in the dark deserted station

[singleword]

her hands caught the edges of his mask and he froze, terrified she might take it from him. but the press of her hands remained, and she leaned closer, eyes closing.

he had a faint impression of warmth. his hands fell on her waist to push her back but only rested there, and suddenly all against him was this feeling, this terrible glow of her just breathing, just being so close. one of her hands was on his left shoulder, one on his right arm.

her lips, against the mask, were a barely discernible pressure. dulled nerves and scar tissue caught only muffled whispers of sensation, and he wanted suddenly to hold her closer, to fold his arms around her slight form, to be able to find something vivid and strong in this holding. his hand tightened against the small of her back.

she breathed. she was a thought away, looking at him now. he couldn't quite feel her warmth through the mask, through the armour, through the coat and cloak. his leather gloves creaked as he forced his hands to relax. he let her go.

there was far too much he needed to say. "i can't," he managed, and fled.


it struck him as entirely unjust, later, that it was the bullets he could feel so vividly. the bullets, and not her hand on his chest.