19 - Mending Murmur

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Does he hate himself as much as I hate him?

« Do you hate me? » my words are soft against the skin of his arm. I woke up in bed with Milo behind me, arms around me and a leg thrown over mine.

I know he's awake because his thumb has been tracing the soft skin inside of my wrist for minutes now. I haven't found it in me to open my eyes though. The headache is gone. The fever too. Only the low ache of my burning muscles has survived the night, has survived his touch. It stops for the fraction of a second before it continues. It's slightly less soft, the tiniest bit more intent.

He doesn't answer yet, I feel his breath on my neck, feel his stare on my face. I bring an arm up from his hold to rub my eyes. A yawn escapes my lips and I don't have it in me to tone it down. Finally my eyes open to the bedroom basked in the rising dawn. Has it been a few hours or a full day? His lips touch the shell of my ear.

« No » it's low but loud. A clear message, cristal enough to bring my eyes fully open. Is it to convince me or him? My limbs jerk at the agression. He keeps his arms close. I have to keep inside the urge to struggle because that was unexpected. I wonder what else I will discover now that he won't hold himself back.

Will he be more touchy? Louder? I wonder what else I missed when he was holding back. I imagine a louder boy, less controlled. Because I don't want to imagine he would be more pushy, more of a man. How much more can I break? I squeeze my eyes shut, wish I had slept a bit more. Wish I ran faster.

« Do you hate yourself? » I hate myself for asking. I can't help but feel the need to drag him down with me. To hurt him as much as he hurts me. I try to keep the tears, bring a palm on my mouth to keep the sob inside. I don't know if I want him to answer. I don't need him to. I shouldn't have said that.

He doesn't. Milo buries his face in the crook of my shoulder instead. His soothing thumb stops on the inside of my wrist on the pulse. And it pushes slightly. My eyes open when tears run down my shoulder and pool in the crease of my collarbone. I'm tempted to turn. To turn and hold him, even if I was the one who hurt him. More than the wolves who avoid him, more than those who fear him.

Could this have been avoided? The pain we both feel? I wonder if there's a universe where we never met, where I was never taken from home. Where I didn't hurt him. I would have risen in ranks, or probably quit if the leaders negotiated peace. No, I would have probably worked as a lumberjack alongside Max and Carter. There's always a shortage of wood.

« Why were you there, that day? At the parliament? » I spread my fingers over my mouth to let the sound come out, hope he can't see the scowl on my face. He wasn't in the first brief. There wasn't supposed to be a second car. I understand why the queen didn't want to ride with him. I don't know why she let him come.

The tears have started to dry but if I were to turn, I sure his cheeks would be tainted with streaks. His thumb leaves my wrist for the palm on my face. He takes it and intertwine ours fingers, lays them gently on the bed. He hums, low and long, as if he's recollecting a memory. And I remember the wind. My stomach heating up, though I didn't know what it meant back then.

« Instinct » he murmurs a couple seconds later in the crook of my neck, voice still thoughtful, lightly croaked. So he knew. Even if I wasn't at the mission, even if I didn't become a soldier. He would have known. I wonder how his body can fit perfectly behind mine when we're both tall. It would have happened anyway. There was nothing I could do.

Yet I find confort in his embrace, feel at peace. How disgusting. I slowly take my fingers away from his, they unlatch softly, I curl them against my chest instead. Was I born for him ? Or chosen later? Maybe it was Detroit, maybe I should have been born somewhere else. Who would have he found then ? His hand lays there, palm facing up, fingers twitching with every breath.

I tempted to feel his skin, to pinch the digits. To graze the lines along his palm. Is that his goal? To let me reach out first? The skin of his fingertips is rougher, the sunlight show the calluses. Fine lines, lighter than his skin, adorn every patch. I look at my own hands. There's no callus, no scars, not even a scratch left of the run.

My eyes flutter shut with the sun that streams by the curtains. I hadn't noticed my head was laying on his other arm. I try to get confortable again, but I can't fall back asleep. I stare at his forearm instead. The building muscle puts my own to shame. I can't remember what the arm under my head looks like. The small hair raises with every breath I take, reveling other scars.

I glance at the veins that run from his elbow to his wrist. Thick and dark. I'm tempted to run my index alongside it. My belly warms up and my neck starts to tingle too. I curl to hide the ache under the duvet. Why am I so sensitive? Is it because of him? Is it his voice or his mere presence? I use a hand to bring my legs to my chest, the other to hide my eyes, because again, tears have started to gather. Always, with him.

I think he stopped crying, I can only feel long and quiet breath on my skin. Maybe he fell asleep. I close my eyes to forget his arms, push the hand harder against my mouth. Should I kill him? I don't think I can. Kill or kill him. What a lousy soldier I make. His body curls further behind mine, encompassing me fully. I manage to calm down, wipe the moisture that gathered around my lips. Focus back on falling asleep.

At least my dreams still belong to me. I feel his leg come in-between mine under the duvet. His breath hasn't changed. A quiet hum leaves my closed lips. My hand comes back to silence my mouth immediately. Because the feeling deepens, my belly just like that time on his office's floor. I think of the red cover and of a broad back. He settles quiet and confortable but the wet feeling comes to a leak, I can't keep my tears down this time.

His body jolts and I try to scramble away, his arms pull me back urgently, palms catching my fleeting limbs. I'm on top of him just like to first time. His eyes are panicked but I catch the sleepiness in them anyway. Mouth into a scowl but slight dribble down his chin. I push a hand to his eyes, while one of his push my lower back onto him, the other patting my head. He stops when I blind his vision, my choked sob quiet against my hand.

I feel his frown under my palm, but his hand moves to my hip. And his nostrils flare up. I see his Adam's apple bob and the hand going through my hair moves to wipe my tears. I try to pry it off, but my tears continue. Again. I try to get off, to push him away between pleas. My cheeks flush from the assault and shame. Shame, fear and hate. Milo's hand on my hip pinches and my waist buckles under his finger. A quiet grasp leaves my lips and I freeze.

« It's okay » his head has moved so that he can open an eye under my palm. His eyelashes are warm. But it's not. Far from it, far from okay. I struggle with the look of compassion he gives me, despite the run, despite the bitter words. Struggle with his kind words and soft touch when he's so bad for me. For my sanity. His voice is barely a whisper.

I want to tell him it's not, bring both my hands to hide the shame and try to ignore the unbearable feeling of wet clothing. I feel his hipbones under my thighs. Is that what I was made for? A violence shake escapes my will and his hand gently goes back and forth on my back. I see tears well up in his eyes, behind my own. I try to flicker them off with strong wipes that pull my cheeks and lashes.

« I know » he whispers and gently takes my wrist from my face. I freeze and curl under his words. Meaningless. Yet they hold so much power. I feel the headache from crying building up. He pulls my hand with a feather touch that I can't resist, puts the palm back against his eyes. To hide him or me I'm not sure. And it's not okay. But my heaves quiet down anyway.

I pull at the headache, focus on the blooming heat of our bodies together. It's lulling. I want to tell him that it will never be. Heat like the softest touch this time. The hand on my back gently pulling me onto him and I don't have strength to resist. And somehow it's more comforting than words. So I let my body slowly fall onto his, my head to his chest. He pulls my hand again, this time to his lips. Gives it a soft press of his lips. Murmurs again and I see candles behind closed eyes.

« Will be » his lips move against my palm, soft warmth and soft lips. But I know it won't. Maybe simply because I don't want it to. Not with him - not here. Maybe I don't fear the beast as much as I fear the man that I know hides unknowingly behind the boyish smiles and clumsy habits. Because this time it doesn't feel as much as breaking as it does mending. I forget the shame enough to relax against him.

I wonder how he can feel like home as much as isolation. Lulling warmth and undoing heat. Maybe monsters are just as complicated as us. Even though I feel the slight burning of the sunlight on my face, it fades compared to his soothing and gentle touch. And maybe it is mending.

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As usual, I'm open for corrections and questions :)

The story will progress forward now, I wanted to take time to fully express Marsh's feelings towards Milo but also towards himself.