that runaway bride on the train headed east - ~500 words, mature, cassrose
"You never stay," Cass says bluntly. Rose turns to face her, a single eye narrowed, the cigarette in between her fingers dropping ash on the bed.
"I don't," Rose says lowly. She averts her gaze then, doesn't look at Cass' face. She knows what she must look like, with that knowing look of hers; reading every etch of electric energy outlining Rose, through the way her knee bounces, or her fingers close and open in her palm— she sees all of it.
The room reeks of curdling cigarette smoke. On nights like these, shared only by the two of them, Rose doesn't bother to hide this side of herself, the unforgivable side, the one that smokes and swears that she won't do this again but knows she will. They both swear the same things and hurt the same way and Rose doesn't see the point in hiding anything else when Cass can read it— can feel it—anyway.
She knows Cass won't ask her why she doesn't stay. She knows Cass wants to, but she won't. Cass holds too much respect for her, the kind that Rose doesn't deserve. The kind that Rose mirrors for her, despite, *because* of everything they share.
On nights like these their hearts beat as one, as Cass thrusts her fingers inside Rose carefully, as Rose careens and cries out, and Rose feels hers pounding in her chest and she knows that Cass' heart pounds the same way; the both of them on the edge of a terrifying precipice, always in the in-between of their lives and never in a state of belonging, except only to each other, except only for these nights where they can become one and pretend they don't feel the way each other hurts.
"Yeah," Rose says with a sigh, "I don't stay." She rarely does; she's gone by the morning, outside and aimlessly wandering, wanting to be anywhere but where she was before. A familiar feeling, that is.
Cass knows exactly when she leaves; Rose knows the way her chest stills momentarily, the way her breath picks up when she shifts from sleep to lucidity. In tune, the both of them are; she's not as good as Cass, no one can be, but she's good enough to have picked up on what makes Cass tick and how she ticks.
This morning, Rose stayed. Cigarette between her fingers, feet on the floor and at the edge of the bed, still in her underwear, bra lazily clasped after last night's encounter; this time, she stayed.
Cass doesn't respond. Rose hears her breathe in and out deeply, feels the way her lithe form slides off the bed, hears the way her knees crack as she stands. Rose doesn't turn around from where she's sat on the edge of the bed, back to Cass; she knows how she'll put on her clothes and boots and how she'll carefully, quietly close the door behind her.
She takes a drag from her cigarette before she sees, in her mind's eye, how Cass' lips will move, how she'll finally ask *why*, this time.
Last night, at that precipice again, Rose pushed Cass towards her by the back of the neck and kissed her enough to bruise. Last night, Rose separated from her breathlessly, and whispered mirthlessly, as Cass thrust her fingers faster, "you know me too well."
Before Cass can talk, she breathes smoke out from her mouth and says, "you know why."
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that runaway bride on the train headed east - ~500 words, mature, cassrose
"You never stay," Cass says bluntly. Rose turns to face her, a single eye narrowed, the cigarette in between her fingers dropping ash on the bed.
"I don't," Rose says lowly. She averts her gaze then, doesn't look at Cass' face. She knows what she must look like, with that knowing look of hers; reading every etch of electric energy outlining Rose, through the way her knee bounces, or her fingers close and open in her palm— she sees all of it.
The room reeks of curdling cigarette smoke. On nights like these, shared only by the two of them, Rose doesn't bother to hide this side of herself, the unforgivable side, the one that smokes and swears that she won't do this again but knows she will. They both swear the same things and hurt the same way and Rose doesn't see the point in hiding anything else when Cass can read it— can feel it—anyway.
She knows Cass won't ask her why she doesn't stay. She knows Cass wants to, but she won't. Cass holds too much respect for her, the kind that Rose doesn't deserve. The kind that Rose mirrors for her, despite, *because* of everything they share.
On nights like these their hearts beat as one, as Cass thrusts her fingers inside Rose carefully, as Rose careens and cries out, and Rose feels hers pounding in her chest and she knows that Cass' heart pounds the same way; the both of them on the edge of a terrifying precipice, always in the in-between of their lives and never in a state of belonging, except only to each other, except only for these nights where they can become one and pretend they don't feel the way each other hurts.
"Yeah," Rose says with a sigh, "I don't stay." She rarely does; she's gone by the morning, outside and aimlessly wandering, wanting to be anywhere but where she was before. A familiar feeling, that is.
Cass knows exactly when she leaves; Rose knows the way her chest stills momentarily, the way her breath picks up when she shifts from sleep to lucidity. In tune, the both of them are; she's not as good as Cass, no one can be, but she's good enough to have picked up on what makes Cass tick and how she ticks.
This morning, Rose stayed. Cigarette between her fingers, feet on the floor and at the edge of the bed, still in her underwear, bra lazily clasped after last night's encounter; this time, she stayed.
Cass doesn't respond. Rose hears her breathe in and out deeply, feels the way her lithe form slides off the bed, hears the way her knees crack as she stands. Rose doesn't turn around from where she's sat on the edge of the bed, back to Cass; she knows how she'll put on her clothes and boots and how she'll carefully, quietly close the door behind her.
She takes a drag from her cigarette before she sees, in her mind's eye, how Cass' lips will move, how she'll finally ask *why*, this time.
Last night, at that precipice again, Rose pushed Cass towards her by the back of the neck and kissed her enough to bruise. Last night, Rose separated from her breathlessly, and whispered mirthlessly, as Cass thrust her fingers faster, "you know me too well."
Before Cass can talk, she breathes smoke out from her mouth and says, "you know why."