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The stars twinkle like fireflies, flickering in and out as if sending a message. One of sorrow, destruction, pain, and empathy. One that sympathizes with the situation you’ve found yourself in. One of love, sincerity, adoration, and awe. One that declares the pure unfiltered devotion you feel towards him. A devotion so misplaced yet so perfect you cannot find the words to describe it.
The sea acts as background noise with the way it laps against the beach. The silence that fills every other expanse cannot be found here. It’s like you can hear as every grain of sand shifts. As if you can hear every individual wave crash against one another. You can nearly hear the struggle of an angelfish running from a barracuda. It almost makes you feel at home except the Angelfish has a chance.
Your heart hurts. Not just because the adrenaline is making it work overtime. Making your heart thump, thump, thump much faster than it’s meant to. Making your breathing quicker and your mind feel like it’s racing itself.
Not just because of the heartache that only he can provide. A sentence or action that stings like he derives joy off your tears. (He probably does.) Proof that he understands you perfectly and still chooses to poke where he knows it’ll hurt. Proof that you’ll stay regardless.
No, your heart hurts because of the hands that wrap around it. His hands, Mapicc’s hands. Hands that have saved you and lost you countless times. Hands that have scarred you and bandaged you all the same. Hands you can’t ever seem to forget.
His palms press against your very life force, his fingers wrapped gently— too gently, around the valves that pump your blood. The sand that thinly coats his finger tips is digging into you with every pump of your heart. A part of you wonders if your heart will accept it and grow a pearl. If you can still grow something so beautiful despite the intentions of the act.
Mapicc’s hands are both intrusive and familiar. Your body wants to reject them, it knows he doesn’t belong so close to you and yet you cannot force yourself to pull away. He means too much. He is your lover and your enemy. An ignition to your flame and the rain to wash it away. He is your world and the asteroid that destroys it.
You are covered in red, in his color. A color you can’t forget even if you tried. (You have. You failed.) You are sitting on top of him, your legs across his stomach and knees on either side of him. You are above him and he is below you, an unwilling worshipper and his Goddess.
He is not alone in his prayers, however. Your hands grace his skin although your touch isn’t nearly as gentle as his. Your grip is firm, determined, decided. Your hands closed tight around his shoulders to press him up against the sandy floor. His head is completely submerged, the salt filling his eyes the same way the scent fills your nose.
The soft crash of waves feels more like a threat (a promise) than it does a comfort. Weirdly, his touch feels more like a comfort than a threat. The ocean covers his head and makes it impossible to feel him.
To feel his skin under your teeth, to feel the rip and tear of something so intimately violent. To kiss away the blood and watch it stain your lips. To watch his eyes fixate on the excess as it drips down your chin. He looks at you with want. With desire, with a passion that can only be fueled by violence.
A bubble of air rises from his mouth and pops to the surface. It reminds you that you have limited time. That your heart is slowing the same way his body is begging him to breathe. You are at a stalemate. His life in your hands and yours in his. A trade of trust between soulmates. A silent question, ‘How far will you go for me?’
The answer is obvious to you, just as you guess it’s obvious to him. Everything you own is his, everything you are and everything you will ever be is free for him to ruin and repair. You trust him. You’re more sure of that than anything else in life. (And death)
Dark spots dance in your vision just as you feel his arms start to loosen. For a moment you wonder if you’ll outlast him. If you’ll breathe for a moment or two after he frees your heart from his grasp. If you’ll die, just not in his hands.
You watch him the same way a lion would watch a gazelle. Waiting for him to slip up, waiting for him to lose the game you two have been playing (and will play) for years, decades, centuries. You’re sure you will outlast him now. His eyes have drooped nearly closed and his grip is so loose it’s practically non existent.
You don’t have time to mourn the loss of his hands cradling your heart before his eyes shoot open, his body coursing with a type of energy only the two of you can possess. With his dying breath (and yours) his hands squeeze around your heart. You watch the blood splatter across his face. Watch as your vital organ spills against the sand and stains his hoodie. You only get a moment to witness the destruction before you collapse on top of him.
Your corpse is enough to hold him down. It’s enough of a weight to keep him underwater for his final moments. Your bodies lay together; two souls desperate to be intertwined and destined to die all the same. You aren’t worried about the finality of your situation. You will meet in a new body at a new time and you will repeat the cycle just as you have thousands of times before. He is Mapicc and you are Zam, where else would you be but in his arms?