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He kisses her, and his mouth is ash against hers. He has invisible blood dripping from his nails, his hands, his blue veins. He is not beautiful, not anymore. Not like this. He is the ugliest thing she’s ever seen. His lips are smooth, his eyes are ice. He is not touching her.
He laughs to her, moves in closer and breathes the whole world into the shell of her ear. He whispers words of promise, and he knows the earth. Its secrets and its horrors and its dreams. He knows the earth, the sky, the water, the heat, the ghosts.
He knows her.
She wants to rip their hearts out, right then and there. She wants to tear through cartilage and corded veins and thick muscle and white, pyrefly infested bone. She wants to end him. Wants to end them. Instead, she dips and slides her fingers into his robe, slashes at his flesh with her ripped nails. She draws blood and it slides down his pale skin— sketches lines over the planes of his chest. It covers his tattoos. She won’t rip his, (their,) heart out, not yet. Not while he still whispers promises, and smiles his smirk against her skin while bending down at the waist to meet her height.
She watches as the wound heals, as the red dwindles, as muscle and skin knit themselves together, shining all the while. He still does not hold her. There are pyreflies singing to his veins. Guadoblood still stains his skin.
He laughs. The sound of it is shrill and mad against her ears. He still does not hold her. He does not move to encase her with his palms and tapered fingers. Does not move to touch her, other than pushing ash to her mouth once more. She does not protest, does not fight back. She does not even want to. Because—
He still has his heart.
(She wonders where hers has gone.)