They fit together like fractured bones and broken china, filling in spaces as new fissures appear.
He tastes of thunder and storm-swept seas, his eyes speaking of things that would cripple him, should his lips form the words. So she busies him with introspective, looping conversations and idle hands, blindly evading the past and future alike for the ephemeral and ever-transient present - because she needs the control, the surety, that the impossible somehow brings. She knows it will not, cannot last, but won't be the one to call an end.
She's never been good at letting go.
He knows this - knows her - sometimes better than she will admit. Knows they won't last, the uncertain peace broken too easily by simple missteps and misunderstandings: he's seen it a hundred times past, will see it a hundred times more. So he speaks of other things, fills that left barren and distracts from the monsters and still-tender betrayal. He accepts that which she offers, and feels a certain peace.
She thinks he loves her, and wonders why it feels like a blindfold at dawn.