II
"I have found the paradox that if I love until it hurts,
then there is no hurt, but only more love." ~ Mother Theresa
The second year was a knife's edge. They tore each other apart just to put themselves back together.
She scoffed in disbelief when they told her it couldn't--wouldn't—last forever. There was nothing in Remy and nothing in her own self that could ever be anything less than passion and pain and fear and desire and fire.
Of course, she was wrong.
Somewhere between the fighting the good fight and coming home and playing cards and laughing together and riding their motorcycles, or working on them in the garage, and facing each other day after night and night after day, something stuttered painfully between them, nameless, faceless, but hopelessly, undeniably present. It was too stable—up and down but always, always drawn back into that center again with breathless, aching love and passion and fire and fear and pain and fierce, stubborn hope that would bind them together for just too long. They didn't know how to handle it.
She told herself that distancing herself and watching him from afar when he showed up less and less, this was how they reminded themselves of who they really were. When it hurt too much—and it always did—Rogue told herself she was just full up, tired of the fighting and the tears and the making up and the loving and the waking up each morning to his intent gaze and quiet talk. She didn't want it any more. She was done, through. Neither of them were the kind of person to settle down. They just weren't.
But it was all a lie. She knew it too. He knew it. They both felt it and gravitated awkwardly around the fact that their fire wasn't what bound them together.
Somewhere between the flames she had seen on the surface of their first year together, his life and hers had grown together and intertwined like the roots of trees planted side by side and knotted beneath their skins. To stand too close was suffocation. To walk away was brutal agony. And suddenly, being separate, living separate lives, if only to find themselves and not each other, stopped being an option.
She scoffed in disbelief when they told her it couldn't--wouldn't—last forever. There was nothing in Remy and nothing in her own self that could ever be anything less than passion and pain and fear and desire and fire.
Of course, she was wrong.
Somewhere between the fighting the good fight and coming home and playing cards and laughing together and riding their motorcycles, or working on them in the garage, and facing each other day after night and night after day, something stuttered painfully between them, nameless, faceless, but hopelessly, undeniably present. It was too stable—up and down but always, always drawn back into that center again with breathless, aching love and passion and fire and fear and pain and fierce, stubborn hope that would bind them together for just too long. They didn't know how to handle it.
She told herself that distancing herself and watching him from afar when he showed up less and less, this was how they reminded themselves of who they really were. When it hurt too much—and it always did—Rogue told herself she was just full up, tired of the fighting and the tears and the making up and the loving and the waking up each morning to his intent gaze and quiet talk. She didn't want it any more. She was done, through. Neither of them were the kind of person to settle down. They just weren't.
But it was all a lie. She knew it too. He knew it. They both felt it and gravitated awkwardly around the fact that their fire wasn't what bound them together.
Somewhere between the flames she had seen on the surface of their first year together, his life and hers had grown together and intertwined like the roots of trees planted side by side and knotted beneath their skins. To stand too close was suffocation. To walk away was brutal agony. And suddenly, being separate, living separate lives, if only to find themselves and not each other, stopped being an option.
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