Tip of my Tongue

His apprehension has withered into dust and a full blown garden has bloomed in its place.

You plague him. Every moment, every thought, he’s circling back to you. During training, at dinner, during work, he’s wondering.

Are you alright?

Your coat is threadbare.

He noticed it briefly that day in the Palace and filed it away for later, though he’s sure the cold doesn’t bother you so much considering where you’re from.

Still. You’re here now. You don’t need to suffer.

The one he chooses is jewel toned, a perfect complement to your hair, your eyes, heavy enough to keep you plenty warm against the bitter chill, soft enough you could sleep in it.

It takes a lot for him to feel a sense of pride, but this… this does it. Easily.

He can’t bring himself to physically give it to you though. Something about it feels too intimate, too strong, too much-

And you’re skittish.

The coat is wrapped in brown paper instead, tied with a black ribbon, and left on your front step. It’s the coward’s way out, something he’s never been, but it’s all he has in this moment, unable to stomach the thought of your flat out rejection, choosing to lurk in the dark shade of nightfall until the lights in your home blink out and he can slip silently through shadow to your front door.

He wishes he could see your face when you find it in the morning. Will you be upset? Insulted? Happy?

He wants to know these things about you, see them for himself.

This will take courage. The kind he’s not sure he has, the he knows without a doubt, he will find.

For you.

“Hi.”

He inclines his head. “Hello.” He’s supposed to take you out today, show you around, help you get acclimated, but you’re holding the coat in your arms, anxiety pulling at your expression.

“Did you…”  He nods.

“Yes.”

“It’s…” you smooth your fingers over the stitching in the collar. “It’s lovely but I can’t… I can’t accept this.”

“Yours is inadequate.” You wince at his straight forward statement, and he bites his tongue. “Please, it would be for me. I… it’s very cold.”

“For you?” The skepticism in your voice is painfully obvious, leaving him no choice but to double down. Forge ahead.

“For me. I… I will worry.” Weakness is an unlikable thing, a thing trained out of him, a thing beaten down and pushed away, shoved into the darkness since he was a child. It’s uncomfortable, how the idea of you out in the cold makes him feel, how unsettled he is whenever he thinks about you on your own, here or elsewhere. How mournful he is, imagining your trek from Stoneguard to here, alone, no one to help you.

Strong, brave girl.

Something flickers in your gaze. Something confused, something haunted, ghostly enough his heart pounds, his fists clenching at his side. Whatever it is, it’s enough to wear you down, and you give him a nod.

“If you need anything… I want you to come to me.” The day was too short, and he longs for more, wishes he could stay, knows better than to push his luck.

“That’s not necessary.” Luna coos, wriggling in your arms, a chubby fist reaching out to him. You bristle. Prickly, walls slowly raising, trying to push him away.

“I know it’s not,” he appeases softly, a long finger fitting in Luna’s grasp, much to her delight, “but it doesn’t change anything.” He’s careful to hold his tongue, keep everything he truly wants to say hidden for now. “All you need to do is call for me, and I’ll come.” Your brow furrows in confusion and he gestures to the misty shadow snaking along the floor at your feet. “In case you need me.” You look… confused, that’s the best way to describe it. Not as apprehensive as he expected, just unsure, staring down at the wisp, lips quirked to the side.

He wonders how long it’s been since someone took care of you.

He’ll fix it.

“Is it… going to watch me?” Yes.

“No.” Luna still has a firm grip on his finger and he strokes the back of her hand with his thumb, soaking in the way she smiles at him, gums and all.

“Azriel, really, I’m alright, we’re-”

“I know. I know you are, but Velaris is not as kind as it would have you believe, and you are… different, from them.”

“Illyrian.” Your eyes narrow, brief bravado slipping away as your shoulders slump. He takes a chance, tucks two fingers under your chin and tilts your face to his. Your breath hitches, his blood heats and your lips part, pupils expanding like an explosion of stars.

“Please.” He murmurs, and you swallow.

“Okay.”