so i'll run forward and pray you fall back. Who: Ophion Barnard and Azalea Cerelia What: A moment. Where: Ophion’s apartment. When: This evening. Rating: PG-13. Status: Complete.
Lamplight trickles out from within a bedroom through open curtains missized for the window. Books are spread open across a dark oak desk, tiling the wood with paper and ink records of synaptic patterns and parasitic magicks. The man and the woman sit across from each other. Their hands caress woven pages and bound covers. She traces her finger along the bottom of a page; he scribbles a correction into the top margins.
A crinkle of pages.
Her finger pauses mid-trail. Blue eyes wander, settle. Underneath the desk, her foot slides up against his thigh. The man frowns. His eyes fixate on a single word of his reading. She sighs. Her footfall is a dull thud in the silence.
She returns to her work. He glances over before returning to his.
A clearing of the throat.
The woman snaps her textbook shut. She opens her mouth, closes it. The rustle of shuffled papers heralds her departure. Decisive steps carry her to the door.
A creak of hinges.
He speaks her name. She stops, one foot out the door. The legs of his chair drag against the floor. She sets her bag down, turns to his expectant figure. Behind her, the door clicks gently shut.
Books abandoned, his hand finds her arm, closes around it. A breath before his grip relaxes. She steps forward, mouth seeking the corner of his jawline. He turns his head to catch her lips with his.
Outside, the trees yield their leaves to the yawning breeze. Moments later, a hand reaches to draw the curtains closed.