Broken
by Martian Aries

She stares with wide, dark eyes at the rivulets slithering down the slippery pane of cold glass, inserting navy-blue crayon squiggles into the square of light cast by the window on the opposite wall. The room is a chiaroscuro in shades of azure, from the whispersoft of bluish-white to the bruised blueberry of indigo, but never absolute black. Surrounded by comfort, she breathes in time with the rush of the city and the rain outside, trapped in a perfect, cool-sheets, warm-body, synchronised-heartbeat moment of clarity. She wants to sleep, but cannot bring herself to close her eyes.

Is he wrapped in her arms or is she wrapped in his?

Arms… which brought her close to him earlier, fingers that raised the fine hairs on her arms with a touch that was and was not there. Those fingers later whispered across the gentle curve of her back, over the planes of her abdomen, up under her hamstrings to cautiously push her knees apart. Then, she remembers his eyes in hers, like wet, black marbles shadowed in the darkness, his body, moving against her and into her, pressing her down into the accommodating mattress, tangled in their nest of cotton and pillows, his lips moist and warm, his breath uneven against her neck.

She knows how he feels, like the rain, soft and quiet, smooth and pliant but powerful if need be, never shy. A constant part of her existence, just like the winds that now murmur against the plate glass, just as quiet and gentle, just as capable of roaring strength.

His voice comes then, a tenor, just a little roughened, rumbling through his chest against the delicate curve of her ribcage. Their hearts are separated only by the bluewashed silk of skin and the ivory fortification of bone. His lips move against the bare skin of her shoulder, not an altogether disagreeable sensation.

"Can't sleep?"

She stares at the ceiling, buried beneath him and the covers, feeling like a treasured nest-egg.

"How long has it been?" she asks.

Her voice sounds trembly and garbled in her own ears. She doesn't know why she's scared to mention this. Maybe because, for so long, they've tried so hard not to talk about it.

"Hmm," he hums confusion against her shoulder and it tingles through her skin, like a waking limb.

"Since that night on the bridge," she says, her eyes hard on the ceiling's creamy flatland.

The scrape of tires against a wet road rings like distant music in her ears, memories filtering through the peace of the sheltered, apartment bedroom. The sound of rain, hissing across the poisoned asphalt, droplets leaping like fallen angels into the river below while the towers of the bridge bear down on her from above, taunting her insignificance.

She had been ready to join the raindrops that night, but before she could do it, there was the taxi, glowing like a beacon of hope. And him clambering out, clad in a jacket that was pointless against the torrential rain, strong arms wrapping 'round her frail form, fingers weaving into her hair --dreadlocked by the storm. Him holding his mouth close to hers.

It had been raining just like it was now, the same tone and coldness and never-ending hisssssss outside.

"At least three years." His voice, concerned, brings her back to reality. "Why? D'you…?"

He can't finish his sentence; she interrupts.

"No." She says it too fast, and she can tell that he's suspicious. She tries to get him not to worry, though she wonders, later, if that had been her intent in the first place, to make sure he still loved her that much. "I was just wondering."

"Love you," he says after a few moments, an attempt at reassurance.

"You, too," she whispers, laying her cheek against the top of his head, fingers clinging to the flesh-moulded triangle of his shoulder blade. His arms tighten around her waist.

"If you ever do feel like that again, I'll know," he whispers, his voice thick with the soup of emotions that he's fighting to control. She knows how he feels. "And I'll be here to catch you before you fall."

"Promise?" she says, and he nods into the little hollow between her shoulder and her neck.

"Just like always."

The rain continues on in a cold report against the window, but after she has fit her body against his again --long-lost puzzle pieces --and feels confident enough to sleep, she no longer hears it. Somewhere, the lightning breaks a sharp crag into the silence of the sky, but she is unconcerned in love, and able to drift harmlessly to sleep.