doubt thou the stars are fire { ariane }

AUG 2002

Ariane was most distracting.

Prosper had always been a romantic. He'd always been enchanted with the idea of love, always believed completely in both its existence and its power to move men to great and horrible deeds. What is it else? A madness most discreet, Shakespeare had written of love, and that seemed apt too; being in love affected people. Perhaps in such a way that it would be more wise to avoid, and yet most threw themselves into its thrall repeatedly. Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs, Prosper thought distantly as he drifted through a sunny London side street, not paying much attention to anything other than his own thoughts and the sound of his boots hitting the pavement rhythmically. Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes.

The imagery drawn from those lines had always elicited something from him. Romeo and Juliet had never been his favourite Shakespearean play, but it definitely contained some of his favourite speeches. After the smoke cleared, fire still burned. It had never been too difficult for Prosper to shape all of those metaphors - the fire and powder consuming one another upon a single kiss and so on - to his own life. He was dramatic by nature. He fell hard, fast, was moved by passion rather than logic, felt his emotions deeply. And recently, he'd been feeling a lot of things.

These days, she crossed his mind more often than not. She was all he thought about at work, when he was smiling at patrons, pouring drinks and basically working on autopilot. He was always reluctant to leave her after they spent multiple days in a row together - which happened more and more as time went on - and of course, she never made it easy for him to go. That particular thought made him smile to himself as he crossed the street, barely paying attention to the traffic or the rest of the world as it moved around him, irrelevant as a dream.

After Freya had told him about how stressed Ari had been lately, and after not being able to see her for over a week because of her schedule, Prosper was now making his way to her apartment with a bag of groceries and tealight candles. Her roommate was away for a couple of days - her blonde friend had informed him of this fact - and she should soon be finishing her final examination for the summer. Being the dedicated, albeit impulsive, boyfriend that he was, Prosper had decided earlier today to let himself in and make her dinner before she got home.

He fumbled with the less familiar key a little as he let himself into her apartment. As expected, no one was home. Prosper went to her room, dropping the bag of groceries on her bed before shrugging his thin jacket from his shoulders and hanging it on a hook attached to the back of her door. He undid the top button of his shirt and glanced at himself briefly in her mirror, habitually baring his teeth at himself to check them and fixing his hair. The sound of the front door opening startled him a little and he straightened up, checking his watch. Huh? She was early?

He frowned, trying to decide what he should do. The image of comically diving under the bed to surprise her later crossed his mind and so did the image of him bursting out of her room and scooping her up in his arms. Honestly, he'd missed her.

Prosper waited for her to enter, but she didn't come into her bedroom. After a moment, the man heard the unmistakable sound of a shower curtain being tugged along its rail, followed by the sound of the water running. He felt a little disappointed first, then momentarily considered going and joining her. The idea was appealing and sparked all kinds of thoughts... but while he was sure that he could relieve some of her exam stress in that way, he also thought it might be more romantic if he cooked something impressive and delicious for her to enjoy. Besides, from past experience he was sure that those things would come soon enough anyway.

He moved back out to the kitchen, deciding that he might as well start dinner now, then surprise her when she came out. Prosper hummed quietly to himself while he unpacked everything. He scored the duck breast, then added some salt and pepper to taste. He swapped between his wand and a knife as he cut lines about a quarter-inch into the meat, lit the stove and charmed another knife to chop some shallots. For sauce he'd bought a bottle of Parisian port straight from his own kitchen, but he wouldn't have to start the sauce just yet. The young man moved deftly, adding in the occasional circus-esque knife twirl or flourish just for his own amusement.

Prosper had grown to be a much better home chef than he had been when he'd first moved out of his parents' place. He had a bit more of an instinctive understanding of the way food worked, how long it took to cook and what flavours worked better together. When he was at home and Zara wasn't around, he was still pretty messy afterward though. Of course he tried to be more considerate here. His thoughts lingered in the dreamy state he'd been in during his trip to London today. And what love can do, that dares love attempt.

Did he love her? He pondered the idea.

When the man heard the shower turn off, he smiled to himself. He'd just gotten the meat onto the pan and noted the time on his watch. At home he occasionally used a thermometer for this sort of thing, especially when he was trying to impress. For now, however, he'd just have to guess the it. He briskly tapped his watch with the tip of his wand to add a timer, then made his way towards the bathroom; he was excited to see her. Quickly stashing his wand away, spatula still in his other hand, Prosper ducked into the short hall outside of the bathroom door, appearing there as it swung open and she stepped out.

"Hey," he said, smiling.

Ari rubbed her left temple as she walked up the stairs to her flat. Summer was a time of exams and transition at the Auror Office; theoretical and practical tests on first-year material were coupled with early practical drills on combat. If Ari wasn't careful in her mind, dueling could feel like some kind of abstract curricular challenge again, something to be practiced in the relative comfort of the Ministry with familiar faces like @Farlane Kirkpatrick on the other side. It had been nearly a year and a half since the Dome came down, since she'd had to deploy a curse on something that truly desired to harm her; four since she'd used one on a person. Instead of feeling wary, or more wary than one was after being barked at by instructors to remember the same constant vigilance she had first heard from an impostor, she could simply feel tired, in need of a shower and some food warmed in the oven. Camm was away on an assignment for a few days, and Prosper knew she had exams; the silence was strange for a girl who had never lived alone, but there was something peaceful about it, she had found.

Struggling slightly with the key in the lock, Ariana finally pushed the door open and slipped inside, her robes just avoiding being caught in the doorframe as she dropped her bag next to the couch. Dropping the key onto the counter, she headed straight for the bathroom, shedding her robes onto the floor before thinking that even if she was tired she should hang them up. She cranked the tap towards "hot." Some mornings, especially in July heat like now, Ari preferred cold showers, but this was not the time for that; it was the time for warmth pummeling her tightened shoulders and steam obscuring her sight. She stood there under the tap for some time before even squeezing out some shampoo onto her hands; when she did begin to lather, her fingers dug into her scalp slowly and deliberately.

Finally turning off the water after what must have been nearly half an hour, she wrapped her tangled hair in a towel and wrapped a second one around her body, tucking the tail in securely as she grabbed the robes she'd discarded and opened the door, intending to change in her bedroom. Instead, she froze as her foot hit the carpet.

Ariana didn't think. There was no time for coherent thoughts to coalesce inside her brain and run down her nerves. If she had, she might have remembered giving Prosper a key just a few weeks ago, gotten from the landlord during the lease renewal. She might have realized that her sense of something out of place was merely a warm and appetizing smell drifting from the kitchen. She might have reasoned that no one who might have reason to hurt witches of her persuasions would actually focus on a nineteen-year-old still fresh out of Hogwarts, not even a full Auror; that she had not yet (but oh, they would come, wouldn't they?) made enemies. She might even have processed the man's voice she had begun to hear as that of her boyfriend, which normally set a light in her eyes and a corresponding warmth in her chest.

But she did not think. Ari's hand plunged into the pocket of the robes she carried for her wand as she whirled toward the disturbance, casting a powerful impediment jinx that knocked the unexpected figure back against the wall with enough force for a resounding crack on impact, immediately followed by a freezing charm trapping him against it. A small cloud of plaster dust shook free from the wall; only when it cleared, her blood thundering in her ears, did thoughts actually come.

Her sharp intake of breath broke an eerie silence as her wand dropped from her fingers, breaking the charm before she cursed and picked it up again, pointing it at Prosper's head to cushion it as he slipped from the wall. She rushed over then, instinct dropping her to her knees to catch him on her thighs, her hands reaching to cradle his head before jerking back suddenly. She looked at them as though she had never seen them before, shaking slightly as her gaze slid from her hands to his face. His eyes were closed, and a fear gripped her like a vise. "…Prosper…?" she whispered, eyes wide.

It happened too quickly to process. He barely had time for a startled yell, the sound sharp and quickly cut off, before he hit the wall. His eyes closed instinctively upon impact, and then he couldn't move. He couldn't breathe; the air had been knocked out of him. It was a blur for Prosper; At some point his feet were off of the ground, and then he was sort of sitting, slumped, on the ground, a few bits of chipped plaster beside him, some pale dust settling slowly and clinging to his skin. The confusion hit him about as hard as he'd hit the wall behind him; it came in one rapid burst, was utterly disorienting. He'd barely seen her move, but suddenly she was here, saying his name in front of him - under him? - somehow. They were tangled.

It occurred to him somewhere, extremely belatedly, that he should draw his wand. Wasn't that what you were supposed to do when someone blasted you against a wall? The thought was errant and disappeared as quickly as it came. "Ugh," Prosper groaned, dazed, as his eyes opened with a bit of a flutter underneath a harsh frown. The confusion about what had just happened subsided somewhat as his brain replayed the actions for him but was quickly replaced with more confusion; he understood what had happened, but what the hell had just happened? With some effort, he forced his lungs to take a full breath of air; the impact had winded him. "Ari?" he replied groggily. "What...?" The man reached up slowly to find the source of pain at the back of his head. His hair was sticky there. Slowly, his scattered thoughts were coming together; had he scared her when he'd appeared so suddenly? He hadn't meant to.

Prosper's whole head throbbed, his body hurt, and there was a stinging where his fingers were that was distracting and made him wince. He drew his hand away and stared at the blood on his fingers for a full five seconds, his heart rate speeding up again as his body recognised a proper reason to be panicked before his mind did. The duck he thought distantly, almost saying it as he realised he was still somehow clinging to the spatula in his other hand. It was just another dazed thought, however and was gone in a second. He flicked his unfocused grey eyes to meet hers.

His eyes opened. Cursing herself again for freezing, for losing time, Ari caught his hand as he stared at the dark liquid staining his fingertips. "Shhh," she said, tugging it down, trying futilely to minimize the shock induced by staring at one's own blood. Healing was not Ariana's forte, but basic first aid was part of the curriculum. He can speak, she reminded herself; he was breathing, responding to his surroundings. "Don't move," she urged, although it was rhetorical as she immobilized his spine, levitating him in position with support so she had a line of sight to his wound. Blood dripped slowly, turning her stomach. "Episkey," she said forcefully. "Accio dittany!" Rotating him so he was face down, she caught the vial flying from her stores and let several drops fall onto the wound, which smoked but healed. Another sweep of her wand collected the blood into a vial for volume loss assessment in case he would need a replenishing potion. Rotating him back face up gently and summoning a pillow for his neck, Ari released the levitation and the immobilization, kneeling at the side of his head and looking down with concern. "Talk to me. Can you feel your fingers? Toes? What hurts? Do you remember what happened?"

As long as she was focused on him, she could forget what she had done. Ariana possessed a remarkable focus under pressure, the kind that cut through fear. But as the risk lessened, the wound closed, she asked him to remember what she'd done, her hands started to tremble again. Ari dropped her wand; in this moment, the protectiveness of rowan might have saved her, had he been someone else, but it had instead hurt someone she cared for. She had hurt him. "Prosper, I...I'm sorry." Her voice faltered, as did her gaze. Only now did she take in the spatula in his hand, the smell of food that might be starting to burn. "I didn't...know...I didn't mean..." Something seemed to push in, constricting around her head, making her own words sound far away, making her fingertips on the carpet feel ten feet away from her mind. Her breaths came quick and shallow.

Ariana did not really think of herself as destructive. Apart from that moment, after Dennis had walked away from her, Ari usually thought of the skills that she had acquired as ones which made her a more effective defender, allowed her to hold her own in the face of those who would use the extremes of how magic could hurt and coerce and kill. But this...these were the same instincts which had saved her so many times in the darkness of Hogwarts Castle, as a fifteen year old, as an eighteen year old; this damage, though, could not be dismissed as necessary collateral. Prosper had never even hurt her emotionally; had probably only wanted to surprise her with his care; and now she had literally spilled his blood in response? This, then, was the part of her that he had not yet met. And what could he possibly think of this her?

Ari forced a shuddering breath through her lungs and raised her eyes back to his, flinching involuntarily as they met at the horror she anticipated in them.

It was bizarre, felt a bit surreal, as she worked. Don't move, she said, and instinctively Prosper tried to sit up. Panic licked at his insides as he found himself unable to, but there was a lot happening - he was being turned over, then his head stung and smoked, then he was lying down - and it didn't take too long for everything to fall into place. "Ow," he said, belatedly. Obligatorily, he wiggled his toes inside his shoes, but aside from a groggy sort of pounding head and the sudden urge to take a nap that definitely had more to do with the head injury than the amount of sleep he'd had the previous night, Prosper didn't think there was anything wrong with him. His pulse slowly returned to its usual pace, and he was regaining his breath. She was overreacting.

As a dancer, Prosper had learned to take injuries seriously. Theoretically, at least. He had quite an extensive knowledge of anatomy; he could probably name each little bone and tendon in his body and the ways they could be damaged. In reality, though, Prosper was the type of person who might dance on a twisted ankle rather than bow out of a performance. The show must go on, he thought distantly, noting his apparently scattered thoughts. Prosper understood her worry, but it didn't really chip at his characteristic sense of indestructibility. He felt like she was overreacting.

"I'm fine," he said, bravado urging a lazy smile to his lips as he pushed himself up on his elbows. Prosper glanced down at his hand again, noting that she'd missed the blood on his fingertips when she'd cleaned his wound. It made his stomach turn. The man looked back at her as he tried to wipe it on his trousers without drawing attention. She asked if he remembered what had just happened. "Yeah, you tried to kill me," he teased lightly. His comment didn't seem to land, as Ari seemed to slip away from him. She apologised and for a second he wanted to laugh it off, maybe tease her. Even in this hazy state, his brain supplied sharp remarks, to be delivered with charm. You can make it up to me, passed through his mind, as did if you didn't want duck for dinner, you could have just told me. But then his brain caught up to the present and he realised that she'd apologised in English.

Her quickened pace and stuttered sentences had him working hard to regain his focus, but it was her switch to english that really set off alarm bells for Prosper. They generally spoke in French; exchanges in English were almost always initiated by him. It was almost like her focus had suddenly dissipated. Ari had never struck him as the kind of person who easily lost her focus (aside from moments in which he was trying to distract her, a voice in his head noted, before he hurriedly shooed it away). The way she'd reacted as soon as he was injured proved as much; she was clearly in distress now, but she'd only switched after she realised he was safe. His weak smile shifted into a stronger frown.

The man sat up properly, trying to hide an involuntary wince as he leaned against the hallway's wall wall behind him and then manoeuvred to face her. He dropped the spatula on the carpeted floor, reaching for her. "Hey," he said, trying to push his questions down in favour of offering some kind of reassurance that she clearly needed. Prosper pulled her small frame into him with strong arms. "Breathe," he said softly. His grey eyes, clear and concerned, searched her soft brown ones. "Ari, I'm fine," he insisted. He'd never seen her panic like this, or look so lost in herself.

He just looked at her as thought it hadn't happened. He was smiling at her. Part of her brain was calling him an idiot; couldn't he see that he was hurt, that she had hurt him? Perhaps a concussion had made him stupid. The harsh, reactionary thoughts flitted violently through her brain, fed by a growing dissonance between her perspective and the one he apparently was taking that put pressure on her skull. She let out an incredulous huff of air as he joked about her killing him, a flash of anger twining with the fear and the guilt. Ari felt his arms wrap around her, heard concern bleeding through his words. In another world, it would have made her relax, relieved her; if he'd merely fallen down the stairs, she could have laughed into his arms, run her fingers through his curls, kissed his cheek, said 'Thank Merlin, I was so worried, I'm so glad you're okay.' In this world, she felt trapped.

"We don't know that," she said sharply, twisting to look at him with accusing eyes before the guilt took over and her gaze broke and fell away. She took a breath, like he'd asked, but it quaked through her lungs, bringing more sharpness instead of relief. She pushed against his arms a little, agitated. Her thoughts spun around, scattering; she latched on to the first one that seemed close enough. "Even if you're actually fine. Even if you're fine this time," she amended. Would there be another time? The thought terrified her. Ariana thought she was good at learning, quick on the uptake. But this hadn't felt like something she could control or do by choice. Her tone turned bitter. "This isn't some kind of joke, don't you understand I could have killed you?"

The last four words came out louder than she'd intended in her head and she struggled again, twisting out from his arms and huddling against the wall, drawing her knees up and wrapping her arms around them. She didn't move to pick up her wand, although normally it felt like a shield against vulnerability. She stared at the carpet in front of her feet. After the last few minutes, the lack of motion seemed even starker. A little bit of plaster that had been loosened finally dropped from the wall, hitting the baseboard with a tiny thunk. She flinched.

Ari's words had an edge to them - an edge that Prosper didn't really understand. Was she angry at him? Genuinely angry? The bravado faded. Internally, the man was struggling to slice through whatever foggy barriers were preventing him from reaching her. He wanted to meet her where she was at, but he was starting to wonder if it was a place he was even able to follow. It didn't help that he could still feel sticky drying blood on his fingertips or the strange, acidic buzzing feeling that the dittany had left on his scalp. A part of him wished she'd go back to being overly sorry rather than defensive.

In turn, Ari was shifting in his grasp. He hesitated, torn between pulling her closer again and giving her more space. What did a stressed out Ariane need? It felt strange to not know; they'd been spending so much time together these past few months that it was almost a shock to realise that he didn't know everything about her. Usually it wasn't too hard for him to make her smile or to comfort her or distract her. Without really thinking about it, Prosper tried to pull her close again, reaching for comfortable places like her back to put his hands, but the action was useless; she disentangled herself from him and moved away.

"I'm okay," Prosper repeated uselessly. Sure, she could have killed him, but... so what? Anyone could kill anyone else with a wand - Ariane more than many, admittedly - but everyone knew that. He was a dancer and a bar tender but he could kill someone with a wand. That was why they went to school, why they learned about the power they held in their hands every time they performed magic. Prosper remembered multiple units at Beauxbatons that explored the implications of that power. Sure, he hadn't paid all that much attention in those boring theoretical and philosophical classes, but the way she'd said what she had carried a lot more weight than the words themselves. He didn't need class to teach him that. Her ability to hurt someone wasn't unique to her.

"I.." Prosper was, uncharacteristically, at a loss for words. He winced as she did - though his reaction was probably more reactionary to her rather than the break in stillness around them. A bewildered sort of light frown formed on his handsome face as he struggled to find the right words. "Ariane," he said softly, trying not to make the word a question. "I'm sorry, I wasn't trying to..." He shook his head, then swapped back to French for ease. "I don't understand," he said simply. It was taking some effort for him not to reach out for her.

A part of him could smell the food cooking on the stove top. There was definitely an overcooked element to the aroma, perhaps edging into burned territory. He kept it in his mind, but didn't yet leave; he couldn't leave her like she was.

He still didn't get it. Ari's eyes flicked up just long enough to see his puzzlement on his face, dropping again reactively like water skidding away from a hot pan. He seemed to grasp, finally, the severity of the situation, but there was absolutely no underlying understanding there. Prosper swapped back to French, which made her blink; it took her a second to process the words in her second language, and when she did she felt a bizarre desire to laugh. It was exactly what she had been thinking, after all.

Ariana sat there for a while, her gaze creeping from the carpet onto her feet and then to her arms, risking a side detour to her hands, the ones that channeled the magic that had slammed him against the wall. How could he understand? When she blinked flashes of green and white and red flashed behind her eyelids. She should just force a smile and stand up. It wasn't as though he was taking it seriously anyway; never mind, don't worry about it, would be easy, and it would all go away. All except the dent in the wall, but that she could fix with magic. The way she'd fixed him after she'd broken him.

It was the way he seemed not to comprehend what it meant, that she could have killed him, that struck her, made her feel deeply off balance. Ari had a thought then--perhaps he'd just never been afraid of dying. Ari had thought she was invincible once, when she was little; no number of skinned knees or Quidditch injuries could have told her otherwise. After that, she'd gotten worse. Dying for a cause was something to be proud of--not an outcome to look forward to, but an honorable one if it came to it. After, much after, she'd finally grasped the pointlessness of it. Standing in front of that memorial--how many faces had there been? Snatches, glimpses, swirling away again and reminding them all that the illusion of life was not life.

She didn't brush it off. "Aren't you afraid of dying, Prosper?" she asked softly, the way she shaped her French deliberate rather than natural. After a beat, she added, even more quietly, "Do you know what it's like to kill something?"

The bravado was gone now. Prosper shifted again, straightening his spine and resisting the urge to touch his scalp, press his fingertips into the newly healed skin where his injury had been. "I'm sorry," he repeated, blinking away the dullness that had swept in after the rush of the shock. He kept his hands where they were.

Her gaze slipped from his; reluctantly, he shifted to searching the rest of her expression for answers instead. He wanted to reach for her, physically reach for her the way he felt himself reaching for her emotionally. As if touching her would sate the new ache in his chest. Steady him somehow. "I..." He trailed off, understanding - for once - that he needed to think first. Think, then speak. He replayed her words. Wasn't everyone afraid of dying? Once again, he wasn't quite sure that that was what she was really asking. The implications of it all unfolded themselves in his thoughts, hinting at perspectives he hadn't really delved into or explored at all. It was eerie in its newness.

She asked her second question. "Of course not," he said finally, serious and soft - rather than confused - this time. Her question was rhetorical; pushing him to understand her rather than answer her. There had been a fair share of drama at Beauxbatons while he'd been there, sure. Mishaps and mayhem and situations where people had been hurt. The most violent confrontation he'd ever involved himself in, though, could barely be compared to what she'd endured. He'd gotten into a duel or two, a scuffle here and there. One time Prosper had beaten a guy up after he'd physically assaulted the girl he'd been madly in love with at the time. Almost gotten expelled for that. It all felt extremely childish in that context.

School. Theatre. Girls. Love. Nothing quite so literally life and death, not ever. After school had been more or less the same thing. Ari had spent far too long in a completely different world, and while he'd known it before, it had never been quite so apparent as it was now.

"Ariane..." he said, at a loss for words. A second passed, and an unpleasant aroma reminded Prosper once more that there was food burning on the stove. He didn't want to leave her. "One second," he said, laying seriousness into those two words as best he could. He needed reassure her that he was, in fact, returning to her. After a long moment of hesitation, Prosper got lithely to his feet. He was almost surprised at the lack of lingering unsteadiness as he moved swiftly to the kitchen, turning off the heat and moving the pan mechanically. He rinsed his hands quickly in the sink, not wanting her to see his blood there, before returning to the hall, concern clearly etched into his expression.

Ari squeezed her eyes together, her heart juddering in her chest like a machine near to coming apart under its own violent movements. Briefly she remembered telling Freya something six months ago about how Prosper was 'like a total stranger'. Well, he wasn't a total stranger anymore, but he was a total stranger to this, or this part of her. After most of the mundane getting-to-know-you had been exhausted, she had thought it so refreshing: how in their interactions the war or the dome couldn't just be brought up with a significant glance, their threads the deepest undercurrent to every interaction with anyone with whom the mutual acknowledgement that they had been there together existed. Even with Freya--Freya who'd been so angry at her for how focused and cold she'd become during the Dome, Freya who knew how to drag her to hang out at Muggle pubs with Danny and Jeremy, Freya with whom the parts of her that had been twisted and coiled had learned to relax, ninety nine percent of the time, into normal young womanhood--with her too there was always that one percent of looks and pauses that briefly took their breaths away. Ari had thought she loved that gulf between them, the way she could cross over to his side of it and leave that shadow of herself that had to remain there far, far away. Apparently, though, any sensation of traveling was just an illusion.

She tipped her head back against the wall as Prosper left, the smell of whatever he'd done finally entering her nose and making her cough. She stared blankly through the ceiling. 'Of course not,' he said. Was it her job to explain? Ariana didn't know whether she'd asked him those things to make him understand or just to prove to him that he never could. But if she was on her side of the ocean and he was on his, and nothing could ever bridge the gap, what did that mean for their relationship? Was she just supposed to prepare him for a lifetime of silence and curses, prepare herself for pains that went unmet and unmatched? Who wanted to stand so far away from someone they loved?

Prosper returned, standing there looking concerned. It all felt a little like they were marionettes playing out a lifeless script, going through some preconceived motions. If only someone were really there to dictate what came next. "I don't know what to say," she admitted dully, her words blurring together a bit, eyes flicking briefly to him and away again. A sudden sharp sting hit her eyes, and she tried and failed to blink it all back. So many hours looking at him fondly, tracing the curve of his cheeks with her fingers, and now it just...hurt?

He returned from fixing the mishap. It broke his heart to see her like this, so faraway and hurt. So small, on the ground. After a moment's hesitation, Prosper held his hands out and waited for her to take them, with some trepidation that she wouldn’t. He helped her to her feet slowly, resisting the urge to wrap her up in his arms like he had before.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Prosper said quietly, and he meant it. A part of him wanted to help, and not just help but really help her. He loved her; shouldn't that mean he could do something about all of this? It was obvious, even to him that he didn't have the tools for it. Prosper made a plan to talk to her friends, Freya at least would know something about it. Would offer some insight or advice.

“Do you want to come lie down for a bit?” He asked seriously, still holding her hands like she was something precious, fragile. “We don’t have to talk,” he added softly, in english this time. “Come on."

Prosper stuck his hands out to her, waiting, and she didn't know if she wanted to but she stuck her own hands out anyway, because that's what you were supposed to do in a relationship when things were bad, right? Reach out to the other person? Squeezing her eyes as he pulled her up, Ari let one fat tear escape from each eye, wiping her cheeks on her robes with a sniff as quickly as they'd come. She felt almost naked to be standing, unfurled like this. She supposed he couldn't see more of her than he had in that instant, and in the agitation that had followed, but she still felt exposed.

Her chest had settled into a dullness like her words, which was probably better than the sharpness. Somewhere deep down she appreciated that Prosper wasn't demanding an explanation, and part of her recognized that his lack of anger over being assaulted was a gift. But just because he didn't demand an explanation didn't mean that she didn't want to give him one. The contact with his hands, the warmth of it, reminded her that even though she wasn't sure it was possible, she did want or need him to understand. How could someone touch her so tenderly and still be so far away? "I know I don't," she said softly with a hiccup, "but if I don't then you really never will understand." But she still didn't know where to begin with that.

Ari let herself be tugged gently towards her bed, walking slowly as if through thick jelly, eyes fixed downward on some nonexistent point. The release it promised had its own magnetism, and she rolled onto it, staring up at the ceiling. She was too exhausted to process the conflict inside her: the yearning, the anger, the grief, the distance, the fear - fear of what he would think, the fear of herself. She rolled over towards him, staring at his chest for a few seconds and then looking up at his face again, willing it to not hurt as much. She wanted to feel safe here again.

Merlin, he just wanted to wrap her up in his arms. It was more difficult that he’d thought it would be to resist that urge; touch was Prosper’s first instinct for so many situations. He tried to imagine feeling stressed or upset enough that he wouldn’t want her to touch him, or hold him, and only came up with the most contrived examples. If she cheated on him, maybe. Or if she’d… murdered his mother. Nothing vaguely in the realm of reality.

He felt extremely out of his depth, and a part of him wanted to be more direct with questions. What should he do? Should he get someone - someone who knew this part of her better? Was there even someone like that, he wondered? Only a moment ago she’d asked him if he knew what it was like to kill someone, and he’d answered honestly, but he felt like his answer undermined him, too. He felt inadequate. “It doesn’t have to be now,” he answered calmly, grey eyes watching her. His words were true - he would wait as long as she wanted, forever if need be. But that didn’t mean that he didn’t wish she could tell him now. Or that he didn’t feel too young to be dealing with this.

Prosper kicked his shoes off and slid in beside her, leaving just a little distance between their bodies.He couldn’t help but touch her hair lightly, though. He already had no idea what was going on inside her head, but no contact at all pushed the distance between them past a threshold he wouldn’t go to unless it was what she wanted.

He remained outwardly silent, his internal monologue dense and confused, until she rolled into him. His heart beat a little faster as he looked at her, and as their eyes met. He felt a strong compulsion to be more for her. More of a man. More strong. More soft, too. He reached up again, this time to stroke along her cheek, draw a few damp strands from her skin to behind her ear.

Ari let out a long breath, a few tears spilling out of the confines of her eyes as she swallowed empty air. The silence of a few minutes loosened her tongue a little, whether that was in leaving a void to be filled or simply giving it the space to rise to her lips on its own. Not to tell him everything, but at least to speak words, where before there was simply the stopper of her throat. Thinking about trying to explain everything that had happened in those years made her feel like drowning. Simple enough, on the surface: start from the beginning (when? When the war had started before she'd taken her first breath, or when she'd taken her first breath in the new, younger, all-too-young war?) and follow the thread through the labyrinth until their stories met. But telling the shape of the maze didn't tell you what it was like inside, or how haggard you would be when you made it to the end. Instead, she seized on all the peripheral things. "I wouldn't know where to start, now, but," she laughed, a little, a nihilistic core to the sound, "it's like, if I don't tell you about it when it's like this, then I don't know if I ever will. It's just so much easier to just...be happy, when I can." Who wanted to bring something dark into a room full of light?

His fingers brushed her hair and then her cheek. Maybe him wanting to be there was enough, at least for the moment. She shifted tentatively closer yet, the space, like the silence, inviting entry. Something about it felt backwards - now he was comforting her, when she had done the harm. But whatever was crushed up inside her chest was blindly yearning for something even as it felt like being anywhere else, and she didn't quite have the energy to think about how things should be anymore. She caught his wrist with her hand, bringing it down to meet her other bent arm between them, and dropped her forehead to his chest.

“It’s okay,” he said again, softly but he didn’t know if he was encouraging her to open up or reassuring her that she didn’t need to. “And I want to make you happy,” he said, but he hoped she understood that he meant it in a bigger, more general sense rather than the smaller, more specific way; he didn’t mean that he wanted to make her happy right now, even if that was also true in a basic, literal sense. “I want to listen, too.” He’d almost said I want to understand, but he’d caught himself at the last minute, not wanting to presume that he would understand, even if she explained it all. Prosper got the sense that saying something like that would undermine him again. He felt wildly inadequate, but he didn’t need her to know that.

It was a relief when she touched him, let him move closer. She took his hand and he gave hers a little squeeze, letting her tuck herself against his chest.

Silence, for a minute, then; “I love you,” Prosper said softly. Partly because he didn’t know what else to say. Partly because it was just true. He’d been thinking those words earlier, but he really knew it now, as if the edges of the beautiful, certain thing were made so much clearer against the backdrop of the unknown. It felt obvious when he said it, at least to him. Of course, Prosper wanted to hear those words echoed back to him, but he didn’t need that; he knew he’d chosen a time to verbalise those feelings that might be incongruous from her perspective. It was okay that she didn’t say it now, but he hoped that she felt it – both from him and from herself.