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She hates the feeling of it.
The too-soft give of flesh under her too-sharp teeth that still don’t fit right in their mouth, the ratcheting of the snare-drum pulse that echoes in their too-keen ears, the gush of too-hot iron that rushes into her too-hungry mouth, scalding against her gums, her soft palette, her throat. It’s too much. It’s never enough. One good thing comes of it, though, in the form of a hand—gentle, always the right amount of gentle, in spite of the crossbow calluses and needle-prick scars—carding through hair that no longer looks like theirs and Cherri’s voice cooing encouragement against their scalp between pained, hissing inhales.
Cherri asked for this. Begged, even, since Apo refused and refused and refused, until she was cornered and couldn’t run away from what she was any longer.
Apo braces against the nausea for her sake. She can’t stand to look at that aching concern again every time she doubles over her screaming, hollow stomach or dashes out of their home in blind panic as a crimson droplet wells up on her Love’s finger from a misplaced stitch. They can’t stand the fear that one day it'll turn to disgust instead when Cherri finally realizes that she’s made her bed with a monster who’d failed twice in her only responsibilities. That she’d let down the only people who trusted her to keep them safe. That she was the reason Martyn died when he should’ve still been here, that everything she touches is bloodied and gored, that she can still hear the squealing, that she could never convince anyone to believe her, that she can feel that smug voice coiled around her like a snake, that she's been gouged out from the inside and invited something cruel and ammoral in to wear her skin. That it all marches through their head over and over and over again like soldiers in a line.
That maybe Cleo was right. That maybe Sco-
The hand in her hair pulls, sharp and scolding, and Apo realizes that she’s stopped drinking, sniffling pathetically and still as cold stone. Cherri's saying something to them, her voice concerned and firm, but it blurs into nothing against the urge to retch as small droplets of blood fall down Cherri’s neck and mingle with Apo's tears, pooling and soaking red stains into the ruffles of that precious pink blouse she wore when—
—she rolls off of Apo, cackling at the wide-eyed expression they wear, their mouth opening and closing uselessly. Fish-like. She sputters some string of not-quite-words that only set Cherri off further until she has to brace against the dirt and wipe tears from her eyes, breathing in and out heavily in an effort to regain composure.
By the time she’s collected enough to look back without fear of collapsing into another fit of laughter, Apo’s pushed herself up from her previous sprawl in the grass to lean, bewildered, on her forearms.
“What- you? Do you- you really- I-” she breaks here, closing her eyes for a moment to breathe like Cherri had just done, before looking at her, eyes shining with something that sets Cherri’s heart racing like it does whenever she’s chasing game. “I’d love that. I’d love to.”
Cherri smiles, fondness sharpening into an urge to tease and prod that she pushes down—not here, not now, not the time—and leans over Apo, reaching up to pluck a stray blade of grass from burgundy hair and flick it away. The movement catches her gaze, unbidden, as it lands next to a burst of red amid the green. She breaks a poppy off at the base of a fragile stem and pets over the velvet petal, glancing back towards Apo as she tucks the flower behind their ear. A good trade, in Cherri’s opinion.
She intends to hold onto this view for as long as she can, before the military steals them from her. But she's good at holding on, and she'll make sure that Apo is hers before they're sent away.
“You want to marry me?” Cherri asks, looming closer to watch the flush darken over Apo’s cheeks, red as the poppy in their hair.
“Yes! Yes, of course I do!”
Cherri loses the battle against her laughter again as Apo pulls her down eagerly by her ruffled collar, grass staining the pink green in patches. She grins against Apo’s lips and pulls back to press another kiss to each cheek, her nose, the hair—
—at the crown of her head dances with Cherri’s breath as she hums contentedly. Apo doesn’t know when she picked up that habit—some decade ago, surely—but they’re grateful for the way it covers up the initial racing of her heart at the unavoidable pain of the bite.
She’s not past the guilt and distaste of it all. She doubts she’ll ever be as comfortable in it as some of the… others… seemed to be. There’s no real revelry in it like there was in the spiced broths of homemade stews or liquor shared, giggling, in firelight, just the briefest quenching of that ever-burning monstrous hunger that was forced down her throat. No satiation. No true satisfaction. Apo still can’t help the small twinge of jealousy towards the living nestled amid all of the love that she’s always drowning in. No matter what she does, she can't seem to shake that thorn of rot from her time spent between those palisades, their houses, his teeth. Always his teeth. The marks on her neck never really stopped itching.
A fond huff of laughter pulls them out of their spiral and Apo realizes, belatedly, that they’d started growling into Cherri’s neck like some woodland beast. Or Pyro. She shakes the thought quickly. That’s- they’re… she doesn’t want to think of that.
Apo pulls away, muttering apologies, but Cherri stops them before they can bury their face into the cushion of their couch and hide. She closes her eyes as Cherri cleans the two of them up, her nose twitching at the lingering scent of iron, copper, crimson. Two warm hands clasp her face between them and lips press gentle, grinning and kind, to each cheek, her nose, her forehead, and finally against her lips. The gold ring on her left hand presses a cool promise as Cherri swipes her thumb lovingly over Apo's cheekbone.
They hazard a look, now, at their Love. The moonlight filters through the curtains that can only remain open to a world where all else slumbers, and sends hues of calm blue across Cherri’s face. Her eyes look even more beautiful surrounded by lines, drooping kindly with age.
Apo snorts, and reaches to hold up a lock of hair in front of Cherri’s face that’s just barely begun to silver, speckled with a few stray white hairs.
“We’ll match soon, old lady.”
Cherri scoffs and flicks their forehead.
A poppy rests in a vase on the windowsill. They made it home.