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I take a gasp of air; fill my stinging lungs with the scent of the carpet of grass I lay on. The trees hover above me, swaying green clouds, squirrels chittering quietly, safe in their branches. A shuddering tension corrupts my thoughts. The golden dawn has a scent to it; like death and a brisk wind. His body is warm against my knee and elbow as I kneel atop him with a silence. A flaming lock of hair snakes down to weakly rub at his cheek.
My blade glitters. I push it a bit harder under his chin and watch it dig into his neck. No blood leaks. I'll have to drag the blade. I think I am ready to do it and no such thing happens. A tear escapes my lashes. My lips are thinned together. A broken sob—my sob—makes a dig deep into the morning quiet.
My lips wake from their slumber at the feel of my tears. They press against Marvel's, and my urgency alarms me. He is soft. My mouth is moist and needy as it moves against his with a knowing weakness.
I just see green when my eyes again open. They are Marvel's. The color of the trees and the grass; they are harsh beneath the frame of his dark arched brows. His rumbling groan is stirring; gruff and frightened at the feel of my blade at his flesh, low at the feel of my tear-slicked lips sliding against his.
A hand grasps at my wrist and another presses at the dip in my stomach. I am pushed away, and as gentle as he is, I feel abandoned. His legs are slender and scrape at the ground. Betrayal; confusion in his eyes. I release the knife to watch as it rolls and stumbles into the palm of his stiff hand.
My hands occupy themselves. They are wiping at my face, my eyes, my lips. Tears ruin my sleeves into a dark mess, and my arms are no longer comfortably dry.
"I-I didn't know what else to do." My voice is scared and low. The forest is dangerously quiet. "Marvel. I'm... I'm so scared."
My pupils follow a millipede through the fog of my tears, and after a moment, I think my ally has left me to freeze and kill on my own. But then I feel a cold hand press the dampness away, and his palm feels more warm than it should on my cheek. "I'll keep you safe," Marvel tells me. His voice is tired. His other hand has dropped the knife, and it now rests warm against my side. I feel his thumb draw circles in the fabric of my windbreaker.
(marvel) And the strangest part (im afraid of falling in love with you) is that the immediate impulse to brush his hand away (i want you to know this marv) seems to have faded completely.