Lips Like Ice

VXII

Lydia wakes sobbing. She squeezes her eyes closed, chasing the dreams even as they slip through her fingers. She concentrates on the smell of coffee and bacon in the mornings, the sound of the bathroom vent coming on in the room across the hall from hers, the laughter floating up from the kitchen as her mom and dad tussle and flirt in their bathrobes. She puts a hand to her chest to try to hold in the feeling of warmth and contentment, of happiness and home. The feeling of feeling something.

And like every dream that anyone tries to cling to, it slides through her fingers, dissipates, evaporates, gone.

Lydia cries out, frustrated and sad, rolls over and sobs into the pillows, whole body shuddering. She punches the pillow and it doesn't make her feel better, but it hurts a little, and pain is better than nothing so she punches it again, and again, and again.

When she's exhausted herself, when there are no more tears to cry, she sits up. The Prince is seated on the end of the bed, one hand raised as if he wanted to try to pet, to comfort, and couldn't quite figure out how to start.

"It is all right," he whispers, his voice a low baritone that she now knows is edging towards the deep bass of his father's. "I am here."

"And so am I," Lydia says. "And that's the goddamned problem."

"I am released from court today," the Prince says. "Come, we could—"

"Fuck off!" she snaps at him, and rolls off the bed. She heads to the toilet and wishes she had the strength to slam the bathroom door behind her.

It would be satisfying, she thinks. A small satisfaction, sure, but at least some.

They waltz around one another all morning, not touching, on opposite sides of whatever room they happen to find themselves in. The Prince is plain again, the gems gone from his hair, the cosmetics he'd had around his eyes washed away. He is slumped, curled down and favoring one arm. Did he hurt himself during the scuffle with his brother?

Does Lydia give a good goddamn?

But then, he earned the hurt protecting her, so shouldn't she feel grateful? Shouldn't she go over there and check it over, massage away the kinks, ice it if its inflamed and... and down that path lies the way of subservience and insanity.

She is so close to losing her mind, so close to giving in, accepting, and wouldn't it be good? Wouldn't it be fine, to just give up? To let go of the anger, the hatred, the fear? To lay by his feet and sigh warmly, softly, when he threads his fingers through her hair. To kiss him softly, his cheeks, eyelids, those ridiculous pointed ears, his navel? To not have to worry about him asking permission to come to her, to touch her there, to share her body with him. Just roll onto her back, flop open her legs and let him. And think nothing. And feel nothing.

It would be easy. That's the important part, the attractive part. It would be so easy to stop fighting. To let him do as he liked. To soothe his hurts, to care for him, to let him care for her.

He is just as trapped as she is. He is in just as much anguish. He is just as torn, just as terrified, just as bullied. There's no point in both of them suffering. No point in him being confronted with misery from both sides, work and home, court and sanctuary, family and...

Lover?

Pet.

Property.

No.

Because giving in means giving up, and Lydia will not, she will not, she refuses to stop yearning for home. For peace. For a place where, for all that it was rife with rape culture and douche canoes, she was still treated like a human being, an autonomous sentient person under the law who could vote, and drive, and make her own independent choices and earn her own way in the world.