Zero

Pleasure and Pain

(NSFW)

ARTHUR

Skin-searing lines lingered like a scar on the hollow of my back. The rune remained dormant, a latent laceration carved from the tainted flesh of my existence. It was a permanent stain, an eternal mark, lacking lethe and liability.

But for all its power and potential, it felt little more than a pyrrhic victory; a perpetual curse—bound by the undue knowledge of everything it entailed. It was a constant, painful reminder; one that would haunt me for the rest of my life...

We sat there for hours, waiting for the dust to settle.

Neither of us said a word. None needed to be spoken.

With her hand enveloped in mine, with her back barely spanning the breadth of my own, I never noticed how small she was until she curled up, huddled in my arms.

She looked so damaged. Demure.

Her shoulders were slouched—bent at an agonizing angle—burdened by feelings of guilt, blame, and responsibility. It was too heavy for a single person to carry. No one should have to bear that weight. Not alone. Not by themselves.

It was so easy to forget that when they've done it for so long—when it's all they've ever done in front of others.

Everyone is entitled to their own sorrow; ours ran vast and deep—too far to recover from once ventured and gained—and all of it... irreplaceable.

If time had been kinder, maybe it would have permitted us to stay a bit longer. As much as I wanted to relish in this temporary trance, I knew it wouldn't last. I had to face her. Even if it meant shattering this delicate dream.

I muttered her name, softly, under my breath. She refused to reply. Silence seemed to be her answer.

My hand slid forward, abandoning her side as my fingers settled on top of her own. She pulled back, recoiling at the sudden contact. What couldn't have been more than a twitch of her hand reverberated like an earth-shattering quake. One that spoke volumes of the lurking tension between us. Palpable and inexpressible.

Soon thereafter, she eased into the touch, relaxing underneath my palm. Despite her repose, there was a chronic tightness that pulled at her posture. A quick exhale, followed by unfathomable fatigue.

My hands pressed against hers, vying for attention—a distraction from her momentary duress.

She squeezed back with the slightest of pressure. So gentle that I hardly felt it at first.

What ensued next was one of the most nerve-racking moments of my life—letting her go.

She made no move. No discerning advances. The worry that welled inside of me was hard to describe. It felt like time came to a staggering halt, even as it continued for those few, unbearably long seconds.

A wave of cold air swept across my face as I slowly got up. A second attempt was always harder than the first...

My hand lingered on her back, connected, always. A tactile conveyance of trust and commiseration. It slid past her shoulder, coming to a stop near her neck as I knelt in front of her.

Tear-stained cheeks glistened against flickering lights. Her eyes, shy and lowered, averted from mine as if they were afraid—ashamed—of being seen. I tried to lift her chin, but she turned away, craning her neck at the last moment. A contrite sort of dejection left me crestfallen at her response. I never knew such a small gesture could hurt so much.

Torn between pushing further and pushing her away, I lowered my hand, quietly seeking hers. My thumb brushed the gaps between the bumps of her knuckles as trembling fingers ran across and under. All I needed was a sign. A hint of approval, acceptance, anything.