A/N: alrighty, then, here's ANOTHER hades/persephone story. a little less deep, it was really more of a writing excersize to get all those metaphors out of my head (voila: the title). it's a oneshot, i prolly won't pursue it further unless y'all leave some really good suggestions! (wink wink nudge nudge !cough cough!) anyways, enjoy!

Metaphorical

I love you.

The three words drip off his lips in honey-golden droplets, oozing into my ears, filling me up to the brim. They slip off his lips in a whisper of silk on skin, flowing over my body in softest of caresses. They burst from his lips in a mad rush of dove wings, frenzied flapping palpitating to the uneven tattoo of my heart. They shine from his eyes in a lazy ray of soft sunlight, seeping through my skin to warm my deepest, darkest places. His fingers etch them into my flesh with every touch. His arms surround me with them in a giant bear hug, fierce and gentle. When he breathes them into the super-sensitive crook between my throat and shoulder, they are my wings, lifting me away to rare euphoria.

I hate you.

The words burn my lips with their stinging malice, but I can’t help it. They are the stinging bees of doubt and fear inside my belly, forcing their way past my throat and into the open air. He knows I don’t mean it, but it hurts him that I can’t say anything else. Their acidic taste leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, and I wish more than anything that they would crawl back inside me. The panicky stabs in my stomach are infinitely less painful that the sadness that lightens his coal-black eyes from the passion-dark color they were only moment before.

He understands, though. He understands that I do not know what to think anymore. My mother’s heartbroken voice sucks me into a pit thick with mud and confusion. It coats my tongue, preventing me from voicing my uncertainties. But he understands. I think. Or maybe not. Maybe that sadness says that he knows I could never love him. That everything reasonable inside of me is screaming for me to see that I should fear him, hate him.

But I don’t. Never is an awfully long time to hate for reasons you don’t understand. A spot in my chest, the one still filled with honey and golden light, softens until I feel I could almost push at it with my fingers and leave a depression. I fight the mud; I force it up out of my throat. He sees me struggling, and he places a finger to my lips.

It’s okay, you don’t have to speak now.

But I do! The words have bubbled up; they’ve fought too hard to be heard for them to turn back now.

I love you!

He shakes his head sadly, leaving me gasping, a fish stranded out of water, drowning in air.

It’s alright, little one. You need not appease me. I am not angry at you.

My lungs collapse on themselves, exhausted, giving way to the mud.

NO!

My shout echoes for a moment as I pull in a breath.

I wasn’t appeasing you, I LOVE YOU! I don’t care what you say, I don’t care what anyone else tells me! I. Love. You.

He’s not sure if he believes me. Everyone sees me as a child. I am the epitome of innocence and naïveté. I see the doubt in his eyes, the doubt of whether or not I know my own heart. The mud closes in more forcefully now. It tells me that I should regret saying anything, that now I have made a fool of myself.

It gains confidence, closing in on the spot of golden honey, squeezing in tight until it’s about to burst and drip down to the floor at my feet.

He hesitates a moment longer and it wins. My shoulders cave in around the spot where the light was, sheltering the newly-made hollow from the bees that still sting the air between us. My eyes drop to the floor, watching in helpless, morbid fascination as the honey seeps through the cracks in the black marble tiles, slipping slowly out of view.

My head is suddenly too heavy for my shoulders, and I sway, lurching about to face the door, my back to him. My steps are clumsy as my feet shuffle and trip on the polished floor. It hurts to breathe, and the hollow aches with emptiness.

I will return to the light soon, and I find myself fearing its harsh reproach. It will expose my flaws with gouging thrusts where the flowing darkness would soften them. They will see the hollow. They will know. They will pity. They will tell me it’s for the best that I get over it. But I won’t.

My head rests against the cool slab of the door, my eyes closing as if already preparing myself for the light. My hand gropes blindly for the doorknob. It finds it, and my fingers contort to fit around the large handle.

His hands grip my shoulders, pulling back into the shadows, spinning me around to meet his lips on my lips, on my skin, on my hair. His kisses are rain, rough and so refreshing that I want to cry for joy. The mud slides away, melting under his rain. His lips are warm, unexpectedly so, but I don’t mind. His mouth is on mine, and he shows me how to breathe again.

He pulls away just long enough to whisper into my skin, healing the stings and bruises.

I know.

And he does.

The gold comes back in a chaotic rush, flooding my heart and my mind, pushing me back towards him, closer than ever. This love is not complicated. This love is not approved of. This love is not anything but itself. And that is more than enough to make me smile.