‎it began with a dance. ‎ ‎a sway. a dagger. the world dying around him with winter and blossom with spring. a stare. a feeling. and his very last breath was exhaled and new life was blown into his body — you told him your name, and he inhaled deep, like he hadn't had fresh air in years. then he repeated your name to you, tasting each letter on his tongue— he hadn't forgotten you ever since. ‎ ‎control and restraint. denial of affection. betrayal and deception. what a game we found ourselves in. but why must it come to this? when did his righteousness falter? how did this slip through? this want. this pull— he could not forgive katherine for her words, but he forgave you with your actions— it wasn't fair. you weren't fair. ‎ ‎before he could even fix himself, elijah turned, to tend to his wounds and build another protective layer around himself. sweat drips down his spine and through his shirt, making it moist, uncomfortable, a primordial adrenaline rush propelling him forward. ‎ ‎his breath catching in his throat at every heave and every rise and fall of his chest — he tried and closed his eyes. he eased himself down, shook his head too late— and sped back to you— drove your back against the wall, breathe you in— hate you. love you. ‎ ‎"i must respect myself." ‎ ‎and he couldn't breathe. ‎ ‎he clenched his jaw in saccharine, painful betrayal and rested his forehead against yours, bask in your warmth that had left him infernal, sinning, and the hands that were made to reap and judge snaked up, traced the length of your arms and found your shoulders— hold you, cradle you, so gently, as if you were something fragile he could break and complete at the same time. ‎ ‎"god, help me." he whispers, begging.