Work Text:
it’s the way the light dies that gets to her.
not a sudden snuffing out, but a slow, agonizing bleed. in the attic, the golden hour doesn’t just fall, it settles like a physical weight, thick with the scent of dry wood and the ghosts of girls who used to be different people. nat sits by the jagged pane of the window, the glass stained with grime and old rain, watching the dust motes dance. they look like tiny, silent stars caught in a draft, swirling in the columns of orange light that cut through the gloom.
she feels heavy. her bones are leaden, her skin feels too tight across her knuckles, and the roots of her hair are a constant reminder of how long they’ve been rotting out here. she reaches up, pulling a hand through the messy, peroxide-fried strands, and feels the grit of the wilderness under her fingernails.
then, there is the shift in the air. a change in pressure.
lottie doesn’t make a sound, but nat knows her by the way the room seems to reorganize itself around her presence. when nat turns her head, lottie is standing at the edge of a sunbeam. she looks like something carved from the forest itself, long, dark hair spilling over her shoulders like a curtain of shadow, her eyes reflecting the dying sun until they look like molten bronze. she’s wearing a sweater that’s three sizes too big, the wool pilling and grey, but on her, it looks like a robe.
“you’re thinking too loud, natalie,” lottie whispers.
her voice is the softest thing in this godforsaken place. it’s the sound of wind through tall grass, a hum that vibrates in the space between nat’s ribs.
nat doesn’t deny it. she just looks back at the window. “just wondering when the light’s gonna give up for good.”
lottie moves closer. she doesn’t walk so much as she drifts, her bare feet silent on the floorboards. when she stops, she’s close enough that nat can smell her, a mix of pine needles, woodsmoke, and something uniquely lottie. something sweet and earthy, like crushed herbs. lottie reaches out. her fingers are long, her nails clean despite everything, and she pauses before her skin touches nat’s jaw. it’s an invitation. nat swallows, her throat tight, and leans into the heat of lottie’s palm.
“come with me,” lottie says. “the lake is quiet. i want to wash the day off you.”
the walk down to the water is a blur of shadows and the rhythmic crunch of dirt. the forest is breathing a low, rhythmic sigh of leaves and hidden things but for once, it doesn't feel predatory. they don’t speak. they don’t have to. lottie walks half a step ahead, her silhouette a dark blade against the twilight, her spine straight and elegant even in the dirt. when they reach the shore, the water is a mirror. the sky is a bruised purple now, and the lake holds it perfectly, the surface unbroken by even a ripple.
nat stands at the edge, feeling the damp chill seep into her boots. she feels jagged. out of place. she’s a collection of sharp edges and old scars, and the lake is so profoundly smooth.
“take it off,” lottie murmurs, already unbuttoning her own shirt.
nat watches her. it’s impossible not to. lottie’s skin is the color of toasted honey in the fading light, her shoulders narrow but strong. she moves with a grace that seems to defy the hunger in her stomach. she looks at nat, her head tilted, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
“everything is alright, nat, just for now. everything is alright.”
nat sheds her clothes like a second skin she’s desperate to leave behind. she feels the cold air hit her, the map of her body laid bare. she’s thinner than she was, her ribs casting faint shadows, her hipbones prominent. there’s a bruise on her thigh, a faded yellow-green, and a scratch on her shoulder that’s just beginning to scab. lottie doesn’t look away. she looks at nat’s body with a kind of reverence, the way a person looks at a holy relic. she walks into the water first, her ankles disappearing into the black, then her knees. she turns back and holds out a hand.
“it’s cold,” nat hesitates, her voice cracking.
when nat takes her hand, the contact is electric. lottie’s grip is firm, grounding. they wade in until the water is at their waists, the cold shocking nat’s system, forcing the air out of her lungs in a sharp gasp. lottie draws her in close, her hands finding nat’s waist, pulling their bodies together. the contrast is staggering.
lottie is warmth, nat is a chill. lottie is a calm sea, nat is the wreckage.
“hey, can you look at me?” lottie whispers.
nat lifts her gaze. lottie’s face is inches away. up close, nat can see the tiny flecks of gold in lottie’s irises, the soft curve of her cupid’s bow, the way her damp hair clings to her temples. she looks like an angel made of earth and bone. lottie cups water in her hands and pours it over nat’s shoulders. it’s slow. deliberate. the water beads on nat’s skin, trailing down her chest, washing away the ash of the fire and the salt of her sweat. lottie repeats the motion, her thumbs tracing the line of nat’s collarbone, smoothing out the tension there. nat closes her eyes. she lets her head fall back, exposing her throat, and she feels lottie’s lips, soft, tentative, press against the pulse point there. it isn't a bite. it isn't a claim. the water is mercury, heavy and slick, pooling in the hollows of nat’s collarbones as lottie works with a quiet patience. lottie’s hands are different here than they are in the madness of the hunt. there is no urgency in her fingers, only a slow, deliberate mapping of nat’s skin. she moves like she is trying to memorize the geography of a dying world. nat stands shivering, her breath hitching in her chest, watching the way lottie’s hair floats on the surface of the lake like silk spun shadows.
lottie reaches for a handful of silt from the bottom, fine and grey, and begins to rub it against nat’s forearm. it’s a rough, grounding sensation, the grit of the earth meeting the porcelain frailty of nat’s wrist. lottie’s eyes are fixed on the task, her lashes casting long, feathered shadows against her cheekbones. she looks so young like this, stripped of the visions and the blood, just a girl with too much light trapped behind her teeth.
“you’re so thin,” lottie murmurs, her thumb tracing the prominent ridge of nat’s lower ribs. the skin there is translucent, blue-veined and humming with the frantic rhythm of a heart that doesn’t know how to rest. lottie looks up, and the intensity of her gaze is a physical weight. it’s the lightless vigil nat remembers, but softened, blurred at the edges by a devastating sort of affection. lottie leans in, her wet hair brushing against nat’s skin like cold snakes, and presses her lips to the center of nat’s chest, right over the frantic thumping.
“my angel,” lottie whispers against her skin, the words vibrating into nat’s marrow. “the sky is falling, but you are still so bright.”
they stay there until their skin turns blue with the cold, until the lake feels less like water and more like a shroud. when they finally wade out, the air hits them like a slap. nat stumbles, her feet numb against the jagged stones of the shore, but lottie is there, a solid, grounding heat at her side. the walk back to the cabin is a silent procession, nat is hyper aware of the way their shoulders brush, the way lottie’s hand occasionally finds the small of her back to guide her over a fallen log. there is no pack here. no howling. only the rhythmic sigh of the wind and the distant, lonely cry of a loon.
inside the cabin, the attic is a sanctuary of dust and dying embers. the heat from the stove below has risen, trapped beneath the slanted roof, creating a pocket of air that smells of old cedar and unwashed hair. lottie leads her to the corner where the blankets are piled. mostly wool, scratchy and smelling of smoke. she takes a dry cloth and begins to work on nat’s hair. it’s a brutal kind of tenderness. nat sits between lottie’s knees, feeling the tug and pull of the fabric, the way lottie’s thighs feel like pillars of salt and warmth against her back. nat turns, her neck craning. the attic is dark, lit only by a single stump of a candle that flickers with every breath they take. in this light, lottie’s face is all sharp angles and deep hollows. she looks ancient. she looks like she’s seen the beginning and the end of the world and decided she liked the middle best. lottie drops the cloth. her hands move to nat’s face, cupping her jaw with a possessive, delicate grip. she studies the way nat’s eyes, wide and rimmed with a tired, desperate blue, search her own.
“everything is alright,” lottie says, and she sounds so certain that for a moment, nat believes her. she believes the plane never crashed. she believes they aren’t starving. she believes they are just two girls in a dark room, on the edge of a great, shimmering love.
lottie leans down, her mouth ghosting over nat’s. this kiss isn't a collision. it’s a slowmotion wreck, a gentle folding of one soul into another. it tastes like the lake, cold and clean, but beneath it is the heat of lottie’s tongue, the familiar, grounding taste of her. nat winds her arms around lottie’s neck, pulling her down, wanting to be crushed. she wants to be flattened by this softness. she wants lottie to hollow her out and fill her with this quiet, golden light until there’s no room left for the darkness to crawl back in. lottie groans, a low sound in the back of her throat that isn't a snarl, but a plea. she pushes nat back against the blankets, her body a heavy, welcome quilt. her hands find the hem of nat’s oversized shirt, sliding upward, her palms grazing the sensitive skin of nat’s stomach.
“natalie,” lottie breathes into the crook of her neck. “you’re so beautiful it hurts to look at you.”
nat closes her eyes, tears pricking at the corners. she feels the map of her own body being redrawn by lottie’s touch. the scars from the brush, the bruises from the others. lottie kisses every single one of them. she treats nat’s body like it’s something holy, something that must be handled with the utmost care, as if nat might shatter if she’s held too tightly.
and maybe she would. maybe they both would.
but here, in the golden dust of the attic, with the song of the wilderness muffled by the logs, nat feels safe. she feels like an angel with broken wings, being tucked into the earth by a god who actually gives a damn.
“stay,” nat whispers, her voice breaking. “lottie, just stay.”
“i’m not going anywhere,” lottie promises, her fingers interlacing with nat’s, pinning them to the floorboards not in a show of strength, but as a promise of presence. “i’ve got you. i’ve always had you.”
lottie’s hands stay anchored in nat’s, a tether in the dark. the candle on the floor is a dying thing, its flame flickering and stretching their shadows against the rough-hewn rafters until they look like a single, monstrous creature, something with too many limbs and a heart that beats in syncopated rhythm. nat watches the light dance in lottie’s eyes. they aren't the lightless pits she sees during the rituals, here, they are liquid obsidian, rimmed with a deep, aching gold. lottie’s face is a study in devotion. she traces the line of nat’s jaw with a thumb that is surprisingly soft, lingering on the small, jagged scar near her chin. nat lets out a breath that is half-laugh, half-sob. she feels like glass, shattered and sharp, held together only by the pressure of lottie’s body against hers.
lottie moves her hand down, tracing the hollow of nat’s throat, where the skin is so pale it looks like milk. she follows the slope of nat’s shoulder, then moving lower to the sharp, protruding bone of her hip. there is a beauty in their starvation, a terrifying, skeletal elegance. lottie’s own ribs are visible as she leans over, a ladder of bone beneath her tawny skin. her hair falls around them like a canopy, creating a world that is only six inches wide. it smells like the lake now, and the faint, lingering scent of the lavender lottie somehow always smells like, even when there are no flowers for miles. lottie ducks her head, pressing her face into the curve of nat’s neck. she just breathes, long and slow, as if she’s trying to inhale nat’s very essence.
“everything is alright,” lottie murmurs again, more to herself this time. “the angels are watching. they’re tired, nat. they just want us to sleep.”
nat reaches up, her fingers tangling in the dark, knotted mess of lottie’s hair. she pulls her closer, until there is no air left between them. they lie like that for a long time, tangled in the scratchy wool and the heavy silence of the attic. the madness of the others, the growling, the blood, the 'it' that lives in the trees, feels a million miles away. here, in the quiet, nat feels a different kind of hunger. not the one that gnaws at her stomach, but one that pulls at her soul. it’s a need to be known. to be held not as a tool or a rifle or a queen, but as a girl. she shifts, pressing her lips to lottie’s temple. lottie’s skin is hot, almost feverish.
“i love you,” nat whispers.
the words are a confession. they are a death sentence. in a place like this, love is a liability, a weakness that the wilderness can exploit. but as lottie lifts her head, her face illuminated by the final, desperate flare of the candle, nat doesn't care. lottie doesn't say it back. she doesn't have to. she just leans down and kisses nat with a tenderness that feels like a benediction. it’s a slow, deep exploration, a promise made in the dark. the candle gutters and dies, plunging them into absolute blackness.
everything is alright.