miranda khiev; d6 [wip]

You watch Arnav Khiev for a long time.

("Arnav Khiev!"

He takes his place on that stage, next to the escort, a noose around his neck.)

He turns twelve, you turn eleven; he becomes a dream in a nightmare and you take to drawing the stars to stop the shards from leaving scars on the skin of your mentality. You wet the bed, again and you're too afraid to call for help and too embarrassed to find your sister. You're drenched in sweat, tears running down your cheeks and a shake in your hands as you pull off your wet pajamas and throw on the driest things you can find. A sundress, dotted with purple violets upon a white background. You take pen and paper and you run, cheeks wet with tears. No one stops you, everyone's fast asleep.

Everyone but him.

You find the field, a tiny hill sits on top and you find a bed full of stars in the sky. It's summer, the breeze doesn't bite with frost but it's cool and it soothes the panic in your rapid heart. You put pencil to paper and stare at the stars.

"Miranda?"

You see the stars in his eyes and your heart races and you blush. Arnav Khiev is the last person you need to see right now. Yet he's here, tall, dark hair and pleasant confusion etched across his face. You look down to the grass blades swaying softly in the breeze before looking back up. You hold your notebook to your chest. "H-hey, Arnav." You glance away from the star boy surrounded by rumors and legend. A boy who apparently was found covered in the blood of his mother and father, who's killers apparently got away and who carries the scars to this day. Someone said they saw him torture a rat behind the orphanage but you don't care for apparently. You don't care for rumors. Arnav isn't cruel, despite what Cassandra and everyone else insist.

(you're a stupid girl)

He traverses across the boundary set by moonlight, hands in his pockets and warm smile. "What are you doing out here?" He asks, clearly trying to take a peek at the scrawls surrounded by nightmares in your notebook.

"I just had a bad dream and I couldn't sleep. So I decided to come out here to clear my mind. I like drawing in the dark." Justification falls heavy from your lips because you don't want him to sneer and turn his back on you. You don't want him to see you as strange, you want to be normal. So perhaps that's why your heart rate accelerates when you furrows his eyebrows in confusion.

"Why would you draw in the dark? Won't the picture come out worse if you can't see?"

A shy smile plays across your lips.

"It's about being creative," you tell him, looking down at the stars trapped in your notebook before the galaxies behind his eyes can swallow you whole. "And they turn out fine, in my opinion at least." You like the stars in your notebook, your comfort blanket in the winter and the calm in your storm.

He shrugs his shoulders. "Sounds silly to me, but sure,"

you hold back a sob.

He sees the hurt in your eyes and he smiles.

"But what do I know? I'm just a geek and a weirdo." He laughs and your let out a sigh of relief before stumbling over your words.

"No, you're not! You're..." your voice trails off as your teeter along the edge of his gravitational pull. "Pretty cool, I think."

He laughs, looking up at the stars for a second. You wonder what shines brighter.

"That's not something I'm used to hearing."

It's something you're not used to saying to anyone but Cassandra. She'd kill you if she found out you'd said it to Arnav Khiev of all people. You smile.

"You know, there's no point in being scared of dreams. They're not real."

Maybe he learned that from experience? Maybe he dreams of red. You're too afraid to ask, you don't like rumors.

"I know but... I don't know... I guess it's just that the reaping is tomorrow and I'm scared."

He looks confused, in your four years of watching him, he's never been confused.

"But you're only eleven, you can't be reaped."

But he can, and that's what scares you.

"But my sister can, and that's what scares me," he looks down and tries to compute, as if he doesn't get that you're afraid for anyone but yourself. "Don't you have anyone you care about like that? That you wouldn't know what to do if they were picked?" You ask, holding your notebook harder to your chest. He shakes his head. He doesn't have any family, in your four years of watching him, he's never been in a group bigger than three. He's a lone wolf with stars in his eyes.

(nothing like Cassandra)

He looks up at you and shrugs his shoulders. "Well, think of it this way, out of everyone reapable there's a very tiny chance that your sister would be the one who gets picked. And that's before you take into account Tesserae," he smirks. "We'll be fine, statistically. It's illogical to worry."

Your grin is childish, his is smug and wrapped in arrogance.

"The heart isn't logical," you argue beneath the stars. But it's not a war between Arnav Khiev and Cassandra Skye, it's comfort. You smile.

"Were you drawing the stars?" He asks, nodding towards the notebook sandwiched between your arms and your chest. You nod nervously. "I read a book on astronomy, once. Can you show me?"

You step back and shake your head, fear grips the steady beat in your chest. You expect him to scoff and turn or get angry, that's what the stories say. That's what he should do; a boy who tortures rats and turns playground fights into wars. A boy who was covered in the blood of his parents.

But the galaxies in his eyes; they twinkle and he smiles.

"Don't be nervous to show me, I bet you're really talented," your features soften and your heart rate slows. He laughs . "I mean you're good enough to draw in the dark right?"

You smile and show him the stars that night.

Cleo replaces the stars for over six months.

Your visits and talks with Arnav become less frequent as you drift into into the bliss that comes with love. People know you, not for being Cassandra Skye's sister but for being pretty and desirable. Cassandra looks at you with pride, her sister finally making her mark before she's too old to stay in the orphanage anymore. Cleo takes you to coffee shops, forests and abandoned buildings. Her wanderlust is contagious wildfire and you're oak; you let her spread and take you with her.

It gets to the point where it's strange to go anywhere without your hand in hers. Once, in your childish years, your world revolved around Arnav's orbit. Now you've given yourself to another. Cleo doesn't approve of your friendship with Arnav, but you tell her you're fine. She only knows of him from what Cassandra has told her, she hasn't seen the stars in his eyes. She tells you to be careful, you tell her you love her.

("I'll never stop loving you, Cleo."

"I love you too.")

Arnav was wrong and you're surprised to find he's happy about it. You find him beneath the forgotten stars one night when you go to draw. He hasn't chased you, he doesn't seem so much as disappointed that your time together as withered with sunlight. Perhaps he understands, perhaps he's not as full of rage as you once believed. You grin at him and he shrugs.

"Hey, as I said, if you're happy I'm happy."

You raise and eyebrow and stick your hands in your pockets. You feel embarrassed for thinking the worst of him.

"You're not angry that I haven't been spending much time with you?" You ask.

"I could never be angry at you,"

Dnd despite all that's changed, he never fails to make your cheeks flush red.

"But that doesn't mean you can't hurt me."

And there goes your heart.

(I don't want to hurt you, Arnav.)

The words lodge themselves in your throat.

"It just hurts to see that I'm expendable," the words fall from his lips and your body moves before your mind thinks.

You wrap your arms around him and pull him close. "Don't say that please," yes you had new friends. And yes you've found someone else because Arnav Khiev would never see you in that way. You're just empty-headed headed girl who sees stars in people eyes and would die to see Polaris.

"Miranda, you know I care about you right?" You look into his eyes, without wildfire, they find you. You nod your head. "Well, it's been more than just that for a while now."

He pulls you by your waist.

(no, no, no)

But you don't push him away.

"I'm sorry, I just had to."

You are eight and he is nine -- you watch Arnav Khiev leave again.

They found her face down in the lake you danced by on your first date.

(you crumple the first picture you drew of her)

Your heart breaks for the first time.

(and not the last)

Cassandra is gone, you don't have a shoulder to cry on.

You want wildfire again; you wanted to be blinded. You wanted to hold her hand and risk being burned because the thrill made bound your love tighter. You set yourself in bed, void in your chest and eyes wet with tears; your chest heaves and your fingers dig into your sheets. Your skin trembles at the touch of moonlight.

You wanted to beg for justice, you wanted to scream for bloody vengeance because your wildfire had been quenched and dragged deep by Poseidon's grasp. Except, they said it was an accident with no evidence of foul play, she must've slipped and fallen in after hitting her head. She couldn't swim. She was wildfire, after all. You sob into your fucking pillow.

Your existence is partial and void; everything fucking hurts.

You dream of her covered in flames, wildfire incarnate. She takes your hand and your flesh sears and smokes -- "please, don't let go." You like the smell of your burning flesh when it's to her touch. She grabs you by your hips, wraps you into an embrace and you burn together, she's wildfire and you're porcelain. "I love you, Miranda." You tell her you love her too, but you can't hear her over the sound of flames hungrily licking the air around you. It doesn't matter, she knows anyway.

("I want to burn with you.")

You dance within the flames, your head against her chest and her hands lacing through her hair. You kiss her again, hungry and passionate and you feel your cheeks burn so bright your tears evaporate from your face., you lock lips with her on more time. She takes her hands in yours, you look up to her and beg to burn. She takes her hands in yours and you forget what it means to hurt, wildfire can't be quenched. Not in this galaxy.

("I love you.")

You wake up in spasms and screams, your composure withers in moonlight.

Your tears dry against your cheeks, you swing your door open, pen and notebook in hand. You run, no one stirs and no one finds you. You expect to be alone, grieve beneath the stars because it's a better thought than wildfire. No one finds you.

No one except Arnav Khiev.

He wipes a tear from your cheek. "Hey, Arnav..." your voice trails beneath tear droplets hitting the ground. You let your pen and notebook slip through your fingers and hit the ground; you don't want to draw the stars tonight.

"Are you okay?"

Arnav Khiev has never been one for asking questions about the obvious. Your wildfire is quenched, you are certainly, definitely not okay. You want nothing more than to reply with snark and vitriol. But you can never bring yourself to spit venom at Arnav Khiev. You shake your head, wiping the tears from your eyes with your sleeves.

"I'm so sorry, Miranda," he puts his hands on your shoulders, your tears blind you to the galaxy in his eyes, you don't see the star system hanging above his head. "I know you loved her and I'm so upset. I don't know what to say, I miss her too."

You bite your lip because this is the first time you've seen Arnav Khiev look anything close to upset.

(you're blinded to the crocodile tears)

"I... I just..." you stutter, your voice trails.

"You don't have to speak."

You bury your head in his chest, your grief soaks into his chest. You wrap your arms around his torso and let your face sink deeper into his clothes. You stain his shirt and dig your fingernails into his back. You don't speak, because the simple sin of speech may disturb Cleo's sleep. You want to burn with her, now you grieve beneath the stars.

"It hurts me to see you like this, Miranda. And it hurts me that she's gone."

His words are an anchor, you breathe, heave and sniffle until your breath is given the privilege of a pattern again. A calm and steady pattern. You control yourself, you bite your lip and you wipe your eyes against his arm. Anything to stop the sound of wildfire withering to winter.

You speak into his chest for an hour, he holds you beneath the stars.

Your voice is shattered porcelain when you look up to him, your chin against his chest and he sees you, all of you. Your red eyes, puffy eyes and broken heart -- fuck he did tell you heartbreak was a rough thing didn't he? Arnav Khiev, always right. Somehow.

"I just wanted to belong to someone for once," you take a deep breath. "I just wanted to be hers."

You see him and he sees you; blue galaxies in his eyes and his weak grin threatening to split the sky. "I know, isn't that what we all want?" Your fingernails dig into his shirt again and you see red flare, your skin burns one more time. But not with wildfire, not anymore.

"Then what do I do?"

If there's one person who knows, it's Arnav Khiev.

(and what reason would he have to lie to me?)

Star boy, galaxy eyes and handsome face. Wildfire withers and you swear, a supernova flares above his head. "You want to belong to someone right? He asks and you nod your head. You just want to burn with someone one more time, his hands find themselves tangled in the hair in the back of your head. "Then belong to me."

You taste the stars; Arnav Khiev doesn't leave anymore.

You're eighteen and he's nineteen; time snatches Arnav Khiev's hand from yours.

You do art and chase stars, he does science and chases knowledge. He's aged, to the point where he has hair on his limbs and small stubble on his jaw. He's nineteen now, too old to be an orphan; he doesn't belong here anymore. But his hands belong interlinked with yours, his lips belong on your skin, tracing from your forehead to your cheeks and down your neck. You want to feel his breath against your skin; a star can burn brighter than wildfire, given enough time.

But now he's leaving because he's too old. He's going off to do science, write equations and discover the world. He wants to be a doctor, he's curious about the inner workings of the human body like that. He wants to understand how a human can run on something other than gears and cogs, the complexities of something deeper than clockwork. He sees the beauty in organs and synapses, you see the beauty in something deeper than that, that people are defined by more than the methodological systems that make them run. Perhaps that's why you express yourself in the abstract, with drawings and creativity.

He lets go of your hand, "I should get ready," and leaves you behind in the sheets and you want nothing more than to reach out and hold his shoulder. You watch him get ready, throw on his shirt and pack what little possessions he has left. Every movement like the mechanic click of machine, every breath the gentle turn of clockwork and cogs. He's ready within the hour, you comb his hair and shirt tuck in his shirt. He likes the little details you notice.

You sigh, finally asking the forbidden question that's been a weight on your chest for the last month, and pray you hear what you desire. "Are you going to forget about me?" Your hands rest themselves against his chest, you're so afraid and he smells your fear. He smiles.

"Why would I?" He answers with a question of his own. It hurts you when he does that, why can't he ever be straight forward?

You look up, you don't care about hiding the fear in your eyes anymore. "Because you won't see me that much anymore, you won't be here," you answer. You let your gaze drift down into the white fabric in his shirt for a moment, you're always the first to break eye contact. "I'm worried you'll forget me."

He's tall, dark and charming, a galaxy scatters itself in his pulse. His intellect towers yours, he's everything. What reason would Arnav have to stay with someone like you?

(What makes you so special?)

His fingers against your chin, a gentle touch makes every hair on your skin stand on end. He's always the first to re-initiate eye contact. "Do you trust me?" Every straight forward question with him is posed like a riddle. He's seen the insecurities buried beneath your skin, ten years of watching Arnav Khiev and you haven't deciphered him to that level yet. You can only bring yourself to nod in response, because any words from you might be too heavy and break the trance.

"I would never let you go,"

and you trust him, you believe every word that falls from his lips because what reason does Arnav have to lie to you? His words latch onto you like an anchor, dragging you to the ground and stopping you from burning yourself on Polaris.

"Do you love me? As much as I love you," you learned from Cleo how much love can hurt, you learned from Arnav how love can flourish. "Because I love you Arnav, so much." You pour your heart out to him, tearing it from your chest and setting it on the table at his whim. You pray he doesn't crush it, you just need him to say it; you need him to love you back. The man who stopped you turning along this endless spin of grief, showed you the stars and who keeps leaving at the worst times.

You want him to burn brighter than wildfire, just like a star should.

He nods and you shake your head, that's not good enough. Your brush his hand from your chin and dig your fingernails into the white fabric of his shirt. "Why won't you say it, then?" They dig deeper, your grip tightens and he sees the quivering in your ship, the dying desperation in your eyes. "I love--"

("--you")

you don't get to finish the thought, for he plants a signature to silence on your lips with him. He takes your hand and your knees threaten to buckle when he breaks away, your heart leaves a dent against the bones in your rib cage.

"I won't leave you, trust me."

Your hand falls from his and you hunger to taste him again, instead you taste your own tears.

You watch Arnav Khiev leave and pray he'll return to you.