from the touch prompts: 12. on a scar; or 18. because you are dying :>
ty azia!! this one really sent me on a spiral this week adkfd
the pain of perception
pairing: Corisande Ymir/Y'shtola Rhul
word count: 1292 | read on ao3
notes: i went with 18. because you are dying. 5.0 spoilers!
Y’shtola has always found Corisande difficult to look away from, some inexorable pull between them perpetually drawing her gaze. She turned toward them as a blossom sought the sun, unfurling in their light and basking in the warmth of it. Even when Y’shtola lost her sight and the world lost its color, Corisande’s familiar aether was more than enough to draw her in, their countenance so dear to her that it hardly took any effort at all to pick out their features.
In the grand entrance hall of Emet-Selch’s recreated Capitol building, the light Corisande emanates is not the kind Y’shtola wants to bask in. They are a beacon of aether, so bright they blur the forms of the other Scions gathered around them. So bright the light lingers even when she closes her eyes, a ghostly blur haunting the back of her eyelids.
She watches them as they take their leave of the others and turn toward her, seeking her out as surely as she sought them. They cross the hall, the soft click of their boots growing louder as they approach.
“The others are nearly ready. Ryne only wants to charge a few more cartridges for Thancred before we start on our way,” Corisande says, gesturing at the others over her shoulder, gathered by the door that leads deeper into the building. She lifts her hand, starting to reach for Y’shtola, but stops herself halfway, arm falling stiffly to her side. ‘Tis difficult to make out, but Y’shtola thinks she might be clenching her fist. “I came to see how you fared.”
Y’shtola holds back a sigh, her jaw clenched against the sharp pain in her chest at the aborted gesture. In the three years she’d spent without them on the First, she had so missed the easy physical affection between them. A reassuring squeeze of her wrist, a gentle hand on the small of her back, a soft brush of their thumb across her cheek. Touches she had at times wished Corisande would not make, if only to spare Y’shtola the misery of her endlessly growing feelings.
But she’d been wrong to think it would spare her any pain. Since their reunion—that near disastrous moment when Y’shtola had mistaken them for a sin eater—Corisande has, for the most part, kept a careful physical distance between them. Every deliberate step back, every halted reach for her hand, left her far more hurt and confused than any touch that had ever led her to hope for more.
That they keep their distance even now, when losing themself to the light is becoming less a potential threat and more a rapidly approaching reality with every passing moment, is more than she can bear. She reaches for their hand in their stead, pressing their cool palm to hers. “l have no preparations to make. I will be ready when you are.”
Corisande tips their chin, head tilting down in the direction of their joined hands. Y’shtola holds fast, hope swooping through her stomach, her breath caught in her chest as she waits. But rather than pull away, they squeeze her hand, and the ache in Y’shtola’s chest is eased as she finally exhales.
Corisande lifts her head in Y’shtola’s direction, her familiar features—the heart shape of her lips, the curve of her nose, her downturned eyes—just as obfuscated by the light as the rest of her body. There was a time that Y’shtola could have known what Corisande was thinking just by a simple shared glance. Now, though she could make her best guess, she could never be sure what was written in their expression. What Y’shtola might give to see the curve of Corisande’s gentle smile once more, before they venture toward a battle that could change her forever.
Y’shtola glances down at their hands, still pressed palm to palm between them. Corisande had not shied from one touch—perhaps she would not shy from another.
Do as your heart decrees, Y’shtola had told them, only moments ago. Without hesitation or regret.
Y’shtola raises her free hand to Corisande’s cheek, heartbeat a loud, steady rhythm as she moves. They lean down ever so slightly to meet her, their hair falling over her arm, the ends of it brushing lightly against her sleeve. She stills when their fingers wrap gently around her wrist, thinking they mean to tug her hand away, but they simply hold on.
“Is it difficult? To look at me? To—” Corisande’s grip on her wrist tightens. Their voice is soft, almost fragile to Y’shtola’s ears. “I know the toll a surfeit of aether takes on you. It must be exhausting just to have me near.”
“‘Tis not easy,” Y’shtola admits, though it pains her to say it. Corisande knows the truth already—the abundance of their aether is difficult for Y’shtola to process with her aether-fueled sight—and Y’shtola would not lie to her besides.
Worse than the harsh glare of their aether, though, is the damage the light has wrought on their soul, battered and bruised as it struggles to contain the light. For all the distance that Corisande has kept between them these past few weeks, they could not hide the depth of the wound from Y’shtola. While she knew Corisande would prefer it, Y’shtola saw no kindness in pretending otherwise—she would not turn from them when they were in pain, no matter how much it hurt to see.
Y’shtola sweeps her thumb across the swell of Corisande’s cheek, and hopes she’s looking her in the eye when she speaks again. “But I would no sooner look away than I would leave you to face what lies ahead alone.”
Corisande’s smile blooms under Y’shtola’s palm—cheek curving upward, the quirk in the corner of their lips where they’ve turned into her touch, the crinkle of skin around their eyes—and she answers with a warm smile of her own. Corisande sweeps a finger across the inside of her wrist, and after weeks—years—of so little contact between them, the deliberate touch feels monumental, as much a relief to the longing inside her as it is a catalyst for a desperate desire for more.
“Shtola,” they say, the newly restored warmth in their voice reigniting that flame of hope in her. The one that made her long for Corisande’s soft touches, that made her think Corisande has always felt about her the way she feels about them, the one that never quite went out. “I—”
They cut off with a soft whimper of pain, lurching forward with a grimace. Their grip clamps down sharply where they hold Y’shtola, fingers digging into her wrist and the back of her hand, and she feels the hold as if it were a vice around her heart, pressed under the weight of their pain. The light inside them surges, brightening and straining against their soul as Corisande struggles to stay on their feet, and then it fades.
“Are you all right?” Y’shtola asks, keeping her tone neutral though she feels anything but, unable to even blink away the image of the surging light. Corisande straightens, her expression smoothing beneath Y’shtola’s hand.
“Well enough,” she answers between breaths, her voice thin. She squeezes Y’shtola’s wrist, then gently tugs her hand away from her face, though she does not completely release her. “Perhaps we had better be on our way.”
“Of course.” Y’shtola expects Corisande to drop her hands, but they hold on to one as they pivot, placing themself at her side.
The door that will lead them to Emet-Selch looms before them, the others still gathered in front of it. Whatever they face beyond it, whatever Corisande’s heart decrees, Y’shtola would not turn her gaze. They would face it together—perhaps not hand in hand, but side by side.
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songs? my fav song lately is Love You Better by GOT7, I think would make a great love scenario. also iu "can't love you anymore" would make such a great angst!!!! maybe something with sana?? 👀
‘Can’t Love You Anymore (Twice: Sana)
genre: angst,(slightly suggestive)
requested: yes :) - word count: 817
There is this thing about love. The thing you won’t usually see in the movies, or laid out in song, nor do people like to speak on it.
Love was all about admiring, adoring, touching, excitement. That was what you thought going into it.
Now you wonder if you would have been saved from this feeling if you knew that love could simply fade the way it did.
Would you have cherished every kiss with her? Held her tighter against your chest in bed? Looked into her eyes longer or more? If you knew it would end this way, would you even try at all?
It started beautiful as ever, an innocent fairy tale filled with whispers of sweet nothings, tentative hand holding, goosebumps and butterflies. It all felt significant then, but somehow it only seems like puppy love now. Maybe that’s all you felt for her…or that’s all she felt for you?
You both had told the story of when you first met hundreds of times. So often that you could finish each other’s sentences. You saw her, your Sana, for the first time in the high school hallways. You met each others eyes and the rest was history. It was a story that others admired, envied even. You and her were perfect to each other. Perfect for each other.
Years later you had made yourselves a home. The place where you both found your comfort, snuggling up to each other after a long day of whatever. The place where you both could rest. Where you both could just be together.
But life moves fast and time sometimes vanishes like sand in between your fingers if you don’t pay well enough attention.
Your home, where your hearts would usually meet, slowly turned into a place where you only saw each other on the others way out. Life quickly transformed from you both jumping into each others arms after a long day to giving one another a quick peck goodbye when one of you just came home and the other was just leaving. Texting and joking around with each other while at your seperate jobs was replaced by singular texts of one asking the other to pick up some milk on the way home.
When did it get like this?
In the few moments that you could spent together, you would sometimes give her a look from across the kitchen table - one she skilfully avoided. Her cutlery hitting her plate would be the only sound in the otherwise quiet room, but in your heart you hoped that if you thought it loud enough she would hear you. I don’t feel our love anymore.
Maybe she did. If anything still stayed the same from the past, then she could read you like an open book anyway - but if so, she said nothing.
Only in one of those rare moments in which you both craved intimacy, you’d find any sort of connection to each other. You try to speak, but kissing each other is easier. You try to feel by touch alone.
You would hold Sana down, kissing her and touching her in places that would once make her weak in the knees, just so you could hear those three words from her again in that way, a real way.
Anything would beat the routine “love you, bye.” at the end of a call.
But no matter what you did, those words didn’t come, and you couldn’t blame her. You understood her and understood what was happening between you.
After, you’d go back to your “normal” again. Trying to ignore it, you both went back to a peck for goodbye, a peck for goodnight, silent car rides and quiet dinners. This was all your story had become reduced to.
Whenever she didn’t avoid your eyes, you would see the past in them. You would see yourself, way back then, happier with her or just happy in general. You were confronted with memories that reminded you; you don’t like what this is anymore, you don’t like the person you are anymore…not like this anyway.
You sighed away the thought every time though. It might get better tomorrow, you’d think. We might talk it out in the morning.
Who knows how long you could have kept your downfall going? Maybe a day, a week, a year, or into eternity. But when she finally called you and shakily spoke the words, “I don’t think we’re in love anymore.” You couldn’t help but agree, no tears left to cry anymore.
So there it was. Your favourite person, the light of your life, turned back into a stranger. The woman who was once your crush, your muse and your true love felt a million miles away, even when she slept in your bed.
Therefore the next time, when someone asks you about love, you’ll give them the decency to at least be honest about all of it.
Love fades. Slowly, and then all at once.
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i was raised by quiet people.
and we don't know how to talk to each other.
our house is a world of anger that never truly dissipates and words that hang in the air like hailstones ready to pelt your skin.
we don't know how to shape the words "i love you" with our mouths.
we don't know what it means to hold the weight of "sorry" on our tongues.
the morning after my parents fight, my father wakes up early and turns on the tv. he likes the quiet, but mom's always appreciated the sound of music.
he plays the songs she likes.
when i thought my heart was breaking, i didn't know how to make it go away.
i didn't know how to let the words locked in my jaw, behind my teeth, out.
how do you find the means to make the things you don't know exist in this world?
how do you even know that you can?
i was raised by quiet people.
so i stretched my fingertips to touch yours.
i let you leave the impressions of the whorls of your thumb on my skin.
i don't know how to shape the words "i love you" with my mouth.
i don't know how to bear the weight of the words "i'm scared" on my tongue.
i am trying, though. in the ways of the quiet people.
in the language of bright eyes and desperate touches.
the world is so close to ending, and i feel the premonition of the aftershocks in my bones.
i am holding your hand, and praying the inevitable away.
not a word past my lips — only breath, shallow and sharp.
i was raised by quiet people.
i don't know how to be another way.
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