tongues and teeth — au drabble

Instructions

"I will only break your pretty things I will only wring you dry of everything And if you're fine with that You can be mine like that" — tongues and teeth by the crane wives —x— “I’m destroying you,” she mutters, her nails just barely grazing the faintly bruised and scarred skin of his neck and the sharp, jagged feel of a collarbone carved by hunger and night. He lets out a soft, almost sleepy hum, his breath warm in the cold air of the apartment. He's relaxed, sprawled across the couch with his head resting on her thighs. Anyone would look at his state—brown hair disheveled and mussed from her hand’s idle carding through the strands, eyes lidded and warm—and think him harmless, even endearing. She knows better, though, and she is proved right as he tilts his head to look up at her, the same sharp glint she’d memorized so long ago making its unsurprising reemergence as he focuses. “What was that?” “I’m destroying you,” she repeats, giving him an unimpressed stare. He smiles—it is infuriating, how he never takes her seriously—and nods, gaze not leaving hers. “I know.” He murmurs, closing his eyes briefly as she returns to toying with his hair (a hidden weakness she’d found months before). “And you’re okay with it?” “I don’t know.” There it is, a sliver of weakness, a flicker of hesitancy, before he stretches across her like a cat, his usual demeanor returning just as quickly as it had slipped. “What else am I going to do?” “Fight back,” she muses, although the words are filled with wry amusement, as if the notion is so absurd it was funny. In a way, that's true. They both know this cycle won't end anytime soon. Perhaps, in some twisted way, he likes it. “Hm. Maybe I should.” “But you won’t.” “I won’t,” he agrees, closing his eyes once more as the conversation fades. Her hand slips away from his hair, idly tracing down the side of his face and the line of his jaw with one finger as if studying a specimen. “You like being used.” “Maybe.” She rolls her eyes, tugging on his collar just enough to lift his neck an inch off her lap, the kind of sharp disregard for comfort that marks her every movement these days. He opens his eyes once more, tilting his head. “What did I do now?” “You’re just agreeing with me,” she replies, half-glaring. “It’s boring.” “Sorry,” he shrugs, not looking sorry at all as he sits up. “Don’t ‘sorry’ me. Grow a spine.” The only response she receives is a hum of acknowledgment as he picks up his disregarded book from the side table, settling comfortably into the cushions. She sighs, shifting to be more upright. “Whatever. I’m going home. I have work.” “Mkay.” He nods. She doesn't give him another moment before pulling his necklace and yanking him forward for a half moment. “Feel anything?” She murmurs against his teeth. She feels him smile slightly, the kind that is bitter and amused and not at all truly happy. “Your lips are chapped. Besides that, no.” With an exasperated sigh, she releases him, her hand turning to push his chest back lightly as she stands. “Me neither. I’ll text you later. You’re annoying.” Neither looks back at the other as she leaves and he returns to his book. It isn't new: this push and pull and desperate attempt to stay afloat and feel alive. Tomorrow they will repeat the same routine, and will leave feeling the same. They both know this won't end any time soon. And after what feels like eons of living inside the cycle, can it really be said that they want it to?