The Sentinels legs and hands, thumbs together

literally up at 1:00 am to write this post because how can i not

She liked how strong he felt, how he was the stone pillar which she snaked herself around and clung to. Don was always that for her: the platform on which she grew and learned. The screen on which she projected her colorful film. The shoes that gave her tapdance that satisfactory clack.  Together, they had been powerful. Almost too powerful.

“You should tell them the truth.” It was a short and curt, but biting sentiment. How did it always come back to this? It seemed this was all they were any more, which was a shame considering all they had. “Tell them how he died. Tell them it was not the heartbreak over Vincent that drove me away, but heartbreak over you. And tell them about the accident that was not an accident. Tell them how fate lost while their stupid rules won.”  Aaah, that was it. The fault lie not with her just as it did not lie with him — but instead found its home on the shoulders of the entire Merry-Andrews gang. Their beloved, ragtag bunch who told them such a relationship was forbidden, censured them; which was crazy, because the Merry-Andrews wrote their own rules. True to form, Indie and Don never listened. She with her wild surmises, and he with his calculated brilliance — who were they to control fate? 

Who were they not to?

Indie huffed an exasperated sigh, but her tone contained once single, solitary woeful note. “Do that and they’ll stop asking about me. Then they’ll hate me, just as you do.” the mummer knew quite well that wasn’t true, just as she knew Donovan would easily see through her guarded, false words. They were words meant to elicit emotion, to cause a rise, to say something so acrimonious just to hear him say the complete opposite. But she could never pull her tricks on him; Don was too smart for them. He knew all her facades and farces intimately, for he created them [conjured them within her] himself. However, behind every single one of her caricatures lay a little glimmer of truth; a little piece of her that refused to die, even when concealed by an exquisite emotional mask. Before she fled, things had gotten bad. There were moments that Indie wondered if he, indeed, hated her… and even running from everything she had known felt better than that.

But then, Indie reminded herself: Donovan was just as much to blame as she was. His continual denial of that fact sparked anger within her, burning away at simmering guilt. The perfumed shewolf watched him silently, loving the anger and strong emotion she felt, enjoying the sentimentality of their dynamic. It was so comfortable, yet always so new and so fiery - no matter where they were. They were their own inferno, constantly reigniting each other and sidling up against the warmth the other created as they burned. They weren’t good for each other, but somehow they were the best thing they had ever known.