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“I shouldn’t be condoning this.”
There, in his usual place in the sky, is the militsioner. In the palm of his hand, in your usual place, is you.
The night air is crisp. If you breathe it in too hard, your lungs begin to burn from the chill.
You breathe it anyway.
You always do. It reminds you that you’re alive. Living. Breathing. A person.
And— there’s another to share the air with.
You lean forwards, legs swinging off of the edge of his hand. Instinctively, his other one swiftly moves underneath it, his eyes narrowing at you in that now-familiar combination of disapproval, suspicion, and the slightest bit of shame.
“You get me into more trouble than you realize,” he says. “The fact that you’re telling me this at all is concerning. It’s concerning to me.” He lets out a breath of exasperated laughter. “…You’re going to be the death of me. Are you even aware of how reckless you’re being?” he asks.
“I’m fully aware,” you reply, a sly smile poised upon your lips. “But if doing this means I get to kiss you senseless without the townspeople watching, I’d make this decision a hundred times over.”
His cheeks darken, his eyes darting away from yours. It’s endearing, how he still gets flustered over the small things, even after months of being together. He still struggles to balance duty and desire.
“I— You—”
“Are you ready?” you ask, far too pleased with yourself.
He half-groans, his eyes flickering out towards the horizon, then back to the town, as if scanning for threats that simply aren’t there. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he mutters finally.
“You’ve said that already. A lot.”
He pointedly ignores your comment, worrying at his lip instead. It’s a habit he does so much around you that you’re convinced you’ve created it.
“...Fine.” He finally relents, his hand cupping around you to keep you stable. You latch onto one of his fingers for extra support. You can feel the gentle warmth of his hand, a shelter from the biting cold.
You begin making out that oh-so-familiar stone pavement, as the mist begins to dissipate, your feet grow closer and closer to the ground with each passing second. You feel the air begin to shift. It’s colder up there, and lonelier. Up in his hands, the world feels far away. You can only imagine what it would be like to be up there all of the time.
With great care, you leap off of his hand. He lets out a surprised yelp, his hand automatically twitching, trying to reach out for you.
You hear the near-silent, quiet breath of relief he exhales when you land safely on the ground, careful not to make any unnecessary noise, avoiding all the dry leaves.
“It’s a bit odd how well you’re able to do that,” he observes, his voice hushed. His head is lowered, eyes tracking your every minute movement.
“Too many days evading your flashlight— I’ve been trained,” you reply.
He resists the urge to scowl, to scoop you back up and have you right there in the palm of his hand once again.
But no, you have a plan. A very risky, selfish, yet shamefully exciting plan.
You tiptoe towards the mechanism, your hand grasping around the cool metal of the lever, tightening around it as you begin to pull down. It takes quite a bit of effort— it’s not particularly well maintained, with some bits rusted over due to disuse.
The result is instantaneous. Some lights pop, others flicker, but the majority just simply switch off.
Pure darkness— pure seclusion. Exactly what you wanted.
Despite the darkness, the militsioner swears he can still glean the brightness of your beaming grin in the midst of it all.
“Proud of yourself?” he asks, outstretching his palm.
He really should ask you about more. You find his palm with ease. Do you have night vision?
His fingers curl around you, his hand raising with you in the middle of it.
“Very,” you reply.
The emblem on his hat glistens in the moonlight. Silver on gold. It’s beautiful, but not what you’re captivated by.
You wonder if your eyes are sparkling just as bright as his emblem. You wonder, in the deep recesses of your mind, how you got to be so lucky.
It’s fun, the push and pull of it all. A small part of you was worried it would get lost when the two of you got romantically involved— that the banter would slow, that your moments together would grow awkward, or stale.
But it was quite the opposite. The two of you still had debates, the two of you still talked regularly— he still looked on exasperatedly at your antics, and you still partook in them.
You realized something, though.
The push and pull, despite how fun it was, you realized you simply didn’t need it. Your relationship, it’s not just push and pull. It wasn’t all you two needed.
A prime example would be in the present. All you feel now is pull, pull, pull.
Towards him. All you need in this moment— all you can focus on, is him. Your love is all you need, and right now, it’s overflowing.
Now it’s your time to laugh. “You’re going to be the death of me,” you murmur.
“You give me life.”
There, in the quiet pull of the night— the moon and stars keeping their soft vigil— you finally unite.
It feels inevitable, simultaneously natural and otherworldly. It’s simple in practice— it’s just a kiss, and yet, it’s so much more.
Life is full of contradictions and despite it all, it continues forwards anyway..
Time loosens its grip; the universe narrows to a single point.
Ah— another contradiction.
It narrows to the warmth of his lips, to the thumping of your hearts in tandem— to your love, as strong as a live electrical wire, and as gentle as the soft moonlight on your skin.
“I love you,” he says, with no hesitation.
“I love you,” you say, in complete earnest.