ❞  ---  @unholyrite

He knows he has her. She wishes he would do her the courtesy of at least looking away from her for a minute so she can be ashamed of herself in private, but he loves the look on her face when she’s losing the imaginary pissing contest Willow always plays with him in her head, so he doesn’t. Just smirks, just beams, absolutely delighted by her clear and obvious embarrassment of her own deep, deep, feelings.         You like me, admit it, you like me! 

Willow is flustered. 

She has her hands clasped together, swaying from side to side in her seat, a little tipsy and red in the face with the slight buzz of the mulled wine she’s been guzzling all afternoon as they discuss the number of Christmas parties they’ve been invited to. Willow, full of surprises and jubilance since Arlo’s return home from hospital, has been agreeing to accompanying them to every single one. Right now, they’re on the topic of a work function: 

❝ let’s wear matching ugly Christmas sweaters to the party! ❞         Arlo suggests, grinning, and Willow is all too quick to squeak with excitement at the idea, drowning out any groans of protest from Taylor, who is  not as enthused with the idea of being The Three Musketeers of ugly partywear. 

                    “Yes! Perfect idea. I love it. I love Christmas jumpers... We should go shopping!!” 

"  i  would  go  over  just  to  see  what  he  wants,  i  have  to  experience  it  in  person.  "

           “Kissing tyrannical heads spitting at you, babe, fire you wade through...”             Willow is not awake, her eyes groggy with sleep and her speech slurred, she’s mumbling into the tape recorder she keeps at her bedside for these instances, the words bouncing in a rhythm that make sense to her half-asleep mind but absolutely none at all in the real world, nonsense translating into nonsense. Inspiration often strikes in her dreams, this way she always remembers it all -- even if none of it makes any sense at all. 

The problem is, with her new bed being Arlo’s sofa, is that she isn’t as alone as she thinks she is while she empties out her brain-bank. The amusement is thick in Arlo’s voice as he looks over from his chair, appearing to Willow as some creature from her dreams. Faceless, but smiling. Background noise. 

                              “You what?” 

Willow seems almost annoyed by the simple question, groaning, still unaware that this intrusion isn’t part of her dreams. 

There is some beating around the bush; things are, after all, peaceful and even happy between the two of them since their reunion. They have been acting like sisters again, joined at the hip, leaning on each other for support - why rock the boat? But being here drudges back up all the dark, sticky feelings that Willow tries so hard to peel herself from when they’re in the hospital.

It doesn’t all just go away just because Arlo got hurt bad enough to scare her into coming back to her senses just a little...  They’re each holding a cup of tea in their hands, looking at each other, Willow desperately wishes to invite her inside of her mind. To witness all her contradictions the way Willow feels them; they don’t translate into words well. Not even with Willow’s talent for the craft. 

               “Whatever, um, whatever I say after this... I want you to know I love you. It’s not-- a reflection.. On how I feel about you. If you could please just hear me out... Just -- I love you, okay? I love you.” 

                    “You tell me you love me like it'll be thе last time. Like you're playing out thе end of a storyline...”  Taylor seems to be preparing herself, her guard going up in spite of Willow’s desperation for complete acceptance. 

Willow bows her head. 

            “It’s not -- the... It’s not the end. It just feels that way... I feel that way a lot. I -- what I said... Before, about wanting to die. It’s -- it was horrible. It was a horrible way to say it... But it wasn’t... I wasn’t completely lying, Taylor. I -- I feel like I want to die... I feel it so much. I don’t always want to. I try not to. But I -- I do. I feel it a lot. I’ve felt it for as long as I can remember. Even before... Even before I wrote my book.”