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Sometimes, you couldn't help but wonder.
The entrancing smell of painting oils filled your nostrils–you didn't dislike it, nor it bothered you, but it was a very distinct scent that stayed inside your nose for hours after being in its presence. The brush that worked them, and the hand that held it, were under your watchful, pondering gaze. The way they moved was entrancing, like the song of a siren luring a sleep deprived sailor to the restless sea; like his hands were made for creation, to mold, to bring life to his canvas and undo it when it fits his whims.
The hands of a god.
The soothing lullaby of sea waves enveloped your mind, akin to the gentle caress of a lover. Your gaze, half-lidded, on the verge of falling asleep, found itself lost on his features: delicate, graceful, noble, heavenlike. Under normal circumstances, a smile would have graced your lips— oh , so hopelessly in love, heart fluttering at the sight of your Rafayel entranced by his painting, the soft sound of the brushstrokes and both your breathing the background melody of the romantic scene. But now, you just stare, almost befuddled, trying to carve an answer out of his microexpressions and the powdery smell of his cologne.
You couldn’t help but wonder—
Why does he keep hiding from you?
Your mind went back to a brief conversation you overheard on one of your shared trips, something you weren’t supposed to hear. Not because Rafayel wouldn’t want you to (which he would), but because you knew it would eat your brain out bite by ravaging bite, until nothing but the faint humming of anxiety remained in your now empty head.
She thinks she understands me, but she doesn’t.
You never told him you overheard that.
It had been months since that trip; since then, you tried opening up with him, baring your heart out in hopes of him baring his the way you thought he already had. Before that, it angered you—it wasn’t your fault, right? You’d understand him if he explained himself better, if he stopped being so vague, averting the conversation into something else entirely when questioning him. Because he loved painting you tales of Lemuria, of its people, of the sea and its fiery currents.
But it was all very calculated, like he would rehearse the tales beforehand over and over in the vast expanse of his lonely bedroom, so nothing too sensible would spill out when telling them to you.
You have my entire heart, he’d whispered into your soul one passionate night, his eyes full of heartfelt devotion.
But did you?
One particular afternoon, he noticed how you were drifting away, irritable, unreachable. His usual playful demeanor morphed into concern with a hint of alarm; he brought it up with something simple, almost silly at first—why were your texts lacking emojis? Stickers? Instead of the usual 10 minute average between responding to his messages, now it was up to 30 minutes. Then, when you tried to laugh it off, he pointed out how you weren’t teasing him enough, or you weren’t clinging to him the way you used to, and how his jokes weren’t exactly making you laugh anymore.
You took the easy way out: your period. What a terrible excuse to use, and incredibly evil: it was one of the areas Rafayel truly lacked expertise in. He had read up on it, and it tracked. Irritability. Detachment. Pain. ( Are your cramps making you feel irritable today? ). All sorts of nasty symptoms you seemingly had no control of. So he believed you, and tried to give you some space and, oh—your sweet, loving angel tried so hard to understand, even when it physically pained him to keep some distance (and sometimes failed, in true Rafayel fashion) so you’d feel better.
So it broke you. You couldn’t keep the act anymore. You rushed to his house one afternoon, eyes tearing up with guilt, and smooched him with kisses. When he asked you why you were sobbing, you apologized for treating him like absolute shit in your period.
It wasn’t a lie. At most, it was a half-truth.
She thinks she understands me, but she doesn’t.
It crept through the back of your mind and stayed there, gnawing at your head, giving you migraines. It hurt. Because when the anger dissipated away, it was replaced with an empty melancholy. He tried so hard to understand you, to adapt to your land mannerisms; a sea creature that wasn’t made to walk in land, to withstand the warm temperatures of the bustling city, to spend so long away from the ocean, all that sacrifice—
And you were incapable of understanding him.
You wanted to.
You loved him.
You didn’t notice the hand waving in front of you as your gaze got lost onto nothing, seemingly looking outside the window and to the sky. It was only when its movements got more insistent and hurried that you snapped out of it.
“Helloooo? Is someone there?”
You blinked in rapid succession and shook your head as his voice brought you back to reality. Rafayel had an eyebrow raised, his palette discarded beside him as he tried to pull you back to earth, sitting cross legged on the floor. The soft glow from the setting sun gave him an ethereal look, the orange hues peeking from his massive windows functioning as some sort of heavenly canvas in which he was painted on.
A smile formed in your lips as you let out a sigh. “Yes, captain. Everything A-OK over here.”
“Clearly not.” He shifted, his body facing you entirely. “I have been calling out for you for a while. Thought you were a goner.”
“So if I were actually dead, is this how you would check?” You decided to bring a playful facade to mask your turbulent feelings. Something you observed from him. “Not checking my pulse? Romantically and tragically cradling me in your arms, calling my name in hopes of me waking up?”
But there was no humor in his eyes as he carefully studied your expression. It was like he was seeing right through you, trying to piece a puzzle in the shape of you. As his eyebrows furrowed, you started to simmer excuses in your head for when he eventually asked you about it—the period excuse wouldn’t work, because you were clearly not on your period, and blaming it on PMS would be too convenient. Maybe you could point to work-related stress? Grieving over your family again? It hurt. It hurt thinking how the first thing that came into your mind was outright lying to him instead of baring yourself to him.
And it made you wonder how it was so easy for him. To omit important information, to not open his heart out entirely for you, who was so eager to let him into your heart.
“What’s on your mind?” He asked, one of his fingers delicately tucking a strand of your hair back. His eyes glimmered with a hint of vulnerability, as if he were afraid of the answer.
You took a deep breath, unable to break eye contact. A poignant pause filled the room as you took in the sight of his blue-magenta eyes. What were you supposed to tell him? Should he know that you heard him that time? Should he know that doubt now filled your heart where pure devotion once was?
And is.
The idea of him knowing that made your chest hurt. You should’ve been angry at him. But you couldn’t.
Your mouth opened, but nothing came out of it. Your brow furrowed and a knot tied tightly on your throat. It should be easy, lying to him, right? Like he did to you? You were entitled. It was your given right. You should’ve been furious, seething, demanding—
He backed away suddenly, painfully, clutching his chest, looking troubled as he anxiously looked for your eyes.
You’d completely forgotten about it.
The bond.
He might not know exactly why , but he could feel it, tugging at him, filling his heart with your frustration, guilt, anxiety, sadness . Alarm started bubbling in your chest.
“Cutie, I—”
“I’m sorry.” You whispered.
You averted your gaze, looking into a distant corner. The warm orange hues of the sunset had dissipated, leaving nothing but a cool blue enveloping the room. Why were you apologizing? Why were you the one apologizing? It should have been him doing it.
But you couldn’t bring yourself to it.
He had to know by that point, right? As he lowered his head, laid on the floor, and nuzzled his face into your lap—like begging for forgiveness, silently, reverently—you wondered if he knew. If he understood.
A terrible, horrifying, disgusting thought crossed your mind for one second. It wasn’t an original thought, it wasn’t the first time you wondered about it, savoured it, felt it. What if? It would be so easy, so attainable, and it would take no effort.
To use the bond to force him to open his heart to you.
You froze. No, you didn’t want that to happen. How ironic it would be, forcing him to be honest in such a dishonest way. What would that make you? What would that make him?
Tears finally started falling from your face as you gently stroked his hair.
“Cutie?”
“I’m alright.” You sobbed. “It’s alright.”
He looked up with his painfully angelic doe eyes, concerned, almost terrified . Propping himself up with his elbows, he sat right up, wiping your tears with his thumbs, tenderly cradling your face. How? How could he be so tender, so loving, and yet not let you into his heart the way you wanted? The way it would benefit you two?
“I’m sorry.” You whispered, sobbing into his palm. “I’m really trying.”
He didn’t reply, his contact stilling for a moment, pondering, contemplating. His jaw tensed momentarily before resuming his loving strokes on your cheeks.
She thinks she understands me, but she doesn’t.
Because he wasn’t exactly lying. You truly didn’t understand him. If you did, perhaps you wouldn’t be sobbing big, hot tears the way you were. You wouldn’t have been in that position—him comforting you, instead of you comforting him for not being able to crack open his heart the way he wanted you to. It’s the reason why, whenever you promised him something, he’d do it the Lemurian way, insisting your human promises held no weight. Why he made you swear to the sea, its stormy gaze watching over your vow.
Still cradling your face, he rested his forehead against yours, closing his eyes, letting out a shaky breath.
Does he know?
He placed a tender kiss on your lips.
That wasn’t exactly an answer.
He then whispered something in Lemurian, foreign to your ears. It crumpled your heart, making it bleed out on the cold, hard marble floor of his studio. You didn’t have to understand it. You knew. You felt. He insisted that you didn’t need to understand the language—that you would know. You would feel it. That it was the way lemurians expressed their affection, their mother tongue being simply one of the many tools for it.
Your hands trembled as they made their way to his hands, cradling them back. You let out a shaky, vulnerable chuckle, cocooned on his apologetic warmth. How infuriating. How euphoric. Because he wasn’t lying, this once. The way it reverberated in your thumping heart, seeped into your bones, entangled within your soul that was painted with his colors—you had many doubts, questions, unspoken words; yet, for some reason, this one thing was as clear as day, even though it should be the first thing you should’ve questioned. It glowed in your shared bond and spilled in both your hearts. You exhaled.
“I love you, too. More than you believe. I swear .”
This time, he didn’t make you swear in the name of the sea; instead, he let it linger within the now darkened room, his eyes carefully taking in your features, memorizing the way your tears travelled from your cheekbones to your jaw, as if attempting to understand how important this declaration was to you.
He took a deep breath and finally, after what seemed centuries, let out a breath, a relieved, elated smile escaping from his lips. You could’ve sworn you felt his fingers tremble, just a little.
He repeated his lemurian declaration again, this time placing a tender kiss on your forehead.
You embraced him tightly, dampening his shoulder with your tears; not that either of you cared, anyway. You tangled your fingers in the violet waves of his hair, gently stroking it in soothing motions. He shuddered, almost violently, then sighed, content, and you silently smiled against his clothes as you understood.
His heart cracked open, just a little. And that was enough for now.
Your sweet Rafayel.