There was fire in her eyes as if they’d caught and reflected the glow of the Carnival’s bonfires. It spread, that fire, from her gaze to the flush rising across Marek’s face the instant their lips met. It surged up into his skull, down his spine, as if she’d cursed him with some spell lit in a single breath.
It wasn’t romance or yearning. Not even lust. It was sisterly, innocent affection, but for Marek, it was enough to spark hope of more. His head was empty, as if his thoughts had untied themselves and slipped loose from the knots that held them to bone. He lifted his fingertips to his lips, hoping somehow to press the moment deeper into his skin. But no clever words came. No teasing reply. Just silence, thick and stunned, draping him like canvas tossed over old equipment.
He didn’t understand what had just happened. The kiss felt like a contradiction, both tender and brutal. A gift of attention wrapped simultaneously in rejection.
Then something uninvited rose in him. It was a sharp, heated swell that cracked open his chest before he could stop it.
“I’m not a kid,” he blurted. His brows drew tight. His breath came quicker, laced with shame and worse, hope, but it was too late now. He’d already said the wrong thing.
“I’m not him,” Marek said, quieter now. “And I’m not just his brother. I know that’s what I’ve always been to you. To everyone.” Marek ran a hand through his hair, suddenly furious with himself for saying too much when he’d sworn to say nothing at all.
It wasn’t romance or yearning. Not even lust. It was sisterly, innocent affection, but for Marek, it was enough to spark hope of more. His head was empty, as if his thoughts had untied themselves and slipped loose from the knots that held them to bone. He lifted his fingertips to his lips, hoping somehow to press the moment deeper into his skin. But no clever words came. No teasing reply. Just silence, thick and stunned, draping him like canvas tossed over old equipment.
He didn’t understand what had just happened. The kiss felt like a contradiction, both tender and brutal. A gift of attention wrapped simultaneously in rejection.
Then something uninvited rose in him. It was a sharp, heated swell that cracked open his chest before he could stop it.
“I’m not a kid,” he blurted. His brows drew tight. His breath came quicker, laced with shame and worse, hope, but it was too late now. He’d already said the wrong thing.
“I’m not him,” Marek said, quieter now. “And I’m not just his brother. I know that’s what I’ve always been to you. To everyone.” Marek ran a hand through his hair, suddenly furious with himself for saying too much when he’d sworn to say nothing at all.
“You taught me language, and my profit on’t
Is, I know how to curse.”
Is, I know how to curse.”
Caliban, The Tempest
⛦⃝