The Time Now 1.4

[pause; breathe] Back on the staircase, I don’t even have to push this door. It swings open like a sigh, like it knew I would return. Over the dome, the sky is dark. Clouds move fast, torn by winds that we can’t feel from here. Lightning cuts the sky open, white veins flashing through the black. The storm cracks the sky. I lean my head back and watch it. It feels like something is about to break — but it never does. It never rains. I see them before they notice me— Abba, sitting close to the glass wall, legs stretched out, leaning back on their hands. Their head is turned slightly, watching the sky, lips parted in thought. I pause, but they don't look at me. Not yet. So I come closer. Carefully. Slowly. Every step measured, like approaching a wild animal— except I’m the one ready to run. I sit close, drawn in spite of myself. Next to me, Abba sits with one knee bent, the other stretched out. Their fingers are loose around their ankle, but they keep rubbing it, as if there’s something under the skin they want to get out. The wind screams outside. I think I can hear it. Maybe it’s only in my head. “They say we broke the sky,” Abba murmurs. “With the abominations that we do. That’s why it never rains.” Their voice is low, distant. They glance at me, a flicker of something in their eyes. “Do you think that’s true?” I shrug. I don’t know what to believe. I look at them. At their hands, their wrists. The way they grip their own skin a little too tight. Abba turns their head and meets my gaze. Their eyes are dark. There’s something in them that makes my chest hurt — like they’re angry and sad at the same time. “As if we’re punished,” they whisper. “For violating the laws of nature. For daring to want more.” I don’t know what to say. I shift slightly. My feet slide forward, toes brushing the cold floor. My legs stretch out in front of me. Abba looks down, following the movement. They slide their foot forward too, until we’re almost touching. I freeze. Slowly, they press their foot against mine. Not hard — just enough to feel the heat between us. “May we?” they whisper. It’s so soft I almost miss it. I swallow. My throat is dry. “I...” I don’t know what I’m saying. I think I nod. Abba hums — a sound that feels more like a sigh and something darker underneath. The wind howls again. Thunder cracks, rolling through the air. I stare at where our feet touch. The shape of them — the curve of the toes, the line of the arch — so close it makes my chest tighten. Abba leans closer, their shoulder brushing mine. “You feel it too,” they say, low, like a secret. I think I do. They shift their hand, from their ankle to my knee. Fingers light, almost gentle — but there’s weight in the touch, something that makes my skin prickle. I breathe in too fast. My pulse stumbles. Abba smiles, but it’s a sharp thing, thin and bitter. “You want to know what love is, Alexiel?” I don’t answer. They press a little harder against my knee. Not enough to hurt. But enough to feel it. “It’s a blade. You think you can hold it without bleeding?” I shake my head. “I don’t know.” They tilt their head, watching me. Studying. “Come,” they say. The word is soft, but it lands heavy, like a command. I look at them, not understanding. Abba’s fingers trail down my leg, to my ankle. They grip it lightly — and then a little tighter. Just enough to make me aware of the strength in their hand. “Come closer,” they say, softer now. I hesitate. “Don’t be afraid,” they add, and there’s a glint in their eyes that makes me think maybe I should be. But I move. A little closer. Abba lets out a breath — a sound that trembles, like they weren’t sure I would. Their hand slides up again, resting on my thigh. I stop breathing. They lean in, close enough that their breath is warm against my skin. “Sometimes I think we were made to destroy each other,” they whisper. I swallow hard. “Or maybe,” they add, lips almost brushing my ear, “we were made to survive it.” The storm screams outside, but inside, everything is quiet — except for my heartbeat. Abba pulls back just a little, enough to look at me, searching my face. “Tell me to stop,” they say, low. I don’t. I don’t know if I can. Abba smiles, but there’s something raw in it. Something like pain. “You took your sweet time coming back,” they murmur. I nod, swallowing. “I know.” They lean in again, close enough for their forehead to rest against mine. “We don’t have forever,” they whisper. And I know what they mean. Outside, lightning flashes again, splitting the sky. Inside, I stay still — waiting, burning. And when I finally step back through the door onto the staircase, the warmth of their body still lingers in my skin— like a ghost of a touch.