absolutely hate how being in emotional distress literally makes you feel things. physically. like babe i didn’t actually have to fucking feel sick and wanna throw up could you. my beautifully stupid brain. please stop making things worse.
battle couples has gotta be one of my favorite tropes though. The “you got me?” “Yeah, I got you.” The kiss for good luck. Fighting alongside each other for so long they know every strength and weakness. The dichotomy of being fucking terrifying to their enemies, but so soft with each other. When one is in danger and the other goes feral,protects them at any cost.When everything is over and done, it’s all “let me see where you’re hurt,” and washing off the dirt and blood.
You’re a forensic anthropologist, and you find two bodies.
They’re together. They’re holding hands. They’re lying down in a field filled with flowers, crushed forget-me-nots and cow parsley and sprigs of columbine crushed beneath the weight of their bodies, half gone to rot, harbell blooms creeping out from under their intertwined hands. It would be more accurate to say they’re holding each other, really. One with their arms wrapped tight around the smaller of the pair, head bowed protectively over their long hair, the other with their head pressed against their protector’s chest. There’s such a forceful gentleness to it, such silent strength projected in the circle of those arms, even in stillness. Even as the ants crawl over them in a long line, steady, an unflinching rhythm of small black bodies scuttling over the valleys of ribs and gentle sloping hills of their shoulders, the music of them, two-as-one. Even then, there is strength, and love, and such a powerful sense of something that you can’t quite put a name to. But mostly love.
They’re together, and the flowers are everywhere. The flowers are growing up through the delicate bones of their wrists and fingers, and just a moment, you forget to be afraid.