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The realization strikes you suddenly, catching you by surprise like nothing did anymore. The finality, the certainty and inevitability of it steals air from your lungs, makes your mouth dry.
(You watch him, — Isabeau, Isa; name a curse, time slowed to crawl, — pull closer and closer and closer, nearly letting the hand fall- yet it never comes.
He stops, mere blinks-beats-breaths above your shoulder.)
He will never touch you. He will never confess, he will never have enough guts to go through with it, he will forever remain this inanimate doll with eyes of a living thing. His face will still darken every time you will dare yourself to give him the flower, but he will swallow his words like sweet fruits.
Never to be shared with you.
(Such is the fundamental truth.)
…unless.
(Unless the one that breaks this perpetual yearning will be you.)
Your muscles twitch, and you don't make them stop. Your hat shadows your face — you are vaguely aware Isa had been saying his lines like a diligent actor, until he stops and makes a confused sound as you stalk with your arm, slowly, up.
"Uh, Sif? Is everything-"
You surge.
(It's so easy to do this, isn't it? He never could resist you.)
Your hand yanks on his collar, branch in a current, straw in a free fall. Gloved fingers, — hid behind leather so that no one will need to touch such a disgusting this as you, — nearly rip the shaded cloth off his neck from the mere act of grabbing. You hear a sharp inhale, see wide eyes, feel the frantic heart's hammering in the ribcage in front of you.
Isa doesn't even has a second to peep before your lips are on his.
(You are like a snake in that way, you think. Not a python, and definitely not that simple little thing that hides itself in grass; no, you're- you're the one much, much worse.)
Isa goes rigid under you. His whole body shudders, like he's been suddenly dunked in an ice cold river, breath completely stolen and mouth left open wide.
You take the advantage with open arms.
The power you have over him, in this situation, it makes you drunk — you can do just about anything to him, you know, and it swipes you down further under just from knowing. It's intoxicating. Your tongue is already behind his teeth, making the lousy kiss deeper and branding it for life in your mind. You are around him, — molding him into this neat dough, feeling his steady heartbeat jackhammer in his chest, — hands grabbing onto his nape and dragging him closer and closer to you.
You almost laugh from how easily his knees start to buckle.
(Ahh, your mouth is so full venom, you are practically drowning in it every time you try to say something. It gurgles in your esophagus like water in the drowning's lungs. It drips from your teeth, your fangs — sweet poison going right into his throat.)
Stars, you're disgusting, aren't you?
You pull away, tongue out, to watch the thin saliva thread pull taunt and break. It satisfies an itch, to see it, proof of your intervention, even if you need to lick you lips so you won't get the slimy substance everywhere.
Isa heaves as soon as you step away. His back presses to the boulder behind him, palms flat against the rock surface, clinging onto it for support. His legs visibly shake, and he is breathing so deep you almost imagine him inhaling the clearing whole. It's comedic, really, to see his face blending with his shirt in shade.
His eyes are wider, wilder than you have ever seen.
(You ignore how your palms, — your tongue, you lips, your every blinding thing, — burn from he contact.)
You watch him, expression set, cheeks flushed and warm. You wonder, for a moment, if you're satisfied with your work, reducing him to such a sorry state he can't recover from for far longer that your dialogue ever lasts, these loops. It sears, the itch-something in your chest, hotter than your shame and deeper than despair, and you lick your lips again.
You do not skip past your ears the too-loud swallow.
He opens his mouth. Closes. Opens again, closes, opens-closes, parodying a dying fish. His earrings make ding ding sounds as he starts sliding down the rock to sit, breathing hard and ragged.
Then an undignified squeak leaves his lungs. "S- SIF?"
(It's cute, how can you render him so defenseless, so pliable. Cute, how one kiss makes him a putty in your palms, soft clay you can mold and squish and roll around your fingers.)
"Yes, Isa?"
Your throat burns. You want to kiss him again, if only to keep that new expression on his face. It's captivating to look at, to know you did it. You want to kiss him again. Is it obvious from the outside that you are so desperate; so ready for something that had no chance to happen? You want to kiss him again and again and again.
Isa flexes his hand against the stone, gaze darting between you and the road. You wonder if he's worried that someone will jump you here, or if he's looking for ways to escape you. He shouldn't be worried about the former, since no one ever goes here besides him and you, no matter how much time passes or how many string you yank.
If it's the latter, though, perhaps it's warranted.
(You want to eat him whole, after all.)
"Y-" He chokes on the word. "You- it was- I-"
You watch his brain malfunction in real time, trying to string together a sentence it can't process. You can almost see it dripping from his ears, down his cheeks and his face, falling onto the ground with a wet splat. It would be appropriately gooey, you think, mid-shade entrancing you to take a bite. Maybe you could snag his skin, too, into that meal.
(You try not to think about how he would taste between your teeth.)
Perhaps you should stop him before his mind actually does that, though.
You take step closer, and Isa's mouth instantly clicks shut.
You take another. The hat now gives off a shadow for both of you, wide brim casting a sharp darkness across his face.
You wonder how you look like to him now, what he sees in your eye as you learn in close enough to whisper in his ear. Does he still find you cute with this disposition? Upper hand is on you this time — you must tower over him, from his point of view. Does he think you're dangerous, like this? Coying? Manipulative?
(Does he see how desperate you are?)
"Isa." You say, and he visibly stutters, tries to swallow a sound. His cheeks are darker than Mira's skin.
Hm. That can't be good.
"Mind if we talk a bit later?"
It takes a second, but he wheezes out something that might be agreement. You pull away, and watch with a coil of… something in your gut as he has to lean heavily on the rock for support. His face is still dark. His legs still shake.
You did that, you think as Isa quite literally wobbles away like a newborn lamb. You made him like that.
You like the power that it gives you.
…You lick your lips again turning to the Favor Tree after Isa leaves your sight, trying to remember how it feels. You do still want to kiss him again.
(When you talk later, — twice, thrice, at the roof of the House, — he doesn't confess, still.)