slow burn

He’s master, she’s servant – but sometimes, she forgets.

Like when their eyes meet and his gaze softens ever-so-slightly. (Or maybe she’s just imagining it. No one looks at her that way.) Like when she brings him his breakfast upon a silver tray and the corners of his mouth turn up just the tiniest bit. (But she’s never been on the receiving end of a smile, so she’s probably imagining that, too.)

The moments never last long. Reminders are everywhere; in the glasses that shine her reflection, in the gazes that scorn her appearance. White hair, red eyes, pale – almost translucent – skin. A monster. A bearer of misfortune.

Only alive because of his generosity.

She grows older, learns more about – everything. (Anger and hatred, pain and longing.) The others aren’t kind. They never are, she knows.

But still she catches glimpses and small fragments of joy. Happiness. Her hands do not reach out for them, too afraid that they’ll slip through her fingers like sand through a sieve. (The more hope, the more despair.) 

The moments are less frequent. It does not stop her from serving him to the best of her ability – and his lady, too, when the time finally comes. Even his children, she tries to tend to.

She is not happy, because she does not know what it truly means, but she is … content.

It isn’t until his body is lowered into the ground that she wonders What if? for the first time.

By then, it’s too late.

 

He’s teacher, she’s student – but sometimes, she forgets.

Like when he hands back the tests and her scores have improved and there’s a single moment that passes between them (before he moves on to the next student and she doesn’t know if it’s just for her or if it’s for everyone). Like when she needs to go to the infirmary but never raises her hand for it but he notices and excuses her anyway (and that he doesn’t do for anyone else – but it’s probably just because no one else needs it).

But she’s not even close to being an honor student. Her grades are still subpar, and she misses class more often than not – no excuses, no notes, nothing but the slight disappointment she catches on his face when he sees her leaving during lunchtime.

She can’t bring herself to apologize.

It’s not something he can help her with. She can buy all the hair dye she wants, wear contacts until they sting her retinas, but every day she works and works and remembers the reason why her father simply walked out of her life.

(Nothing can change the fact that she’s a monster, so why does she bother?)

She stops going one day, never tells him the reason why; never tells him that she moves to where no one knows her, where she can die in peace.

It’s too late for her, anyway, and it’s not like anything ever works out for her.

Her last thoughts are of him, his voice, his silent acceptance and understated kindness and wonders What if? like she does all-too-often.

But it’s too late, and the water rushes up to swallow her whole.

 

He’s doctor, she’s patient – and this is a line she is careful to not cross.

She’s the delinquent, angry and brusque and violent because being good is so much more difficult than being bad, isn’t it?

No one gives her a second thought when they see her, cargo pants and cigarette and arrogance rolling off of her in waves – because her hair is white and her eyes are scarlet and really, that kind of person just spells bad news.

That’s what she tells him when he finds her one day; broken and battered and bleeding. (She’s fine, really, so thanks but no thanks and kindly fuck off.)

But he’s annoying and persistent in a way that makes her want to break his nose at the very least – because who the hell does he think he is, trying to be all nice and shit?

(She doesn’t need his pity.)

Still he takes her, cracked and incomplete, and slowly pieces her back together. He stitches her wounds, she complains, she gets hurt again, it repeats. He’s a doctor, he’s a doctor, he’s a doctor –

And before she knows it her injuries grow less severe even as her visits increase.

To him, she’s not a beast or a criminal or anything like that; she’s human, and that’s a luxury no one else affords to her. He cares – he cares, and even if it’s because she’s just another patient it’s … enough.

It’s only expected, then, that it’ll be discovered; that her What ifs? end up painting a target on him, bright and red and bloody. She runs as fast as she can, because for once she has something to lose.

But she’s too late, and the gunshot sounds anyway.

 

The first time she sees him, something prickles on the back of her neck as if pulling her toward him; so, naturally, she walks the opposite direction.

Fate is a bitch, and she refuses to put any stock into something that … ridiculous.

(So when she sees him again, two days later, she turns around again.)

Twice is enough to be a coincidence – three times, even.

But the fourth time is when she literally walks into him (into his broad, warm, rather firm chest), and she has the nasty feeling there are higher powers hell-bent on fucking with her life.

She’s kept her head down (for the most part), stayed out of trouble (for the most part), even tried her best to be a good person (for the most part) – so why?

Maybe, if she humors the fates, they’ll leave her alone.

“M'name’s Mokou. Who the fuck’re you?”

(Well. She tried.)

He looks down at her and suddenly there’s an almost-tangible tension in the air. “… I am Thanatos.”

They stare at each other for who-knows-how-long before she heaves a heavy sigh. (May as well.) “You wanna … dunno, get some coffee later?”

A slow smile spreads across his face. Her heart flutters curiously in her chest. “I would like that very much.”

(And this time, she’s not left with just a What if?)