He wishes love were easy.
But nothing had ever been easy in Ominis Gaunt's life.
When he opened his heart to her, he opened something deep. A Pandora box of sorrow and grief and everything he'd buried so deep he'd forgotten about it.
Unfortunately, his body never forgets. It shows when she takes his hand. It unleashes when she brushes his hair. That gnawing, scorching flame burning where her touch remains.
She asks him how he's doing, he doesn't answer, words trapped behind his teeth like in a prison of jelly and guilt. He thinks she doesn't really want to be bothered by his problems.
She takes his hand while walking, he moves it away, clutching it to his chest in an attempt to build back that armor she threatens to break every time.
"Ominis," she speaks quietly in the night, when he keeps her always at an arm's distance. "Please, come here."
He wants to cry.
"I don't know how."
The smell of her hair lingers on the pillow when she leaves, and he quietly brings it to him, burying his face in the softness of her girly perfume. Even then, he feels too much freedom; taking up a space that isn't his own. He turns his back to it.
She seems tired today.
"Ominis." Her voice is weary, sad. She's near the fireplace, brooding. He feels like he's done something wrong.
"What is it?"
He balks before approaching her, his voice coming out in a sycophantic squeak that makes his blood run cold. He is afraid: afraid she'll find him some day. That she'll offer her hand and he'll take it with no qualms, allowing her to pull him up, away from those doubts cramming his mind when she gets too close.
"Why do you never let me in?"
He's drowning.
Why? Why? The answer is immediate, pulled right from his brain by that tight awareness that has always been more of a curse than a blessing. Because Ominis Gaunt feels that he is phrogging in other people's existence until they get tired and throw him into the nearest garbage. Because he has never found a place where he could sit down, wind his legs and feel at peace. Because if one day someone finds him with his defenses down, when he hits the bottom of the bin headfirst, he would never forgive himself.
"I don't know how." His inveterate answer comes, drawing a sigh from her. She always drops the subject after, and he feels safe.
This time, she breaches the armor again, and he has got no time to glue it back.
"Come here."
His hands tremble when he follows, sitting down next to her. She opens her palm to him and he feels it on his leg.
"Take it."
Her fingers feel soft to the touch, slipping between his as if filling up a space in his heart he had missed, pushing back his doubts and making a home for itself. He holds her hand and runs his thumb on her knuckles.
"What does this mean?" He asks feebly.
"That you can do much more."
He feels the corner of his lips push down in a grimace. "I don't know h—"
"I'll show you."
Her movements are languid and elegant like a snake, and he feels like she might strangle him and cut his breath and leave him for dead. But he wants to keep holding her hand.
"What do I do?"
"Come here."
This time, he listens.
She lets him move first, wrap his arms around her, as if testing her shape. He runs his hands over her delicate ribs, then down to the soft curve of her waist, then around her; feels the weight in his arms, like she could crush him at any moment. But she doesn't.
She lets him pull her on him, giving him her body. His hands are shaking and he feels inadequate to hold her; to keep her safe and not let her fall.
"Just do what feels right," she whispers.
None of this feels right. But it feels comfortable, and it feels different, and it feels like his heart is slowing down and his weight is meeting the ground and pushing against it like he will never need to get up anymore.
And there are her lips. He feels them with his fingertips; the curve at the top, the soft flesh, the sticky texture of her lipstick. He brings his trembling mouth to hers for the first time and pulls away just as quickly.
"I'm sorry…" he almost cries again.
"Do it again."
He swallows and pushes his lips against hers. He doesn't have the courage to move and breathes against her mouth.
She giggles and his heart breaks, because of course he was doing it wrong. "I'm sorr—"
Her mouth moves against his, takes his bottom lip in a quick suckle and then frees it again. He holds his breath until he can't stay still anymore.
"How does that feel?" she asks.
"More…"
Something inside him cracks open at her taste, pushes and pulls and crushes him, and he holds on to her. It's all too much and it's all not enough. He licks his lips and tastes her lipstick and he wishes he could see her.
When she cups his cheek, he flinches.
"This feels…"
Horrible. Good. Terrifying. Perfect. Different.
"We can go slow," she says, and it's more than he could ask for. "But I'm here, and I'm yours."
He nods and attempts to find her, and he presses his forehead against her collarbone. She's warm there.
"Thank you," He's crying against her skin, and she skims her hand against his back.
He feels naked, a brush of cold hair against his chest where his defenses have cracked. She's pulling his armor down with a gentle touch, and he lets her until he hears it hit the ground loudly.
"You can relax now." He thinks he hears her say. Perhaps it was a dream. And when he hesitantly brushes his lips against her skin, he allows her in.