Afterburn
23/02/26
They closed the door behind them. It was quiet, save for the patter of light rain on the roof, and the sound of their own breath. No music, no footsteps, no sounds of life. All that was left of the night was the aftertaste of the wine now. The buzz had left them. They paused there in front of the door for a time, leaning their weight on it, their loose grip on the handle. Sometimes at times like this, there were thoughts in the back of their mind, that said perhaps, if they were to open the door again and walk through it, there might be someone new waiting - more enjoyment to be had. They knew better, but they felt it all the same. The absence creeping in. Instead, they occupied themself. Stripped their clothes down. But it was still too quiet. It was difficult to ignore their own self when their own self was the only thing making noise. Their self, who they caught sight of as they washed their face in the small basin. They grimaced at it, bringing the water to it harder than necessary, as if to punish themself for looking. Nohra and themself had a long and arduous relationship. A never-ending dance, a constant waltz between shame and self-adoration, or sometimes on especially joyous days, a super-position of the two. A passionate kiss, and a stab to the heart. In fact, it might be said that their every action in the last few decades had been an attempt to divorce their innermost identity from their perceived one. The thought that, perhaps, if Nohra the Prince of Stories was big enough, it would consume the rest of the space in them too. Sometimes, they'd gotten close, they felt. Sometimes, they would feel so _good_ that they'd thought it had worked, only to find the dance began again with the strangest of jostles -- the wrong kind of face in a crowd, the wrong kind of weather digging up old memories. All in all, tonight had been fun though, hadn't it? Drink, dance, stories and secrets. Told aloud, it was an excellent night. So, why was it that this one dull moment had soured it? They had one thought. They hummed, to keep it out. It was no tune in particular. Yet, it died in their throat just as quick. The noonflower sat on the table. They reached for it without thinking, and brought it close, thumbing its petals, catching it's scent. The mountain-side, in the afternoon heat, with the gentle wind on their back. And Naual. The gentle, richness of her voice. The sun on the scripture of her arms, as she lounged in the grass. The sound of her laugh. It's scent was faded, but still there. They collapsed quietly onto their bed. They had half hoped she might come. More than half. They had longed for her to come. They had been looking for her face all night. They could have gone looking, but the shame would have been too much to bear. It was already too much to bear. That, and the fear. The confusion. Why this. Why now. Why _her_. They could feel her in their head, putting down roots in the smallest crevices. They curled into themself with a grimace. There was no answer to this torture in sight. It was a delicious sort of pain, in some ways. They deserved it, was what their mind whispered to their heart. Suffer this and repent. They curled into themself, holding the memory of her close to their chest, and they pressed it to their lips with closed eyes. As their own treacherous mind wracked them with the thoughts of all they had of her. And it lulled them, slowly into dreaming.