A ghost hides behind the safety of his mask.
A demon cries behind the violence of her gun.
Both tortured, both broken by the same hands.
Destined to find each other in a clash of blood and tears.
Their tragedy is written.
But how do you let go when...
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She feels
his presence before she sees it. The smell of whisky with a tang of orange. Metal with hints of gunpowder.
The smell alone overwhelms her senses.
"That for me?"
He doesn't say it in mockery, he asks as if the thought alone was sacred... As if he never deserved to be given flowers by pretty girls.
"Yeah, it is." She holds it out to her side but refuses to meet his eyes. Still staring forwards to the graves while his fingers so casually brush hers. Watching such a masculine hand carefully treasure the flower between his fingertips.
A sight that would be forever painted in the halls of her memory.
" Told you, I don't like red."
He manages a snort from her dainty nose. Such a familiar sound that made his lips twitch.
"Sorry, they were out of orange."
"That's alright then, I'd take red any day over orange." Her teeth peek through briefly.
" I'll keep that in mind."
Both sets of eyes look ahead, the sun just beginning to fall beneath the trees.
"How have you been?" She felt that to be an appropriate question. After so long, you begin to forget the little things that make them human.
"Busy."
He was...Never anytime to stop and think. Always moving, never alone.
He asked himself a year ago if this is a life worth living. Sick to death of the soldiers, his comrades, showcasing pictures of their families... Little children with rounded cheeks, wives with swollen bellies...
It made him ill at the thought.
Is this the life he deserved?
"Busy is good."
He takes a moment to inhale the smell of lavender that passes over him, traveling by the breeze from the woman next to him.
" You?"
"Busy." He lets himself smirk.
"I've heard busy is good."
Finally, she turns her head to look in his direction.
