the man in the moon's a blinding light
Addam wakes at dawn to darkness and unfamiliarity. After enough years, he'd gotten used to his room in Aureus, windowless but sprightly enough, and all the corners became easy places into which to direct the tears that sprang from his eyes due simply to changing from horizontal to vertical, and shut to open.
Here, in Aletta, over he rolls, and his reluctance is rewarded by the sight of two seaglass-blue eyes beaming back at and up at him, lit into wonderful prismed refractions by a single pane of light streamed in through the window on the far wall.
"Good morning."
"Good morning."
"Have you gotten used to being up so early yet?"
"Not quite," Addam confesses. "It's a lot, so quickly." He gives a nervous laugh. "Almost all at once."
Flora laughs, giggles sweetly, reaches in and traces a fingertip over the track one inexplicably long-lived tear had left on his left cheek. "Only almost," she reminds him. "And I'm here with you. So I think you'll be alright."
"But you're-" But you're half the enormity, Flora. Not even half of everything; you are everything, to me. And will you always be with me?
"Silly. Of course I will."
I-- "Oh, darling."
She molds willingly to his chest, nose already softly kissed.
Oh, just the two, just the two, just the two.